Hand In Unlovable Hand // [OPEN]

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L△LIA
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BOOM SH△KALAKA

Hand In Unlovable Hand // [OPEN] Apr 6, 2012 13:38:50 GMT -5

Post by L△LIA on Apr 6, 2012 13:38:50 GMT -5

( D E N A L I V I C T O I R E L Y O N S )

Feed the kittens in the kitchen
Set food out for the strays
Try hard to do your best
The magpie
Will have his way

I awake dizzy and stumble from my bed, graceless with desperation for an escape from a dream gone wrong. Zion is the one who sleeps like he's possessed and he seems to think he catches all our bad thoughts so they can't haunt us as we wander through Nod, but it's more that we don't tell him when nightmares come for us. My brother is a selfish kind of saint; it is not courage that causes him to wail with abandon. Then again, there's no courage in my soundless panic either. Ripping the sheets away and sprinting barefoot across the wooden floorboards of my bedroom, I silently beg the door for release, but despite the creaking reply of its hinges as I tug it open, the whirling air around me refuses to settle into stillness. Instead it sends my stomach clawing up into my throat, bearing the threat of a different kind of release. I have to brace myself against the wall outside Zion's room, pausing to suck in one heaving breath after another in a failed attempt at steadying myself, before all but throwing my body down the stairs and out the front door.

The early morning air is so crisp it feels sharp against my lungs as I break into a frantic dash towards the wilderness. I don't care; I just want out. If I have to get rid of every kind of inside in order to feel something like freedom again, then so be it. Sunlight curls around my bare ankles, my nightgown fluttering against my awkward knees as the light's warmth winds its way up my calves, encouraging me onward with a shiver. I don't know where I'm going, only that it will be away from as many things as possible. My family is a sanctuary on most days, but where there is glory being given, there is always sin as well. (Denali.) On other days I can squeeze my eyes shut tight and train my ears on Rio's soothingly breathy voice in order to lull my traitorous thoughts into forgetfulness, but that's too much to ask of myself today. (Denali.) My youngest sister lives in a world all her own, made of wind and wonderment, but I can never follow her there, as much as I'd like to. (DENALI.)

Fill your mouth with berries
By the full light of the moon
Work all night if you have to
The magpie
Comes at noon

Clapping my hands over my ears — I don't stop running, even though the earth is clawing at the soles of my feet in a conspiratorial attempt to bring me to a halt — I push the deep murmur calling my name out of my thoughts as much as I can manage. However, the world turns in high speed and my unprepared body is sent tumbling into the grass. Flinging my arms out to catch myself, my hearing is unblocked once more and this time I can do little more than lie still as my own name echos persistently through my mind. (Denali.) It is a soft whisper that creeps up the fresh scratches of falling that mar my pale and freckled skin. I am numb, useless, and I know what happens next. Whimpering in response, I squint up at the sun and wait for the inevitable to come for me.

The weather is lovely today. Maybe I could appreciate it if I didn't feel this morose sensation tugging at my soul, but for now the rolling clouds and sweetly scented breeze are lost on me. Tangling my fingers into the thick grass, I dig in deep until I can feel dirt pressing up under my fingernails, cool and damp with dew. Each time I blink, the haunting dream of an oil-coated darkness slides back over my vision, blacking out my sight with something more than eyelids and a fringe of pale lashes. Defiantly, I try to hold my eyes open until they water and sting, but the blurring inevitably reminds me of what must be creeping towards me: The stuttered steps of death or perhaps the swerving flight of the ghost-hewn dying. A final heartbeat against my fingertips and a last breath that rattles out a pair of failing lungs before stealing its way into my own, looking for a new home after being displaced. I can feel the distance shortening between us as death takes a pair of scissors to its lifeline, snipping away at it with each inch traversed in my direction.

Shore up the crucifixes
Above the archways
And the doors
The magpie will come at midday
And you will go down on all fours

(Oh, my ~~deer~~ dear girl, don't worry. The hurricane can never touch the eye of the storm, so you'll be fine, won't you now?) There's something patronizing about the feeling welling up in me at I stare at the whirling clouds above, watching my surroundings shift with unstoppable movement as I attempt to meld my body with the still and steady earth. Pressing my spine into the ground, I hear a twig snap and know it has nothing to do with my movement. No, that quivering breath that echos within the hollows of my ears is not my own and the gentle pushing of my hair has nothing to do with the wind. A damp nose nudges weakly at my left hand, begging me to offer it something — anything. (Denali.) I try to ignore it, only I can't help trembling in silent response. Maybe the subtle movement seems akin to sympathy or pity — and isn't it? — but whatever it's being taken for is enough for the creature at my side to bend its knees into the grass and lay down with me, resting its chin on my thigh with resignation.

This is the point where I find myself unable to wallow in denial any longer, my eyes flickering down to witness the young deer who has sought me out. Its eyes are closed and there's a labored wheezing in its breath, a few dirty flecks of blood caught in the crook of its mouth and trailing out across its tawny fur. Pulling myself up into a sitting position, it doesn't even have the strength left to lift its head. (Denali.) Hand hovering above its ears, there is a magnetic pull that tells me to reach out to it, to press my palm to its back and give whatever comfort I'm able. Some selfish part of me wants to refuse, attempting to pull my arm away and ignore it... but I can't. It hurts too much. (Feel it.) And I do. Burying my fingers in the fur stretching across its fragile shoulders, I bring my other hand to my mouth and bite down on the flesh, mercilessly, to hold back the sob that threatens to choke me. Teeth sinking into the tender flesh until I taste blood, it's still not enough to distract me from the lack of a heartbeat beneath my other palm and as my eyes drift closed in mourning for its passing, I suddenly can't help missing the bitter fiction of sleep.

And when the cherries ripe with blossoms
Be ready and be brave
And remember what we had here
When there was something
Left to save

Last Edit: Nov 26, 2012 21:11:23 GMT -5 by L△LIA

( C H A R A C T E R S )

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Hand In Unlovable Hand // [OPEN] Nov 27, 2012 0:07:06 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Nov 27, 2012 0:07:06 GMT -5

Wouldn't it be nice
If I could melt myself like ice
Or outrun my skin
And just be pure wind?

[/color]

The sunrise breaks through the cracks in the blinds, bent and tussled from years of my brother and me twisting the vinyl in the wee hours of the morning, desperately hoping for a glance of our father’s return home. There we would sit, hushed as to not wake our sister, my big green eyes watching him watch the mist outside, attempting the impossible of discerning a lonely figure in the mist. We would whisper back and forth, taking guesses as when he would emerge, head hung downward, eyes bloodshot and body defeated from another day’s toils. But our patience would wane—me, young as I was, still itchy from the wool covers in the cramped little bed we shared—and skulk out to the kitchen. He would strike a match and open the oven to light the pilot. The flame would sputter and hiss, marking the first sounds of morning. And we would settle into a rhythm, the ghostly figures of my mother and sister waking, moving, humming—all the while I would sit as a shadow, watching them prepare for another day.

We ached for the days when he would come in, smelling of the worst kind of rotten eggs one could imagine, and slump down at the table in front of us. And all of us breathless, waiting on his every word as though he was some kind of demigod. Because one’s father is never mortal, not when one is just barely speaking and he stands like a giant above you. Oh the joy of when he would pick me onto his shoulders and I would be atop a monster, up in the air, reigning down on the ants below. He would never say much, but a great hush would fall as he went about eating his bacon—a rare treat reserved for his appearance—until he would mention the torment of working on the rigs. And my brother would say how much he wanted to be like my father, disappearing into the unknown, providing for all of us, working his bones to exhaustion. Bravery dripped from his brow and loyalty was his trademark. Unlike those that fled their families or broke from the weight of it all, he rose above, conducting us, giving us guidance like some northern star.

But the patient boys are all grown now. This morning is greeted by the creek of floorboards and the shuffle of feet. A glance at the window is all it takes to know that he will not be here today, just as he was not here yesterday. I crane my neck and stretch my arms above my head, shaking out the old and breathing in the new. The air is cool, and a draft snakes in through the space where the window doesn’t quite reach the sill. I shiver as the breeze whistles around me, and I find a piece of cardboard to shove in the gap. My ingenuity is about the only thing that I’ve gotten from him.[/color] It is my turn to start the rhythm, to strike the match and to set the world aflame, so that my mother will wake and tend to the burners. My sister Esti will yawn and stretch out over the table and complain that it is too early[/color], my mother clucking her tongue as she starts the burners in a show of sparks. What’s for breakfast today?[/color] Esti will sigh and my mother will shake the bag of oatmeal in response, tum-tuming to a new tempo, picking up the pace.

Dawn has not however given rise to my mother or my sister, and I’m left to contemplate my solitude in the kitchen. Tending to the pots above the boiler I move to boil water and set about making porridge for myself. Perhaps it’s the brightness of morning and the absence of the usual low lying fog, but I feel a rush to get out of the confines of the little house before being weighed down by Esti or my mother. I stare out the window and catch a glimpse of the woods in the distance, the sun glittering through the treetops and casting out shadows all along the drive. It’s enough of a distraction to stop me from noticing the boil of the pot, and in another instant the porridge has bubbled over the top and onto the burner. I wave away the smoke and move the pot to the rusted hull of the sink. I give away one hunger for another, and grab a waiting scarf off the old wooden coat rack.

I linger on the front step as sunlight envelopes around me in a blinding flash. The cool chill of the wind scratches along my face and I smile, alive in the morning. I make my way along the dirt road, pressing out into the field and over the hill, off into the woods. I let out a laugh as I break into a jog, elated at the wind in my face and smell of fresh firs in the fall air. This is living[/color], not sitting around, waiting, and wondering whether or not he’s coming back this time. No, it’s the sun and the birds, the crunch of earth underfoot. It’s the echo of my own laughter through the thicket, voluminous and strong, belying my size. I pause and press myself against the stump of a tree, watching as my breath collects in white puffs. I try blowing a few rings from my lips and laugh again only to come full stop at the sound of snapping branches. A crow calls out above me and I shiver. The stillness of the world set in again, and I moved slowly along the path, noticing the splotches of red caught in moss and smeared on branches.

And I see her, clutching the body of a fallen deer. My blood runs cold, the chill not fresh but cutting into my skin. Surely she hadn’t taken the creature’s life; her tears marked innocence to such a crime. If it wasn’t she, there was no sight of the criminal. I cleared my throat and approached slowly, not wanting to scare her, lest she think I was there to take advantage of her in a state such as this.

“You… it’s not…” But I don’t have to finish this sentence to know that the deer wasn’t long for this world. I take to a knee and offer an extended hand, wanting to get her away from here. “You shouldn’t be here, not if someone’s…” But my voice cuts out. Where is the courage of the boy atop my father’s shoulders? He’s buried down underneath the plain rhythm, down in the shadows. “Hey, you okay?” I offer a pair of raised eyebrows and a hushed voice. I’m not much to look out, but maybe I can get her to stop crying as a start. “You’re going to get blood all over your shirt if you keep that up…”

Oh, fragile flame
Sometimes I feel the same

[/size][/justify][/blockquote][/color]

Anna Banana
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Hand In Unlovable Hand // [OPEN] Nov 27, 2012 13:56:31 GMT -5

Post by Anna Banana on Nov 27, 2012 13:56:31 GMT -5

Long had it been since the world had been an open book to her. The gentle breeze blew against the window near her bed, some of the chill seaping through a crack in the beaten glass. It carelessly blew the blanket that she had laying over her legs off of her revealing her legs. Her one good eye cast a disdainful glance at her legs, one was sawed off at the thigh while the other was mildly deformed. To many that would have been good enough to fall into a state of depression, without legs to support you in this world you were nothing. She had refused to give in to that though, give into the doubts of steriotypes of the world around her. Her father had made a prosthetic for her out of scraps, it wasn't anything fancy, but it could support her light frame.

Carefully moving her legs over the side of the bed she looked across the room at her siblings, her sister was curled up in her bed oblivious to the cool air blowing in from the window, and her older brother, even in sleep appeared alert and ready for anything. Moving her slender arm behind the headboard she withdrew the prosthetic her father had made for her and attached it to the skin of her thigh. It was the most painful part of losing her leg, she was to you to remember when it had happened, but the snap of the pieces latching onto her thigh almost made her yelp in pain. Standing up experimentally she tried to hold up her wieght, but the cool air had caused several of the joints to harden up and couldn't support her. Taking a small device from a makeshift bedside table she began to tinker with it, her fingers flying over the mechanisms, removing them, placing them in new places, and taking it appart only to start again. It was only a piece of junk, nothing special at all, but she liked to keep herself busy, so her father had given her a box of scrap pieces to tinker with. Even with only one eye to keep track of what she was doing she was still a master, but it had taken time to get there.

When she first started working at one of the plants where her father worked she was full of energy, always playing around. She would ask questions, and help the other workers and collect the pieces of junk that were laying around and turn them into entertainment. It was during one such collection runs that she lost her eye sight in her left eye. A small fragment of metal was poking out of a freshly lit burner in the plant, not realizing that the flame was right over the metal she had reached for it and pulled it out. Sparks flew and the melting metal flew into her eyes with the movement of the piece. She remembered ery little after that other than the burning feeling in her eyes, almost as if her eyes were melting. When it was all over she awoke in her bed and opened her eyes to find that the world seemed more narrow than it had before. For several days she would just lay in bed crying at the loss, but soon learned to deal with it. She wouldn't let it keep her down, just like she wouldn't let the loss of her leg keep her down.

Silently she crept out of her bed again testing the leg. This time it supported her wieght, and she began to move silently about the room putting on her clothes. Nothing special, a pair of jeans, and a messy old shirt, with a jacket that she had found in the trash. The colors didn't match at all, but she didn't care, at least it would keep her warm. Stealthily she opened the door, the creak of the worn hinges making enough noise to wake the dead. Lucky for her that her family slept in a deeper sleep than the dead. Silently closing it behind her she walked down staires and fixed a bowl of porridge for herself. Once she was finished she grabbed an apple from one of the cupboards and walked outside. The air beat onto her, taking her breath away as she just stood there. She couldn't decide whether it was the beauty of the day that had taken her breath away or if it was the cold air, either way she took in deep breaths adjusting to the cool air. Walking forward, with a slight limp in her stride she began to take in the district. It was early morning, but the sunlight was still dancing around the streets breaking through the morning clouds.

Her walking brought her to the edge of the forest and a chill ran up her spine. The forest had never been a place of coomfort for her, to many times had her father returned home telling stories of things that lurked in the forest. Since than she had done her best to avoid entering it, afraid of what might be in there, just waiting for her. Something was different today, something was calling her into the forest, a slight step forward, and than another and she found herself falling under the canopy of the trees. The sunlight wasn't as bright here as it tried to break through the branches overhead, and where there was sunlight it created horrible pictures on the ground from the bare branches. Kneeling down on the ground her eye spotted several flecks of blood tainting the natural colors of the earth. It seemed t obe coming from something by the look of it, something not long for this world. Standing up once again, but not removing her eye from the trail she followed it until her eye settled upon a girl sitting in a clearing. A small dear was resting it's head on her thigh, but the blood was coming from it, and she feared the worst. A small tear rose to her eyes as she watched the seen, the girl seemed horrified by the experience which led Tetra to believe that she was not the culprit for the death.

Taking a step forward to try and comfort the girl she became aware of another person doing the same thing. It was a boy, a look of concern was written across his face, he appeared to be trying to console the girl, but with no avail. Taking this as her time to enter the scene she walked forwards and wrapped her arms around the girl. "We never seem to realize how fragile a life is until it's gone, but we shouldn't moarn the loss, be happy for they have moved on to a place better than the world we live in. We may find the loss painful, but we must come to realize that they are better off than we are."Removing her jacket, so the cold air raced across her skin, she took the girls arms and put her hands inside the jacket. Carefully and slowly she began to clean the blood from them.

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Hand In Unlovable Hand // [OPEN] Nov 28, 2012 21:17:38 GMT -5

Post by L△LIA on Nov 28, 2012 21:17:38 GMT -5

( D E N A L I V I C T O I R E L Y O N S )

I'm waking up to ash and dust
I wipe my brow
And I sweat my rust
I'm breathing in
The chemicals

It echoes: "Better off than we are. Better off than we are. Better off than we are." And I know it's true. I know this far more deeply that the girl speaking the words can fathom. They only see the blood that marks the immediate present. Neither of them can see into the fawn's young lungs like I can, witnessing how they're lined with the blackened, inside-out rot of our cursed lives. Perhaps it's simply a paranoid trick of my guilt ridden vision, but I see hints of oil slicked into the almost-hidden shadows of the creature's fur. I did this. I did this. I did this. (So feel it.) The gruesome truth of our collective lives rings in my bones, so hollow I swear it resounds beyond the confines of my being.

Jerking back from the girl's good intentions, one of my hands stubbornly re-buries itself in the deer's fur, willing it back to life. The honest parts of my soul, however, openly acknowledges that this is a selfish reaction. I want to deny responsibility, but the oil money running decadent in my veins won't allow me to. (You are Death's daughter, Denali Lyons, and your blood is darker than oil.) My fingers tighten into an iron grip, as if time could be reversed if I were strong enough to force it. There is a motherly protectiveness that courses through me so strongly I almost bare my teeth at the pair of teenagers beside me... only as I turn to them, I catch sight of my other hand, left awkwardly suspended in midair after I pulled away in my fit a moment ago.

I raise my flags, don my clothes
It's a revolution, I suppose
We'll paint it red to fit right in
I'm breaking in, shaping up, then checking out on the prison bus
This is it: the apocalypse

Teeth marks mar the flesh in a wide crescent that arcs up to ~~literally~~ devour the knuckle at the base of my thumb. A matching set of crater-like wounds are hidden on the dark side of the moon — the edge of my palm, cast into shadow in the early morning light. Realization dawns on me that there is more of my own blood on my hand than the deer's and the shame of being so brutally caught in my habit of destructive self-preservation flushes my face as I reflexively wipe my hand against my nightgown to clean away the evidence. Red smears across the white, as brilliantly obvious to the two people watching me as my awkward sense of guilt must be. These are secrets better left unknown. Don't look. Please. You’re going to get blood all over your shirt if you keep that up, he said. Mouth stuttering open, I trip over a whisper that escapes my throat before I even know what it is that I'm murmuring. "I got..." Blood. All over.

All systems go
Sun hasn't died
Deep in my bones
Straight from inside

Somewhere in the distance something black streaks across the sky; maybe it's the plummet of a bird unable to beat its wings even once more to save its own life — another soul hurtling into the most unreachable kind of distance. A sixth sense of knowing burns through me, sharp and angry-hot. Immediately I look away, accidentally locking eyes with the boy who first approached me. Hey, you okay? He asked and I couldn't answer, not honestly at least. They don't understand and I can't ask them to, because the two of them probably have more in common with the deer than with me. "If I knew how to save it, I would." I look up, a multi-layered plea flickering in my eyes. "But I don't know how and I don't know what to do —"

— because I am the eldest daughter of the Lyons family. We were the ones who fought to convert District Five from farm land to oil production and so we are responsible for far more than the death of an innocent deer. Hey, you okay? He asked and I'm shaking my head back and forth as his question loops through my mind. I'm probably not. However, by the standards of my present company, with the exception of the bite marks gouged into my hand, I am more than okay. Better off, even.

I'm waking up
I feel it in my bones
Love to make my systems go
Welcome to the new age
I'm radioactive

( C H A R A C T E R S )

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Hand In Unlovable Hand // [OPEN] Nov 29, 2012 2:02:26 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Nov 29, 2012 2:02:26 GMT -5

Wouldn't it be nice
If I could melt myself like ice
Or outrun my skin
And just be pure wind?

[/color]

There’s a wrinkle in the dilemma before us, with another girl entering from the branches and coming upon the both of us. I tense up, the muscles in my neck tightening as I hunch, fearing the worst—one never knows what vagrants or wanderers or desperate persons come out to the forests—but as soon as she sets in trying to tend to the girl bundled up with the dead deer I exhale. My fists are still clenched in my nervousness, though, with my mind turning and re-turning the scene before me. The deer had bled out in a steady stream upon the ground, sending out a thick crimson onto the underbrush. On the canvas of the earth, I watched as it dribbled out, marking the slow end to the creature’s life. I moved to my knees as well, inching closer to the girl, wondering just why the thing was so important to her.

Words tumble out of her mouth, unsteady at first. I miss the first part, too concerned with the coagulation—that the little flecks of red will soon mix with her white skin, making certain that she’ll be marked with the death of the innocent creature. And I want to pull her away from it—thinking that something’s not right with her, being here, and holding onto something that’s no longer living. The other girl that wandered in says something about it being better off now, and I feel a pause come over me. Better off how? It’s not alive anymore. No breathing. No hoping. No living. No, nothing. Even in its agony before death, bleeding out and scared, it had more sway than the oblivion it had faded to. That’s not better for any of us—unless. But we don’t believe in those stories.[/color] Not me, anyway. The little tales that people have—about a time after this, where we can be but somehow aren’t—they don’t make much sense.

"If I knew how to save it, I would. But I don't know how and I don't know what to do…" I felt my own heart beat then, throbbing in my ears. We were all just teenagers then, none of us knowing how to save a life. It was the way of the world, then, wasn’t it? We all knew so much about death, from the day that we were born until our very own. We ran away from it, we embraced it, we knew that it was perpetually following us until when the bell rang, we’d be shuffled off this coil for good. Life was harder to understand, it was harder to give and to keep.[/color] People could learn about death and could know about its certainty. But what could we ever know about life, except for what we learned through doing[/color].

Words were enough, sometimes, but how much better was it that I could feel the wind in my hair and the world racing by me when I’d been running through the forest? Because just breathing wasn’t living[/color]. At home there was always a steady beat—same thing, same people, and same motions—just the way it was supposed to be. But change was a fascinating thing. I’d seen my father and brother give up on it already. Because change for them was unstable, it was life[/color]. Certainty was better. Because even in fretting about death it was easier to except, with it being so definite. And in the little thicket, the three of us sat with the body of a dead deer, wondering what else she—or I could have done to give the sad little thing life.

“Hey now,” I started before placing my hands on my knees. “We got here too late by the looks of it. It’s not like you could have done anything… and it is gone now,” I said, looking down at the motionless body. There was no rise and fall of the tufts of fur, only stillness. “So it doesn’t have to suffer any more. That’s as good of an end as any, at least around here.” It was less than a promise about where it was now—which was nowhere—but maybe it was just as necessary. Better than having her sit around in deer blood, anyway.[/color]

Oh, fragile flame
Sometimes I feel the same

[/size][/justify][/blockquote][/color]

Last Edit: Nov 29, 2012 2:12:34 GMT -5 by Deleted

Anna Banana
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Hand In Unlovable Hand // [OPEN] Nov 29, 2012 11:22:09 GMT -5

Post by Anna Banana on Nov 29, 2012 11:22:09 GMT -5

The words that had been meant to console the girl seemed to have little effect on her broken heart. Perhaps the deer meant something more to her, perhaps there was something special about it, a symbol. Believe in a life after death or not the deer was out of it's suffering, it no longer knew the pains of this world, it had been granted sweet release. She herself believed that there was more to this world than met the eye, but that was only because she didn't want her suffering to mean nothing. Maybe there was no life after this one, but it was an end to the suffering of this world. While she became lost in her own thoughts the other girl tore her hand away from the aid that she had offered.

The other girl seemed so frail out here, her pail skin looked almost as if it would burn in just the light of the sun. The blood of the deer staining her hands as she ran them through it's fur. A look of pity and sadness crossed Tetra's face as she watched, the girl didn't want to let go of the deer, she didn't want to come to face the fact that it was gone. Tetra looked up at the other boy that was here, and found the same look of pity written across his face, but there was something more there. Like the seen before him had triggered some thoughts buried deep within his mind and heart. They made a good trio the three of them, each one seemed to have a pain in their past that hurt them, a loss that could not be made up for. Leaning back ever so slightly she tried to better take in the seen before her. The girl was around her age definitely, but the boy was harder to place, maybe a year or two older. The face of the boy seemed nice, a look of concern and understanding taking over his features. Than casting her eye at the girl she took in her frail appearance. She was still dressed in her night gown, which was now stained with the blood of the deer, and was now getting marred by the girls own blood. They, meaning Tetra and the boy needed to help get her to town, but for all intents and purposes it didn't appear as if the girl wanted to leave the body of the deer.

Taking the jacket that she had been using to clean the girls hands she draped it over the deer's body and sat down next to it. Words may not heal the wound in the girls heart over the loss of the deer, but she needed to try something. Taking the girls hand she placed it onto of the jacket and than put her hand on top of it.In life you would wander the pastures for food under the watchful eye of your mother. As you grew older you became more adventurous, and the world was yours to explore. It was on one such day you were attacked and you found solice in a young girl. You passed away, happy that you had found a friend. Her ears caught the boy saying something about how the deer didn't have to suffer anymore, and that was as good an end as any around here. He was right, to many people had to suffer around here, and sometimes death was a better alternative. She moved in closer to the girl and wrapped her arms around her in an embrace.

Tetra always tried to see the best in the world despite her own losses. Some things though were to difficult to find happiness in, but like any other situation she would try to make the best of it. Don't worry, it was happy when it passed on, it had a friend. My name is Tetra, and I want to be your friend to. Please don't be sad, we need to be happy about what we have, happy that we are still alive. Mourn our losses, but don't wallow in the grief, for if you give in to grief you are already dead to this world. The world can be made a better place, free of suffering, but only if we join together to make a difference. Looking at the boy she tried to tell him that she needed his help, that they needed to comfort her somehow.

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BOOM SH△KALAKA

Hand In Unlovable Hand // [OPEN] Nov 29, 2012 20:51:39 GMT -5

Post by L△LIA on Nov 29, 2012 20:51:39 GMT -5

( D E N A L I V I C T O I R E L Y O N S )

I’m marching through the branches
In a fit of wanderlust
To see you in a black hole
Reaching out for something just
Silhouettes of neighbors dancing in disgust

As the reality of the moment begins to settle in me, I can't help wondering if this is what Zion feels like when he wakes from his night terrors. There are times when I've seen my brother attempting to claw his own face apart in fear, a dream-struck daze cutting his senses off from what's happening beyond the realm of his own mind. The two of us have always been close — perhaps even closer than our conjoined sisters — and yet his nightmares draw a clear barrier between us, a line I cannot cross because I have never been able to stretch my understanding quite that far. Today, however, the tips of my toes are poised to cross over into territory I know he would rather continue to suffer alone.

I’m sure you recognize my noise and you heard about the Pit
Been told to be afraid of everything that lives within
But it’s much worse where you are
So will you go for it?
I have a feeling you might

The horror that haunted my night and sent me running from the house in thoughtless panic is beginning to fade, but the consequences are only becoming more concrete. Zion has woken up in the middle of the street with horns blaring as cars attempt to screech to a stop before they collide with his fragile body. Other times his eyes have opened to find his lungs gasping for air at such a frantic pace that mere moments later he was unconscious once again, stuck in a gruesome cycle. Each incident causes a scene — whether he goes sleepwalking into a public place or locks himself inside a closet within our own home. I'm usually better about hiding my moments of downfall, even if the evidence of each occurrence is scarred into my skin: teeth marks and scratches from when the existence of my own soul becomes too much for me to handle.

Now we tumble down a hill
To a fire with a crowd
The flicker becomes thicker as we bottom out
The residents don’t even notice
The sudden shouts

Still, the odds are not on my side today, as I sit shivering in the grass in front of two strangers. While my brother has been accused of being possessed by people that have discovered him during his night terrors, my incriminating situation has garnered no such words. Instead they attempt to comfort me, but their kindness is unsettling. Despite my attempt to shake off the girl's well-intentioned gestures of comfort, she is persistent, draping her coat over the body of the deer as if she thinks that if I can't see it, I won't know it's there. Zion was the first person who taught me how shutting your eyes doesn't make bad things go away.

When your eyes can adjust
And you see what’s in view
Discolored and distempered smiles that see you
Do you realize we were all once like you?
I have a feeling you might

When she hugs me, I resist the impulse to pull away once more, sensing that she is more stubborn than I am on that front. Avoidance will only delay the inevitable. So I bear with it, eyes wide open, as her arms wrap around me and squeeze tight. The world is determined to suffocate me today, so I'll take it as part of my penance. With a dull sniff and a shallow intake of breath, I half-heartedly attempt to suck my tears back in and compose myself. Lulling my soul into stillness, the rest of existence seems to speed up in response, clouds racing across the pale blue sky and tree leaves twitching in the breeze a heartbeat faster than what seems completely necessary on a day like this.

Somebody somewhere
Will clean out your wounds
We’ll bury the lie
No one comes
No one goes

I can't help wishing my brother weren't so far away now, but sometimes we just find ourselves running without completely knowing why. Thinking back to every heart-achingly early morning I've awoken to his screams, there is a remorse that nags at me, lecturing me for each time I had allowed my lips to settle into a slight frown and my hands to stay by my sides, thinking he'll be fine in a few minutes. "I understand," I whisper, more to my all too far-away brother than to either of the teenagers here with me now, "or at least I think I do." Searching their expressions, I look for hints of what I'll carry with me from here on, because Zion and I both know a memory can mean so much more than a moment.

You recognize my noise and you heard about the Pit
Been told to be afraid of everything that comes within
We can talk about it later
But I think you’ve given in
I had a feeling you might bury the lie

Last Edit: Nov 29, 2012 20:57:23 GMT -5 by L△LIA

( C H A R A C T E R S )

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Hand In Unlovable Hand // [OPEN] Nov 29, 2012 22:14:34 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Nov 29, 2012 22:14:34 GMT -5

Wouldn't it be nice
If I could melt myself like ice
Or outrun my skin
And just be pure wind?

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We are lost in the forest for the trees. We are—does the sound carry and echo off these branches, out into the clearing? If I was to yell right now, to cry out, to be heard, would it lift up and soar above with the birds, or would it drift down gentle, and fade into oblivion like the life of this deer? It’s a fickle thing, this idea that we can live in the present and that anything could ever be better than what we make of it. Right now it is the three of us, morning a little animal that we’ve never known, save for its last few moments. And we—I marveled at its coat, the softness, the still warm nose dripping and wet—in a last act of a curiosity. Because even then I’m still a child, I’m no better at discerning these world weary problems than either of them. I look to the girl that speaks of working together, of faith, of promise. It is a refrain I have heard—whether from the capitol and our sworn loyalty or from the lips of my brother and sister, waiting in darkness for the footsteps of my father.

But I turn my head to the sky. Staring up at the tree tops above I can see the lingering branches, and the waving pine needles that offer scraps of shade to the three of us. There will be others that fall here, no doubt. The hawks will strike down and eat the young birds or voles that stalk these woods. And life will carry on, without a sound. For it is but one that we will ever see, and not the death of the many. What of them, then? I catch sight of a bird in the distance, flying above with a proud flap of its wings. I’ll never touch the sky that way, much less know when it will meet its end. Do we move forward because it’s better to think of all that could be rather than what was? And for a moment I watch it circle, swinging back and forth above the branches.

“It’s okay to mourn though. You don’t have to forget her,” The words come out raw. I’m speaking more to myself—don’t forget, no, don’t ever forget him—because it dawns upon me, through this circular process. Like a clarion call I hear it, that maybe I’m wrong—that maybe what we’ve been told, or learned, or believed is wrong. “It’s better to remember someone for what they’ve done. Or… what they mean. It’s okay, it really is. Better to remember them—than make them into something else entirely.” Because with all the death and violence, with the statues to victors and to the fallen, I’ve been trained never to forget. Don’t forget how they died. Don’t forget that they were—that they existed, that they had life in this world. And they would slowly fade and recede from us, like pages worn in the light, until at last they were gone. Because we’re told not to forget, not to remember.

“I’m Itzal,” I lean in closer now, so that I’m up against the two girls. I want to be ready in case the other girl wants help or to steady herself. I shake my head and move to the two strangers—are we as such now—and clear my throat again. “My father used to say that all we’ve got is what we know. ‘Cause we can create things of course. We can make things different if we work together… we can even change what we thought about someone. But it’s what we remember that’s important. It’s what… it’s what we knew that makes something important. I guess…” And I get quiet again, listening for the sounds of chirping in the distance. Maybe I am seeing what I want to, or maybe I’m equivocating. My Dad wasn’t the best at explaining anything.

“What were you doing out here, anyway, all by yourself?” I pry, hoping to shift the conversation away from death. She’s a curious one, that’s for sure. And this other girl too, Tetra, wandering out in the forest alone. I guess we were all guilty of it, wanting to break free of whatever we had waiting back for us.

Oh, fragile flame
Sometimes I feel the same

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Last Edit: Nov 29, 2012 22:15:17 GMT -5 by Deleted