~*Stay A Child While You Can Be A Child*~ <Done!>

[sadniss everdeen]

Julian Rockshaw

.: If the world fell down, I'd like to be with you. :.

[306EFF] I'm not very eloquent; really, I much rather like to move.
[FF7BB0] Words confuse me, they tie my tongue and heart into little knots.
[90AD30] Whatever isn't said remains in the safety of my mind.
[ECD672] People think I'm slow, but that's okay. All the smart people I know are sad.

made a wrong turn, once or twice
dug my way out, blood and fire
bad decisions, that's alright
welcome to my silly life [/size]

"No!" It's a knee-jerk reaction, clambering onto her lap and planting feet on either side so I crouch in front of her. I cradle her turquoise streaked face, my own tears momentarily forgotten, and adorn a look much too serious for my usually kind complexion. My thumbs come up and wipe at the tendrils, fingers aching to smooth away the hurt on her features. I curl into her warmth even as I attempt to remain strong, projecting what I hope is determination - though it most probably borders on desperation. "You can't do anything. He'll know it was me." That seems slightly unfair somewhere in the back of my mind; heap all this on her, then forbid any movement whatsoever. It remains a fact, however. If you do something, Papa will find out. He always does.

While I pride myself on my avoidance of confrontation, in reality, it's not some deep ingrained sense of justice and morality. It's from years and years of sneaking around my house to slink away from the belt that brings pain, and an overwhelming instinct to flee at the slightest hint of trouble. Right at this moment my body quivers to run as the man's booming laugh can be heard from elsewhere in the diner, but a whispered voice from my past reminds me of my long forgotten bravery. "Fear is only a verb if you let it be. Don't you dare let go of my hand." So instead I twine my fingers together and loop them around her neck, bringing her close and resting my cheek against the crown of her head.

"It's funny." I murmur quietly, burrowing deeper into her brilliant off-white locks. "When I was younger I thought that these kinds of things only happened in Capitol soap operas. I mean, we're kind of cliche right now aren't we? Just sitting here crying over nothing in particular."

mistreated, misplaced, misunderstood
miss 'No way, it's all good', it didn't slow me down
mistaken, always second guessing, underestimated
look, I'm still around

A screech of rusty hinges makes me jump three feet in the air, backpedling and wiping hard at my face to appear presentable. It's born on the principal that everybody knows who I am; an extremely exaggerated fact, but when you're the child of a prominent business man, not too far from the truth. High heels click sharply against the polished tiles and I attempt to not look too awkward as the woman puts down her purse and pouts in the mirror, sparing a glance at our stall - undoubtedly drawn by Lyla's shocking apparel. She frowns in disapproval for a moment before wandering over to me - there's that second of curious hesitation that makes my skin crawl - before recognition flashes bright on her altered features. "Master Rockshaw?" I cringe at the surname that I never wanted, pushing a polite smile onto my face as I bow slightly in response.

"M-misses Killigan. A pleasure as, um, as always." All the awkward social skills that evaporate in Lyla's presence appear full force once more in the face of another politician in this complicated game of kings and pawns. Her eyes travel inadvertantly to the bright girl on the floor before wandering back to me, taking in what I'm wearing for the first time. "Dear boy, why are you wearing... that?" She gestures to the cheerful dress with a hint of snobbery, turning her nose up at both the simple pattern and the fact that I'm wearing it.

My brain freezes up as my fingers curl, seized with the irrational but paralyzing notion that Papa is lurking around every corner. I must resemble something akin to a gaping fish as my mouth opens and closes soundlessly before stammering out the closest thing to an explanation (or maybe an apology) that I can muster. "I-I'm wearing a, um, a robe for my next recital, you see. And, uh, it kind of falls like t-this. I'm wearing it t-to get a feel for how it falls-- er, moves." For a second time slows down before she accepts my stuttered lie without question. "Good boy, so dedicated to your art. Just don't wear it in public, dear," she glances at Lyla, and suddenly this isn't about the dress. "or people may get the wrong idea."

pretty pretty please, don't you ever ever feel
like you're less than fuckin' perfect
pretty pretty please, if you ever ever feel like you're nothing
you're fuckin' perfect to me[/size]

Before she leaves, however, she turns again on her perfect little heels and smiles sickeningly sweet to me. "Oh, Master Rockshaw. Word has it your father's been looking for you. You'd do best to go to him before something urgent comes up." My blood turns to ice, and it takes all the self-restraint I have just to nod and not break down into horrified tears. She struts off and I sway for a moment in the breeze, before I blink glassy eyes and mumble incoherent sentences. "I think I'm going to be sick..." And this time it's not self-inflicted; I drop to my knees and dry retch, shaking with fear and doubt and reflex. Nothing comes out but it makes my stomach contract painfully, tubes wrapping around my heart and squeezing until it feels like I can't breathe.

Once the mild panic attack is over I slump back down, defeated. I don't want to go back - what could he possibly want? Report cards were given, I haven't done anything bad, and he doesn't care what I do when he's working. What if... oh Ripred. What if he's found out about the machine? Still trembling, I raise myself carefully on wobbly legs, bracing a hand with paperthin flesh against the stall for balance. "I, um. I s-should go. I don't want to make him angry."
[/color][/size][/blockquote]

[Deleted]

Lyla Matheson

Listen
To the song here in my heart,
A melody I start,
But can't complete.

[/i][/center][/size]

"I'm coming with you."

The words were out of Lyla's mouth before she'd even had time to think about them, her elegant features set in hard lines of determination. There was no way in hell she was sending Julian to face his father alone. Even though the mere mention of the name Rockshaw sent a slight shiver up her spine - this was a powerful man she'd be dealing with - the blonde prodigy felt the anger thrumming in her veins. She was going to have words with the man, and then she was going to hack his life into oblivion. Lyla smiled to herself, knowing that she could make the blame reflect on her instead of her little sibling-friend. Unlike Julian, she wasn't scared of anyone, especially someone who was enough of a low-down coward to starve and beat their own child into submission.

She stood, walking over to the sink and wetting a paper towel under the faucet, cold water whispering between her delicate fingers. The moistened paper was drawn up to her alabaster cheeks, swiped repeatedly to cleanse the smeared glitter that sat there. She soaked a few more towels and walked back to Julian, cleaning the dried tracks of tears from his angelic face in a manner that felt more motherly than Lyla had ever thought herself to be capable of. The simple swiping motions of the wet towel were accompanied by a gentle caress of the blonde locks, a delicate carnation-pink kiss on the forehead. "You don't have to go through this alone anymore, Jules. You've got me now."

Lyla helped the whippet-thin little dancer back to his feet, allowing herself a quick check in the mirror to make sure she was presentable. Grabbing Julian's hand, so unnaturally cold against her own, the blonde hacker led him back out into the fluorescent lights of the sweet shop, snatching her discarded aviators from their table and slipping them back to rest on the bridge of her nose before she and the child left the building for the cobbles street, its formerly pink hue now a deep, oceanic blue. She was late for dinner, but her parents would certainly understand. "Lead the way, Jules."

The caramel-eyed girl offered her warped arm to her young friend, knowing from past experience that running his fingers along the curved line of the bone would give him something to do, something to take his mind off the fear that gripped his beautiful features as they walked. Another stroke of the hair, thumb running delicately along the arch of a golden brow, comforting in a way Lyla remembered her own mother being, shushing cries in the half-light of the kitchen after her mangled arm had been yanked back into some semblance of what it had once been. Surely her parents wouldn't mind her being late, not for this. They'd understand. Maybe if things got really bad with the Rockshaws they could let Julian have Leo's old room. Lyla could have a little brother again. The thought made the blonde smile mildly, her heart warmed by the prospect of Julian living with a family who would accept and love him as he was.

"Have you ever wanted a big sister?"

Lyla wondered whether Julian had any siblings. A quick run through her memory made her believe that he didn't, which saddened her. No wonder the poor child was picked on so much, there was no other child in the family to draw his father's malice. "I used to have a little brother. But the position's currently open."

It was a morbid kind of humor, but humor nonetheless. Lyla smiled sadly down at her friend, his deep azure eyes glinting beautifully in the last rays of the setting sun. "You remind me of Leo, Jules. A lot. He was sweet like you. He loved to sing, he was always worrying about other people over himself. He even liked the same kind of ice cream you do." She fought the tears building back up in her eyes, knowing that she'd need to be Julian's strength for the upcoming stretch of time, knowing she had to be strong. Nevertheless, he voice managed to break, cracking on her next statement. "And I was thinking... that you might want a big sister to have your back for stuff like this. Does that sound good?"

Without waiting for an answer, Lyla gently began her walk down the street, arm in arm with the little dancer. She wasn't exactly sure where they were headed, but she was positive that she was sticking to the child like glue, no matter what happened. She owed him that much, for allowing a piece of her little brother to live again.

[/blockquote]

[sadniss everdeen]

Julian Rockshaw

.: It's too hard to face alone. :.

[306EFF] I'm not very eloquent; really, I much rather like to move.
[FF7BB0] Words confuse me, they tie my tongue and heart into little knots.
[90AD30] Whatever isn't said remains in the safety of my mind.
[ECD672] People think I'm slow, but that's okay. All the smart people I know are sad.

apologies on your fingernails
love flickered in the city of lights,
like intermittent radio waves
[/size]

This is a time where words fail me and I instead resort to feel in order to get my thoughts into tangible form. My face burrows into the delicate skin in between her neck and shoulder, left arm clasped tightly, nestled in the valley of the gentle inclines of my littlegirl chest. All my bravery has deserted me and left me shaking but I still steer her towards my hom-- house. That mansion that towers above all else with the glinting windows and awning doors is most certainly not a home.
Living with Lyla sounds like a dream come true. There would be no report card days, no giant tubes of concealer in order to hide the bruises during dance practice. No cold and empty diners, and most certainly no more anger. But... I don't know if I could do that to Mama. I love her dearly, and moving in with another family seems akin to abandoning her. While Papa loves her and would be more than content to send me away it would shatter her; and it would kill me, too. She, for the longest time, was really the only person in my corner.

But my lips remain sealed as we trot carefully along the cobbled path, not allowing an affirmative or a decline to dash or raise her hopes. How can I decide something that monumental for myself when I can barely figure out what to put on in the morning without ruining my image? Instead I focus on the sharp pain that radiates from my ankle every time we step in tune, sending biting discomfort throughout my toes and muscles each time I press or release against the appendage. It seems I've perhaps fallen over harder than I originally thought.
"I'd love that, Lyla." I murmur softly, keeping my eyes riveted to the road. "But I can't abandon Mama like that. Our family dynamic works; I shoulder his rage so he can be good to her, and she doesn't know anything about it. It's all I've ever known." We scuff quietly as it turns into a gentle incline - the pain in my foot becomes more pronounced and I grit my teeth against the monumental hassle of keeping an impassive face. However, I manifest some of my temporary agony as nerves - my hands grow less and less steady the closer we get to my abode.

The leaves sway gently in the cool breeze, the icy tendrils of winter not touching this far south. It rustles the fabric of my dress by my knees and for a moment I savor this idyllic moment; the wind on my legs and in my hair, making my eyes sting pleasantly with reflex tears. I am tenebrific in my own right - I cast shadows over the upcoming confrontation with false sentiments and hopeful doubts. What if he doesn't really need anything urgent? Maybe it's not something bad. I frown lightly at myself, swallowing the fear that balls up in the hollow of my throat. It's never good to deny reality. One must never live in could-have-beens, Julian. It was said by my father one night in his rare moments of hospitality when he's had a bit too much to drink. Though I'd never say it to his face, the only thing I could muster up as feeble resistance to his all-powerful presence is the thought that he's the biggest hypocrite of all.

Once I cross the threshold into my house a blanket of unease plasters over me. My nails dig tightly into her flesh and my light frown turns deeper, brows knitting in suspicious confusion at the silence. "Mama?" I call out timidly, eyes wandering for my mother. While Lyla's presence makes me feel braver, all the nerves in my body have tangled at my feet in a fest of warring and snarling and fucking, begging me to runrunrun and never look back. Despite the instincts that have often proved to judge the calm before the storm I look to the giant staircase, hesitantly tugging the lighter blonde with me. "I need to change." I hiss quietly, struck with the need to be clandestine in this act. There's no telling where he could be.

My fingers touch redwood banisters absently, gloss sticky and smooth against the soft pads of my digits. Because I no longer wear shoes it's impossible to hear the gentle lay of my soles upon wood, nothing but a whisper of friction against a glassy floor. Even with an injured ankle I manage to be graceful, slowly ascending the stairs with what I assume is a correct amount of trepidation. The door to my room hangs slightly ajar and I shoulder it open, glancing around in paranoia just to view an empty space. Sighing in relief my closet is opened and the dress is discarded, shoved into the deepest depths of my bodoir as the article is replaced by a fresh short sleeved shirt and baggy shorts that hang loosely off my girlish hips.

Together we treck across the winding hallways, eventually coming to a stop in front of the massive oaken doors. Instantly I'm reduced to a shivering mess, fingers quivering and eyes gathering full of tears. Still, I sniffle loudly and wipe away the budding liquid with the heel of my hand, pressing a soft kiss to the faint pallor of Lyla's cheek. "Wait for me." I sigh quietly, hand curling over the polished brass handle. "I'll be back soon." WIth that, I carefully open the gateway and step into the dimly lit gloom. When the lock clicks shut behind me, I can't help but feel I've sealed my position into my own personal nightmare.

I want you to hold me, I want you to pray
this is bigger than us

[/size][/color]

[Deleted]

Lyla Matheson

Well, she never was the best
At following the trends.
Stayed one step above the rest.

Lyla's caramel eyes widened at the sight of the interior of Julian's house. All the kids in the district had come to ogle at the Rockshaw place at some point in their lives, standing on the smooth-paved sidewalks of the affluent part of town and letting the envy course through their veins. "Man, you'd have to be the luckiest kid in the world to live there."

[/i][/color] Lyla and among many others had uttered that exact phrase at some point in time, and the newfound realization that they all couldn't have been more wrong sent a shiver up the blonde's spine as her steps echoed around the vast entry hall. She allowed Julian to lead her up the staircase, conscious of all the noise her high-top-clad feet made in comparison with silence of the little dancer's. Lyla had never been graceful like that.

She was thankful that Julian's room was at the top of the stairs, not too far down the hall way. Lyla felt a sigh of relief that matched her young friend's slip out over her shocking-pink lips, Julian's risk of being discovered in his incriminating garments now nonexistent. The blonde hacker contented herself to drink in the grandeur decorating the high-ceilinged hallway as she waited for her friend to finish changing, amber orbs reflecting the light that glinted from the crystal chandeliers, retinas absorbing the rich reds and deep browns of the floors and walls, intrigued by the ancient and certainly valuable paintings that hung from the walls. Her house was nice, but this was just ridiculous. Interrupting her musing, the diminutive dancer edged back out of his bedroom, clad in boys' clothes, something Lyla found to be extremely odd. The feminine features were assuaged by the baggy shorts and loose tee shirt, bringing out the few masculine traits, the subtle line of the jaw, slight broadness of the shoulders that could mark Julian as a boy, if a very young one. The transformation was astounding.

The teenager allowed herself to be pulled along the labyrinth of hallways, trying to orient her placement in the house but becoming hopelessly lost in the process. Just how big was this place. After ages of traveling down identical corridors filled with ostentatious demonstrations of the Rockshaws' affluence, the pair of blondes came to an uneasy rest in front of a pair of large wooden doors that seemed imposing to even Lyla, who had nothing to fear. She glanced down nervously at her sibling-friend, tightening her grip on his hand in an attempt to give him some of her strength. She tried to offer an encouraging grin, but all that came out was a sad little smile that settled upon her countenance with a bittersweet tone. The little dancer beside her took a deep breath, tiptoeing up to plant a feathery kiss on the genius' high cheekbone. "Wait for me, I'll be back soon."

Lyla nodded, trying for her encouraging look again but getting the same sympathetic half smile as she gave Julian's hand a final squeeze, mouthing a "good luck" at him before the intimidating door closed with a final-sounding click. She immediately took to pacing, bright pink high tops pressing a faint trail into the wine-colored carpet beneath them, the colors clashing as much as her thoughts. The prodigy let her eyes flick down to her clunky watch every few seconds, marking how long Julian had been in the unknown world behind the large oaken portal. One minute. Now two. Now three. She began to gnaw at her lip anxiously, fighting the urge to throw open the door and run to her sibling-friend's side, knowing that it would only bring more trouble down on the little dancer's fragile head...There! What was that? A whimper, the slightest sound of distress? The teen genius shook her head and ran to the door, ear pressed desperately against the wood trying to hear something, anything but met with only tense silence fragmented occasionally by Julian's light alto timbre or the deep rumbling of a new, unknown voice, the words muffled beyond recognition by the heavy oak. She tried to tell herself that she was only hearing things, that Jules was fine, but panic began to set in before she could stop it. Pushing herself back from the wooden panel, Lyla knocked sharply three times, the nails of her good hand clashing neon-bright against the dark stain of the oak.

"Jules, sweetie?" Her voice was again effortlessly breezy and vapid, all traces of intelligence erased. "Can I, like, come in and apologize to your dad for, like, making you late and everything? My parents were gonna try to teach me how to do, like, long-division or something tonight, so they want me home soon. So, can I, like come in? Is that okay and everything?"

She squeezed the glittery lids shut over her amber eyes, praying with all her might that the wooden portal before her would swing open and allow her to be by Julian's side, to protect him from the monsters that lurked in the dark beyond.
[/color][/size][/blockquote]

[sadniss everdeen]

Julian Rockshaw

.: Did you feel the need for change? :.

[306EFF] I'm not very eloquent; really, I much rather like to move.
[FF7BB0] Words confuse me, they tie my tongue and heart into little knots.
[90AD30] Whatever isn't said remains in the safety of my mind.
[ECD672] People think I'm slow, but that's okay. All the smart people I know are sad.

never knowin' what love could be, well I've seen
I don’t want love to destroy me like it did my family[/font][/size]

"You smell like grease." Is the first rumbled greeting I receive. He sits all imposing and imperial with his back pressed gently against his highbacked chair, and I can't help but compare him to a pridemaster with the way the fires flickers shadows along his face to create deep, awning chasms that appear endless. Subtly I go to sniff at my clothing, wrinkling my nose in confusion when I don't pick up on anything. My eyes blink hard in the half-light, glittering oceanic pools with a grating unease as my feet take silent steps towards him. Every nerve is tingling cautiously, fingers curling and unclenching in tune to the rapid staccato beat of my heart. "I-I'm sorry. I p-passed by a diner with, um, the door open." Nothing in my speech can alert him to my bluff, but he still fixes an uncomfortably severe gaze on my features and searches. I shuffle awkwardly and glance down at the floor, making myself promise not to cough when a wave of smoke invades my nostrils from his lips.

When he raises I flinch but keep my eyes trained at the floor, wishing and waiting and hoping for him to do something so that I can get rid of this anxious feeling. His gaze makes me feel like something that used to be shiny and new - now tarnished and something that requires an irritating amount of time to make new again.

His hand flashes out with quicksilver accuracy and snares my neck in his grasp so that I can't utter a single sound; my eyes go wide as my toes scrabble for desperate purchase against the plush carpeting. "What did I say?" He says, tone as if he would just be talking about the weather or something nonsensical. My chest contracts and my eyelids flare, clawing weakly at his fingers in an attempt to loosen the titan's grip he has. Papa remains firm and so do his eyes, it's evident that he won't stop until he's received an answer. "Well?"

At my pained gasps he allows his fingers to loosen just a tiny bit. Nothing but a whisper is allowed to come forth, but I almost cry in relief as warm air trickles into my lungs. "T-that I'm not supposed to... to eat b-before a recital." His eyes narrow slightly, and I'm fearful that I've said the wrong thing. Still his face catch fire from the coruscating light and bathes him in mediocre brilliance; I'm breathless not only from his grip but how alike we seem for a nanosecond. "Yes. But this isn't about that. Or is it, Julian?"

He drops me onto the floor and I cough, hacking and gently holding my throat as beautifully tragic bruises are already beginning to form. This is anything but normal and it scares me; I thrive on normality when it comes for home life. Papa pulls at his belt and the only thing I can think of with miserable certainty is that this time will be hell - the other marks still give me pain and have yet to fade. I have nothing in my arsenal to combat him with, I've been bad and naughty and must be punished. When the oxhide snaps crisply against the supple palms that hold all the roughness of a torturer's mercy but the gentle caress of a father's love. He doesn't hate me because of who I am, he hates because of what I am. I am different and it is impossible to rule when you are apart from the others to this extent - for this, I somehow find it in my heart to forgive his actions though it hs the void of emotion that stings more than his makeshift whip. "Your breath smells. You've been eating, haven't you?" I offer nothing but a stumbling apology that highlights my guilt in neon bright colors. For a moment disappointment flashes onto his face, replaced by stern command. "You have to stay thin, Julian. You don't expect to win at anything if you're fat and lazy, do you?"

It seems for a second that Lyla's presence outside the door gives me strength and I consider denying him this confirmation, but one glance into his unchanging visage makes me swallow my bruised pride and instead whisper; "It's b-been dealt with." He nods in satisfaction and for a second maybe appears like he'll leave me, but the unexpected razor-sharp bite into my shoulder makes me yell in surprise. I clutch it with tears in my eyes as it irritates the bruised flesh in my throat, but don't ask him to stop as he picks me up and places my body across his deck with my face pressed into the wood-grain. There is another snap and whimper before a sharp, rapidfire beat is played out against the doors.

"Can I, like, come in and apologize to your dad for, like, making you late and everything? My parents were gonna try to teach me how to do, like, long-division or something tonight, so they want me home soon. So, can I, like come in? Is that okay and everything?" It's too late to speak out and say no, it's not okay but the belt has already come down and the door creaking open is drowned out by my sudden screech and the harsh crack of material against skin.

in our family portrait we look pretty happy
let's play pretend, act like it goes naturally [/font][/size]

[Deleted]

Lyla Matheson

This ain't a scene.
It's a goddamn arms race.

[/center][/i][/size]

After waiting for a few seconds with no response, Lyla bit her lip hard and reached out a delicate hand for the doorknob, lily-white palm leaving a sheen of cold sweat on the handle as it turned in her slippery grasp. The blonde genius did her best to push open the heavy oak quietly, but was only rewarded with a squeal that sounded earsplitting to her, although it was probably unheard by anyone else. Like a frightened child, she edged her face through the crack of the door, completely unprepared for what she would see. Julian, her little dancer, her sibling-friend being held down unmercifully to the top of a large wooden desk, the heavy belt descending upon him unmercifully.

The gasp of horror and the scream of rage collided in Lyla's throat, the sound leaving her as a strangled sort of growl. All thoughts of a vapid, airy apology to turn the blame onto herself instead of Julian flew immediately away, replaced by a fury that scared even Lyla, who was usually able to control her own anger. Caramel eyes ablaze, she saw the world through a sheen of red, heart pounding a rapid thudthudthud in her ears, nails digging those now-familiar half-moons in her palms hard enough to draw a single crescent of blood around the imprint made by the index finger of each had. The prodigy didn't notice the pain, didn't notice anything other that the fact that the imposing man in front of her still had Julian in his grasp, marking him as her target.

Crash.

She wasn't aware of flinging the door open with such force that the handle punched a ragged hole through the drywall, wasn't aware of marching across the room with the feral growl emanating steadily from somewhere low in her throat. Lyla woke up when she felt herself dragging Julian off the unforgiving wood of the desk unceremoniously, throwing him behind her. "Julian, get out. Now. I have some things to discuss with your father."

The normal, airy soprano cadence of her voice was lowered to a gravelly contralto, carnation-pink lips curled in a vicious snarl. So this is what they call the "mother bear instinct." The teenager shot a look behind her, to where her friend stood, seemingly paralyzed with fright, still whimpering. The hardness of her face softening, she crossed over to him and delivered a quick caress, a brush of the alabaster cheek to wipe away the tears. "Get out of here. Get to my house, ask around, you'll be able to find it. Tell my mom I sent you." The poor child didn't seem to process kindness right now, not after all that cruelty. Lyla put a bit of the edge back in her voice, tapping the bony shoulder sharply with a desperate widening of caramel eyes. She didn't want him seeing this, it was going to get too ugly for someone so pure. "Go!"

Paying no further attention to the little dancer, Lyla turned around in a swift pirouette that sent the green tutu swishing around her legs, all kindness gone from her face as she advanced on Julian's father, who was now stuck between the large desk and the neon-colored wall of fury that was the white-blonde hacker. She was surprised how quiet her voice was, how deadly. "Enough. Listen, you swell-headed, bigoted, abusive ignoramus. I don't know who the hell you thing you are, and I don't really care. But I'll tell you this, if you lay one more finger on that child I will personally castrate you with a dull butter knife and mount your testes on my wall as a trophy, got it?"

"I am the one person that you don't want on Julian's side," she continued, taking a few more steps toward the man, the tidal wave of her anger buoying her up to make her much more imposing than she would be relying on her physical appearance alone. "I happen to posses a particular set of skills, skills that not only allow me to monitor everything that goes on in this whole damn hellhole of a country, let me see into your security cameras to know whether you're treating your only child with decency and respect, but give me the ability to majorly fuck things up as well. For example, your newest batch of computers designated to ship out to the Capitol next week. Wouldn't want the systems in those to suddenly crash, destroying years of work, would we, Mr. Rockshaw?"

She found herself laughing at the look on his face, the bubbly soprano sounding eerily out of place amidst the all-consuming anger that bounded through every fiber of her being. Lyla wasn't making threats. She was making promises, promises she wouldn't hesitate to keep. Not only would she hack this horrid excuse for a human being's technology enterprise into so much scrap metal, she's pull the security footage out of the camera that she saw winking its bright red eye in the corner of the study, broadcast it in the Games square for all to see how one of the most revered citizens of the district treated his family behind closed doors. She'd ruin his life, and laugh herself to sleep every night after she did it. Lyla felt a very wicked smile painting itself onto her face as she advanced on the imposing male figure enough to rest her hands on the wooden rim of the desk, trapping him in the circle made by her arms combined with the wood stained with the little dancer's tears, air slipping back into her voice, the vapid tone still managing to sound deadly. "I'm totally pleased to, like, meet you and everything, Mr. Rockshaw. I don't know if you've, like, heard of me, but my name's Lyla Renee Matheson."

The giggly schoolgirl tone dropped out of her voice instantly, formerly angelic features setting themselves back into their demonic alter-ego, eyes of molten gold boring into the cold blue of her enemy. "And even though I'm pretty, my mind is very, very ugly. So I'll give you one final warning. Keep your filthy, monstrous hands off of Julian, or you'll pay for it. I think I've made your options simple enough."

[/blockquote]

[sadniss everdeen]

Julian Rockshaw

.: Who is the lamb and who is the knife? :.

[306EFF] I'm not very eloquent; really, I much rather like to move.
[FF7BB0] Words confuse me, they tie my tongue and heart into little knots.
[90AD30] Whatever isn't said remains in the safety of my mind.
[ECD672] People think I'm slow, but that's okay. All the smart people I know are sad.

here I am, a rabbit hearted girl
frozen in the headlights
it seems I've made the final sacrifice[/size][/font]

I didn't leave when Lyla told me to. Hurting and reeling and so clouded by confusion and a slightly surreal quiet I instead slump against the wall across the hallway. I content myself with staring sightlessly at my splayed feet as their voices raise as a trembling crescendo until the pitch is too soft and enters my mind, wrapping around my head and squeezing so hard I think I'm about to explode. Everything has happened too fast and now my heart throbs along with a carefully constructed knot in the pit of my throat, allowing the bruises to bloom a beautiful purple black. From underneath my immaculate flowing shirt blood blossoms in kind to compliment the heliotrope imprints around my throat, blending elegantly with thin stripes of crimson to create a haggard, broken appearance. The newly formed wounds bleed for the first time, not deep enough to burn but still ragged enough to require medical attention. It sticks to the fabric and clings to my skin, making me feel so very unclean.

All goes quiet save for Lyla's charming timbre murmuring venomous promise that I don't understand through the muffled wooden doors, head lolling back and hitting the wall with a muted thud. Strands of blonde get in my eyes but the confrontation has left me feeling drained, hands uncurling by my sides and chest raising quietly with each shallow breath; it is these times that I become almost catatonic, allowing my mind time to shut off and heal before dealing with the newfound mess. My soul-sister is an iconoclast in her own right, shattering whatever vestiges of rational thought I once possessed about my family life and piecing it back together as some fragile, broken thing.

Why does everything have to be so strange? Eyes wide and glassy I let my consciousness fade slightly, trying to make the throbbing pain across my back and the tightness in my throat disappear along with rational thought. Streaks of scarlet curl their way over my right shoulder and mar the pristine purity of my shirt; it's okay, this one is too big now anyway. I'm just shy of my goal - so, so close to eighty five pounds - but there's nothing to throw up and my voracious appetite ensures that without daily rigorous dancing, there is no way I'll ever make it. So for now I let my ninety-two pound frame rest on the swollen carpet and try too hard not to think about the way the wounds raise and feel like fat.

Instead I pull off the shirt and run my fingers along the lines, allowing the salt to rub into my bloodstream and make me hiss in delightfully deserved pain. Mama still hasn't come back and I shouldn't be surprised; "I'm sorry, darling. Work has me running everywhere these days." but it still hurts something that should know better, a little child instinct to reach out to his mother and demand for a type of solace. Maybe it's that it was witnessed by somebody out of my dysfunctional hovel that makes it feel so much heavier than the times before - though it bleeds, this is not the worst he could have done - and makes my body listless, floating on the aftershocks of a horribly bad trip. Not like I'd know what that feels like, though. It ruins your body.

A dollhouse rests abandoned by the hallway (a maid's daughter that has outgrown her fascination with plastic lives) and I crawl over to it, sweeping back rough windows with the delicate pad of my thumb. Ken is worried that Barbie isn't back yet - he's upset in his fabricated heart that she would leave him - but I try to reassure him that the ones like her always come back, just you wait but he doesn't listen, and I'm stuck listening about how the world is much more cruel to those who don't look like they can take it.

I'm waiting for Barbie, too. For that picture perfect hair and brightbright eyes to walk through the doors and make me feel safe again, but instead I'm here with Ken who frets and worries and hopes for his paramour to return safely with tales of adventure and clandestine whispers well-spent in the middle of the night. I want glow in the dark stars to replace the ones in my eyes, and softly strumming radio waves to alter the frequence of my life. I want to be selfish for a second and demand for a real father though I know that I'll never really have a figure of the sort, too scarred by other encounters to really open up and form a real connection.

When I was younger I thought that I'd be the knight in shining armor to save a distressed damsel - at least one stereotype that I could fill - but eventually it became apparent that I was the girl in need of saving. Such roles has left me longing for a prince (or princess?) to take me away, and I'm still too hesitant to believe that one with blinding white hair has come to take me away.

Ken whispers for her to come back; it's been far too long and his hopes of a happyeverafter are slowly fading. In turn I yank him out of his perfect little house and yell at him to be quiet, throwing him across the room with but a fragmented mirror of the anguish he must feel at the thought of coming back one day to a cold and empty bed. My face burrows in my knees and I sob quietly - all raw and angry and hurt as the battle wounds throb mercilessly and my ankle screams to move. The door has long opened but I don't care, only having ears for Ken who tells me that one day, I will be beautiful.

midas is king and he holds me so tight
and turns me to gold in the sunlight
[/size][/font]

[Deleted]

Lyla Matheson

Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars?
I could really use a wish right now.

Breathing heavily, Lyla spun on her heel and stalked off across the plush floor of the study, not caring to hear anything Julian's father could possibly have to say to her. The large oak door was slammed with bone-rattling force, and the blonde looked up to watch the crystals in the chandelier tremble from the force, scattering pretty little out-of-place rainbows across the dreary museum of the Rockshaw residence. Her fury began to ebb away, leaving her shaky and gasping in shallow little breaths. Burying her pale visage in trebling hands, the prodigy slumped against the wall, slowly sinking to the soft carpet. Breathe, Lyla. Just breathe. In. Out. Good girl. Now stop shaking. Now stand up. Now get the hell out of here before you kill someone.

Mutely obeying the calm, emergency-drill-recording voice in her head, the young hacker stood and brushed herself off, preparing to brave the maze of cavernous hallways in an attempt to get herself away from the toxic house. She spotted Julian's huddled form in a darkened corner, and all thoughts of escape abandoned her as she flew across the padded, wine-colored floor to the little dancer's side. The angry red stripes down his now-bare back, some of them seeping blood, along with the broken sobs ripping themselves from his throat broke Lyla's heart for the umpteenth time that day, last vestiges of anger evaporating in the fire-red afterglow of her tirade, mind now focused on comforting and healing her sibling friend.

Delicate, long fingers reached out, cold, so very cold against the heated welts, tracing the vivid line of where every blow had fallen. She couldn't fix this with a neon-bright bandaid and a kiss on the forehead, couldn't patch him up with any of the supplies she had on hand, and this realization nearly killed her. She could mend broken hearts, fight off monsters in dark study-caves, slay demons that haunted dreams with whispers of not good enough, but she couldn't cure the physical evidence of Julian's hardships, not without getting him out of here. The blonde continued to run whisper-soft fingers along the raised red marks, hoping that their cooler temperature did something to ease the pain, waiting for the child to stop crying enough that she could gently pull him out of the fetal position and into her arms.

"Shh, baby, it's okay, it's okay, I'm here, I've got you, he's never going to hurt you ever again, I won't let him, shh, it's okay, it's okay." Whispered mantras escaped into golden locks on warm breaths of air, elegant pianist's hands petting the downy yellowish silk until it shown with a luster that rivaled Lyla's own hair, all deep-conditioning and good genes. The older girl held tightly to her weeping companion, lips never ceasing to form repeated words of comfort that shifted into soft, melodic humming as she rocked the child back and forth in a motion that she had always found soothing as a little girl, the softly-sung song that she had heard somewhere, far away and long ago spilling over her lips before she could stop it, a tragic lullaby for her beautiful little dancer.

"Your parents say everything is your fault.
But they don't know you like I know you, they don't know you at all.
I'm so sick of when they say
'It's just a phase, you'll be okay, you're fine.'
But I know it's a lie."

Her voice was broken and fragmented at first as she held back tears that pooled in her amber eyes, the lyrics coming out as more of a whisper with pitch than actual notes. Lyla had never been a brilliant singer, not like Leo had. They had both been in the school choir when they were younger, but he had always gotten the solos, the applause. And he had deserved it, Lyla had contented herself to warble quietly at the back of the soprano section, knowing that this was one area where she was nothing special. She often wondered if she should have been a dancer.

"This is the last night you'll spend alone,
Look me in the eyes so I know you know
I'm everywhere you want me to be.
The last night you'll spend alone,
I'll wrap you in my arms and I won't let go,
I'm everything you need me to be."

Her voice grew a bit stronger as the tears faded away, her earlier yelling still making her crack on the higher notes, hands still occupied with their embrace of the child, neon bright fingers winding comfortingly through golden-blonde hair, combing out the snags. He was glassy-eyed, shell-shacked, and Lyla wondered whether his father had drugged him into submission. But no, she couldn't think about that right now, she couldn't get angry. Not when she was still here fighting off Julian's demons, not when he still needed her.

"The last night away from me."

Lyla mused that what she was to Julian was rather like the imaginary friend she'd had as a child. With an imaginary friend, you were utterly invincible, or at least so you thought in your childish mind. You had someone bigger than you, someone who was always on your side, someone who was completely magic and capable of anything. Something you outgrew once you learned to fight your own battles. She wondered whether Julian would ever outgrow her, and the thought sent a nasty pain plunging into her heart.

"The night is so long when everything's wrong,
If you give me your hand I will help you hold on
Tonight,
Tonight."

But until he outgrew her, which she honestly hoped would be never, Lyla would be more than content to watch over her sibling-friend, to fight his battles, to kill all the monsters that frightened him. That's what big sisters were for, she knew that. She thought back to the time she'd broken a kid's nose who was making fun of Leo for being a nerd and getting straight A's all the time. She'd been suspended for a week, but she hadn't gotten in trouble at home. Her father had patted her encouragingly on her little white-blond head. "That's my girl. We're a family. We stick up for each other. We don't let other people push us around."

[/i][/color]

"I won't let you say goodbye,
I'll be your reason why."

Lyla cradled the little dancer even closer to her, feeling their hearts beating in sync against pressed-together ribcages. She wasn't going to let the world taint this pure soul like it had tainted hers. She wasn't going to let Julian be touched by hate and rage like she had. Tears built up again, the sad little song ending the way it had started, with pitchy whispers that muffled themselves in sadness-moistened golden locks. Lyla had finally found a higher calling than bringing down the Capitol, a greater purpose than hatred. She had someone to protect, someone she could save, the way she hadn't been able to save her little brother.

"The last night away from me.
Away from me..."

She could make this right.[/color][/size][/blockquote]

[sadniss everdeen]

Julian Rockshaw

.: A falling star fell from your heart and landed in my eyes. :.

[306EFF] I'm not very eloquent; really, I much rather like to move.
[FF7BB0] Words confuse me, they tie my tongue and heart into little knots.
[90AD30] Whatever isn't said remains in the safety of my mind.
[ECD672] People think I'm slow, but that's okay. All the smart people I know are sad.

My fingers clutch and grasp and ache when I hold onto her neon-bright colors that scream of promise and hope in solid form; a comforting blanket of warmth and serenity. Ken is devastated and I can feel him watching me with drooping eyes that promise to be extinguished. His silicone heat beats a phantom pulse, wishing and waiting and hoping that Barbie will one day return to him just as she's returned to me. I try to whisper that she will come eventually - nothing can keep them apart for long - but the words get stuck in my throat where they die and form a funeral that escapes as pretty little gasps in puffs of invisible smoke. Instead the drapes of the dollhouse flutter quietly with the warm breeze that filters in from the windows, and his solitary form makes the room seem so very alone. I bury my face in her swanlike neck and shut out his accusing stare, asking why is it that you get a happily ever after, when we're both pining after somebody that's too good for us? but he still doesn't listen. Maybe I want to be selfish for the first time and ignore the weight and the scales and the food and...

The last time I was selfish it was a year ago, and I was in the back of his car. It was hot and sweaty and sticky and I felt fat that day, so I let him guide me into the rear seat, burning my pale skin on searing belt buckles and raising my hips in rhythm to his. In reality it was a bad idea; we were disjointed and disconnected but I wanted to feel something and he wanted to know what sex was, so we writhed in a whirlwind of clumsy hands and sloppy kisses.

He was three years older than me and so very handsome - sweat rolled off his steep jaw and green-grey eyes drank in my body. His lips whispered something sacred over the warmth of my skin (pleasepleaseplease and I was too weak to say no) and even when his touches turned rough I allowed him into my angelic temple of a body because he understood what I was and didn't care.

And I allowed myself to be seduced by the stars in my eyes that had yet to fade; he whispered that I was beautiful the way I'd flush a brightbright red and my mouth would open soundlessly, fingers raking unheard melodies across the rolling expanse of his shoulders. Crescent moons would pepper his skin as the endless galaxy and my back was pressed against clammy leather, moving to our own tune that nobody else was allowed to hear. When I whimpered he would kiss away the pain on my lips, promising me that one day, I would be beautiful.

That even though I was still a pawn in most innocent guise, I was always meant to be the Queen of Hearts.

I am bad with memories but good with Lyla - all it takes is the fragile press of a skull into her diaphram to soak in the maximum comfort from her frame. It seems so very obtuse, sitting here and letting sparkly agony shine from our eyes as the cause of our pain sits shell-shocked in the other room, gazing sightlessly at the crackling fire and wondering where he went wrong. That anybody could come in and break this moment that is so intimate that it comes nothing close to the sliding kisses and breathy half-moans shared on a hot summer day, or the first glimpse into adult life that really isn't all it's cracked up to be. While I mourn the loss of something fragile, I rejoice in the blooming of another, stronger person to that its place. "I-I just tr-tried to be pretty, Lyla!" The sob that comes forth from my lips even makes me cringe on the inside; it is grieving for wounds both past and present. All my muscles feel like they are seizing and imploding on themselves, and through teary eyes I see Ken watching with an impassive face that is marred only by the faintest hints of sadness. This time, he is the mirror that reflects my soul. "I'll n-never be good enough... for a-any-body!"

Perhaps it highlights my underlying need as everybody started to leave one by one, but all I ever wanted to hear was a sad Darling, I never left and the gentle caress of a hand that doesn't quite know what to do. Like the boy who would love me if he knew how, if he could. But now his name is lost in the sands of time, and we don't even acknowledge each other's presence anymore.

She looks like a fragmented rainbow when she sings (all broken and hopeful and sad at once) and a whisper in me promises a new beginning, new futures and new dreams to replace the ones that have faded in time. Dancing is still what truly matters to me - what allows to release these emotions that spark a frenzy inside. I look into her whirlwind eyes framed by the most magnificent heartbreak and attempt to smile, but it comes out as nothing more than the ghost of an outline.

When he kisses me and it's not angry and confused and loving like a cyclone that will end in disaster, it is desperate and needy - like if he lets go he will forget who he is and who he is turning out to be.

Her phone rings and I'm tempted to let the chipper ringtone go on and on forever, but it becomes apparent that she needs to answer it just this once. My skeleton fingers snake carefully into her pocket and press the device into her hands, wiping away the glimmering trail of tears and letting the softly glowing screen illuminated 'Mom' create pretty patterns on the ceiling of the darkened room. Silently I detach myself from her frame though I want nothing more than to remain in her embrace, going to pick up Ken and find Barbie before his heartache rends me in two. His grateful eyes are almost too much to bear without breaking down again, and for a moment I remember how to smile.

"You were a mistake." He is guilty and sad and angry all at once, re-zipping his badboy jeans and giving me a lingering stare. He wants so badly to get closer and learn how to love but knows it will just end in disaster, so I quietly affirm his white lie that slips out through lying teeth.

"I know."

[/size][/blockquote]

[Deleted]

Lyla Matheson

You are moving through the crowd,
Trying to find yourself.
Feeling like a doll left on a shelf,
Won't someone take you down?

Lyla pressed her face into the fragrant golden waves, the clean, soapy scent neither masculine nor feminine, but nice all the same. She continued back to the whispered reassurances after her song was done, little nonsense nursery rhymes that promised love and hope and the sun coming out tomorrow, not taking time to really think about what she was saying. Julian's sobs turned into little hiccups against her tear-dampened tee shirt, the brights highlighter yellow dimmed down to a gold not unlike the color of her eyes in the wet patches.

"I-I just tr-tried to be pretty, Lyla!"

"Shh, sweetie, you are pretty. You're beautiful just the way you are."

"I'll n-never be good enough... for a-any-body!"

She gently took each of the little dancer's forearms, cringing at the fact that it was possible to encircle them completely with one of her delicate hands. She pushed the child back until she could look him in the face, tear tracks running down alabaster cheeks, oceanic eyes stained red around the bright blue irises. Lyla lifted a sunshine yellow corner of her shirt, gently wiping away the salty condensation from his face, caramel eyes boring intensely into azure ones.

"Don't you ever say that again," she said sternly, tucking a stray strand of gold back behind his ear."Don't you ever say that you're not good enough for anyone, because it isn't true. You're good enough for me. I don't know how much you value that fact, but you're good enough for me, Jules, and I count as 'somebody.'"

The chipper ring of her phone interrupted the tender moment, her mother's custom tone shattering the still air from the waistband of her tutu. The blonde prodigy ignored the ringing for a while, but eventually Julian's spindly fingers pulled the device from its place on her hip and pressed it into her hand. Then little dancer took off down the hallway clutching a doll like some sort of talisman, and Lyla looked anxiously after him as she brought the phone to her ear.

"Hello? Yeah, Mom, I'm fine... No, I'm sorry I'm late, something came up... Well, I've got this friend, and his home life is really screwed up and some pretty bad stuff went down today...His name's Julian, Mom...No. you don't need to know his last name, everything's taken care of... I was wondering, would it be okay for me to bring him back home with me? I don't feel comfortable letting him stay at his place, he's just a kid... That's okay? All right, can we let him have Leo's room? ...I know, Mama. I miss him, too. You'll like Julian, he's a lot like him... Mmhm. I love you too. Se you in a bit, bye."

The neon-bright hacker pressed the button to sever their connection with a heavy sigh, jamming the hunk of circuits back into the waistband of her tutu. When she glanced up, she realized with fear that she had lost track of Julian. Vaulting to her feet, she took off down the hallway, words leaving her in a frantic whisper. "Jules?! Julian, where are you?!"

The thuds of her sneakers sounded like a heartbeat against the thick carpet of the endless hallway, first a brisk walk and then a jog, pushing open every door that would give way. "Jules?" Panic set into the genius' chest, air coming in shallow little catch-breaths. She should have never let him out of her sight, should have never picked up the damn phone. For all she knew he had wandered back into the cruel grasp of his father, was now being punished ten times worse as a result of her outburst. Cursing herself for her carelessness, Lyla found her voice coming out in increasingly hysterical little squeaks with every empty room she found. "Julian!"

She almost cried in relief when she finally looked behind a slightly-ajar door and found him clutching the toys, glad he hadn't disappeared. She didn't care that she was hopelessly lost in this labyrinth of a house, didn't care that the sky was inky outside the window and they'd be walking home in the dark. The golden eyed girl took a few steps toward him, smiling and extending a neon-nailed hand."You scared me! I thought I'd lost you. C'mon, sweetheart, let's go. I'm taking you back to my house, just for the night to give things here some time to cool down."

[/blockquote]

[sadniss everdeen]

Julian Rockshaw

.: I screamed aloud as it tore through them and now it's left me blind :.

[306EFF] I'm not very eloquent; really, I much rather like to move.
[FF7BB0] Words confuse me, they tie my tongue and heart into little knots.
[90AD30] Whatever isn't said remains in the safety of my mind.
[ECD672] People think I'm slow, but that's okay. All the smart people I know are sad.


I've lived far too long to believe in angels
and the things I've seen
aren't suited to be repeated, no[/size][/font]

It pulls with a barely understood urge, moving my feet to an unheard rhythm sightlessly through the bowels of the haunting, empty house. Ken is warm and reassuring in my hand, almost quivering with a fabricated delight of seeing his paramour again. He longs to hear of her lucid tales of lost lovers and obsequious others that are only seen in the world outside of their safe haven. To an extent I can relate with them both - I pine to see the world but am too scared to wander farther from home.

She sits with jeweled radiance in the bioluminence that frames her frame in the most outstanding form of false twilight - left but not forgotten from the last adventure she has embarked on. I smile as he finally listens to my words - they always come back, you know? - and pad over to the reconvened figures that ache to become a whole once more. She is the flash of color to his earthy wisdom, the streak of unpredictability that brightens his monotone day, he no longer has to sit upset to his plastic bones and worry for her safety that seems trivial in the delighted expression that graces her unmoving, content features that smile even in heartbreak. When I set him down next to her his eyes turn soft and my lips quirk up quietly; he apologizes for harsh words and I respond in kind, murmuring that there is no harm done because we have both found our princes in the end. In truth I lay a crown of tarnished gold upon her brightbright hair and proclaim them knighted, grinning from ear to ear as they lose themselves in their own worlds of scented shampoo and soft baby hands that caress their fictile countenance with utmost reverance.

When Barbie begins to talk of her past encounters I seat myself quietly on the rug and listen with a soft smile playing at the edges of my mouth, quickly finding myself in an alternate world of knights and kings and happilyeverafters that never come true in real life - because let's face it, mankind is self-detrimental with complicated storylines that will only land in heartbreak. We remain together while my fingers play absently with her worn locks that still shine like brilliant stars; I am nothing but an outline of deeper dark amongst the shadows that play across my face in flickering fairytales. In usual circumstances the dark frightens me into paralysis that is both foolish and warranted at once, but the presence of Lyla among the house banishes the demons that would try and lurk inside the walls.

She yells for me but I remain transfixed, trading stories with the two lovers and smiling along with their laughter. Eventually the door creaks open and casts artificial brilliance on the scene, destroying the clouds and lending them a colder, faker light. I quietly bid farewell to my friends and take her hand, watching her face that still holds traces of sadness with an innocent curiousity of the nights beyond. "I'm going over to your house? Won't your parents object to the son of their prime enemy staying there?" It's the last thing I want to do - impose - but I'm slightly afraid of staying here with the oppressive silence and the remains of glow in the dark stars that have long been taken down because father deemed them too 'childish'.

"But Papa, they help me sleep!" The constellations twinkle dull noise in the quiet dark, unwiling to be removed from where they have shone brilliance for so many years. He ignores me and rips them off one by one, ignoring the souls he extinguishes with each violent jerk.

Dark has descended by the time we exit the massive house, not even bothering to yell our farewell inside. My chest is still laid bare and it prompts gooseflesh to raise along the broken expanses of skin, shuddering slightly and pressing myself harder into her frame for warmth. Though it is always warm here the cool glow of the moon makes the air crisp and slices across my nubile skin, not helped by the limp I've developed to slow my progress. It's unknown whether my brain just refuses to process the events or if I've just stopped caring at this point in time (my head reels and everything is spinning farfarfar out of proportion) but all I can think of is the struck gaze in their eyes and wondering absently whether I'll ever have something like that.

We lock gazes for a moment and I remember the whispering of nonsensical prayers across the expanse of my body, gentle hands stroking in all the wrong places that just feels right because it's so easy to love when you're high off of first-time nevers and this-could-be-more impossibilities. There is something in his eyes that I just can't quite discern but it looks almost pained for a moment, like he's trying so hard to love me that it's physically causing him discomfort. I give a sad little smile and saunter away from the boy with too much heartache in his eyes that has shared something with me that he can never replace.

"Is it going to be okay?" There will never be movement without backlash, speaking without silence. I'm not sure who I'm talking for now but it's certainly not just myself; all the stories of others twist and twine a complicated tale on my tongue that is too large to force out all at once. I smile cautiously at her (there is nothing amusing about shared devastation, but it is just so beautiful).

[/size][/blockquote]


but you have the eyes that talk
of believing in dreams and hopes
and I'm so close to giving into your own little religion[/size][/font]

[Deleted]

Lyla Matheson

Lyla glanced down at the little dancer through the cold night air, noticed his shivering. The blonde genius nearly kicked herself for not making sure he'd had the proper clothing before they'd left. She'd just been so ready to get away, to get out of that awful place, she'd never thought of it. She gently reached out a hand to halt her young friend's progress. "Hold on a sec, honey. I've got a jacket."

She opened the pink canvas bag, feeling rather like that lady from the old children's story, Mary Whatsherface. She was just pulling everything out of this bag today. Lyla dug around for a while, pushing aside computer chips, cords, her box of band-aids, before she finally found the neon green zip-up sweatshirt lurking near the bottom. The caramel-eyed girl yanked the garment from out of the canvas depths, wrapping it around Julian's angular shoulders."Here, this should keep you warm."

They walked for a little while longer before Lyla noticed his oceanic eyes gazing up at her questioningly. "Is it going to be okay?"

The prodigy wasn't sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry. The poor child, he had lived such a life that he was afraid to go over to a friend's house. On the other hand, she was happy that Julian was going to spend some time with a good, normal family. With her family, that was certain to welcome him. Lyla wrapped an arm around he dancer's shoulders, pulling him to her side as they walked. "Of course it'll be okay. My parents don't care who you are. You're my little brother, right? My house is as good as yours."

The pair walked through the inky blackness that blanketed the district, smog preventing the moonlight from illuminating their way. The streetlights that peppered the cobbled path shone down little halos of light every fifty feet or so, their luminescence shedding upon the neon-bright duo. Lyla wasn't sure how long they had been walking when they turned up her street, the large Tudor at the end of the block that was home to the Matheson family glowing warmly through the darkness. A grin settling on her carnation-painted lips, the blonde grabbed Julian's wrist and pulled him up the street, pushing open her front door with her free hand.

"I'm home!"

Lyla's house felt exponentially comfortable compared to her friend's. There were touches of home everywhere, family photos hung on the walls, television mumbling out a Capitol soap opera from the living room, smells of takeout from the Asian restaurant in the square, Lyla's favorite, drifting down the hall from the kitchen. The white-haired hacker could hear her parents' voices from the same source as the delicious smell, and gently led Julian down the hall to poke her head into the kitchen. "Hey, guys!"

Lyla's mother looked up from her laptop, an older version of her daughter. White-blonde hair, molten caramel eyes, pale skin and oval face. Lyla and her mother were built the same way, tall and curvaceous with graceful limbs and delicate hands. Lia Matheson had been a beautiful young woman in her youth, and her beauty had refined with age, a few laugh lines the only blemishes that marred her face. Heavy-framed black glasses rested on the bridge of her nose, and she pushed them into place as she smiled at her daughter. "Hey, Ly. Is this your friend?"

The brightly-dressed teenager nodded, gently shepherding the little dancer over the threshold into the kitchen. "Mmhm. Mom, Dad, this is Julian Rockshaw. I'm gonna take him upstairs and get him settled in, but then we'll be down for dinner, okay?"

Mr. Matheson, a jolly-looking man with thick waves of chestnut hair and bright green eyes, smiled warmly at the little dancer. Lyla had always been close to her father, who'd taught her everything she knew about computers as well as typical dad things like how to throw a baseball and how it was okay to knock the shit out of someone who was making fun of your little brother. He was considerably larger-built than either Lyla or her mother, broad shoulders and a bit of a paunch that was accentuated by the green polo shirt tucked into his khakis. Eyes twinkling, he extended a hand to Julian. "Pleased to meet you, Julian. I knew your old man back in high school."

[/i][/color] Grinning conspiratorially, he winked at his daughter's young friend. "I daresay I think you take after your mother. I always liked her better."[/i][/color]

Lyla rolled her eyes at her father's reference to the rivalry between Matheson Enterprises and Julian's father's company, but found herself smiling nonetheless as she led Julian out of the kitchen. "No business talk at the dinner table, Daddy. We'll be right back."

The teen prodigy led her sibling-friend up a flight of stairs, softly pushing open a door, the hinges creaking in protest after years of neglect. Flicking the light switch, Lyla's golden eyes surveyed her brother's bedroom. The walls and bed covers were a soft blue, old schoolbooks still sitting on top of the duvet where they had been left on the day of the Reaping. Leo's bedroom had been left basically untouched since he'd died, save for an occasional dusting and vacuuming. Feeling almost like she was desecrating the sanctity of a shrine, Lyla stepped over the threshold and pushed open the closet door, delicate hands brushing softly over a long line of immaculately-hung shirts. She selected one at random, a soft blue short-sleeved thing that she recalled Leo wearing in one of the pictures downstairs, and handed the clothing to Julian after removing it from the hanger.

"Here, I think he was about your size. It's gotta be better than my jacket, right?"

Lyla wished her voice didn't sound so sad. But being in this room, seeing the books splayed open on the bed, looking at the familiar award ribbons from the science fair tacked to the corkboard over his desk, it almost felt as if Leo could walk in any moment. Blinking a few times, the teenager shook herself inwardly, reminding her consciousness that it wasn't possible. Dead people don't come back. Ever. Lyla felt a sudden urge to leave this place, wanting to be rid of the sadness, and she found herself retreating back to the doorframe. "C'mon, Jules. Let's go eat."[/color][/size][/blockquote]

[sadniss everdeen]

Julian Rockshaw

.: Fought it a thousand times, but now I'm leaving home :.

[306EFF] I'm not very eloquent; really, I much rather like to move.
[FF7BB0] Words confuse me, they tie my tongue and heart into little knots.
[90AD30] Whatever isn't said remains in the safety of my mind.
[ECD672] People think I'm slow, but that's okay. All the smart people I know are sad.

my black backpack's stuffed with broken dreams
twenty bucks should get me through the week
never said a word of discontent
[/size][/font]

The ribbon of sadness in her voice makes the lump solidify in my chest, and I back away slowly while shaking my head. Though he has not been alive for what must be years upon years now, the phantom boy I never knew is everywhere; in these sprawled out books with the creases that will never fade, the faint scent of vanilla in his immaculate shirts. He begs me not to replace his memory with something just slightly less tragic and I'm inclined to agree - I just want to get out of this place with smiles and laughter and happiness. It doesn't feel right against my conscious that has long grown adept at handling silent nights and the brush of a mother's hand long after I've descended into slumber. "I-I can't." I whimper, pressing the shirt back into her hands and simply tugging the drawstrings tighter around my narrow shoulders. It's all too much and I can feel it: the familiar spin in my head as reality becomes too heavy to deal with. "I-It's not right. I don't b-belong here." The reappearance of my nerves means another stutter, and I clench my jaw in agitation as the words refuse to come forth from the intricately woven web of tangled threads.

Her frame lingers in the doorway to both impede both my escape and the manifestation of her own personal demons that must haunt her with every step - it would finally explain the hollow look lurking deep inside as we stepped into this shrine. My body shudders slightly at the thought of sleeping in that bed that Leo had used for years, throughout all of his genius and problems. I can't replace him. I'm not smart, or attractive. I don't get terribly good grades, and I'm horrible in a crowd. All I'm good at is moving my body, and with the way my ankle is screaming it seems that has to be put on hold for a few weeks. "I'm sorry, Lyla. I appreciate this so much, but I just can't accept. The look in your eyes when you come here... it's too much." I duck under her arm and limp my way down the stairs, clutching the banister for balance. The smell of food makes my stomach both rumble and churn at once and tears spring unbidden to my eyes. I've wished so many times for a normal family, but now I'm throwing it away?

What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you doing this? My head jerks of its own accord and I shake my locks furiously, attempting to dislodge the impending feeling of guilt that sits pretty in the pit of my chest. Somewhere in the back of my mind I feel bad for getting blood on the soft sweater and how it seeps like a wilting flower into the fabric, creating jagged stripes that clash so magnificently against the lime green cloth. I catch a picture from the corner of my eye and watch a boy stare back at me with nothing like the heartbreak gaze I vaguely remember from a long time ago staring into the camera. We are alike yet a separate entity together and I smile - not because there's anything amusing at shared devastation, but it's just so beautiful.

Sometimes when I decide to swallow my doubts and actually apply my thoughts to the real world I figure I could be a well-adjusted human being (but darling, since when do you ever feel human?) with a job and a life and people that care. But from years of a mother that's never there, a father that's never cared and a mindset that's never fair it's slowly eroded my rational thought into nothing but a vague notions of could-have-beens. And it hurts to see them stare at me curiously from the table with affection and all these emotions that they shouldn't have because, according to Lyla, I look like the incarnation of their picture perfect brother come back to life after so many years of sleeping amongst the rocks and roots. I can't look at the older, more elegant carbon copy of my new friend or her father with the mustache and hands that remind me of my father, so I mutter a quick apology for wasting their time and disappear out the front door.

The warm air is ignored along the plains of my skin and I draw the hood tighter over my head, breathing deep and wishingwantinghoping that the tightness in my chest would go away as soon as I stepped outside.
This place is too at home for anything I could ever suffer through, and while I know Lyla won't give up that easily, it's just one fight I can't let her win. Perhaps if she understands she will leave me alone. The thought that I'm not living anymore and just surviving brings a grim smile to my lips, hoping the melancholy feeling will erase the strange pressure I feel that chokes me on unsaid promises and unheard melodies.

But it's only seem to make this indescribable ache worse as everything tells me to run as fast as I can from here, and I heed the call with a rolling limp and blind eyes.

(Except that one part that's screaming; no, don't)

[/size][/blockquote]

I've nowhere else to go but
I cannot stay where I don't belong[/font][/size]

[Deleted]

Lyla Matheson

"Jules... Julian, wait!"

Sighing exhaustedly, Lyla rad a hand through her hair as the little dancer disappeared down the steps. This was too much, all of it. She had set out today simply wanting to get a few hacks done and get a cup of coffee, and then Julian grand-jete-ed his way into her life, turning everything upside-down. A horrible little hissing voice inside her told her to just let him go. After all, what could she expect? The kid was basically a whole bundle of psychological scar tissue, and you can't fix crazy. You should know, Ly. You're crazy too.

The blonde genius shuddered, screwing her caramel eyes shut against the memories of the years following that horrible Reaping Day. The days wandering aimlessly, numbly through her waking hours, not speaking, not trying, grades plummeting. The sleepless nights spent staring at the wall with that horrible noise reverberating through her head, that sound that had emanated from the screens in the Games Square as she'd watched her brother die, crack, crack, crack, went Leo's neck all night long. The sound still haunted her, still played over and over every single night.

She hadn't been able to handle it, the numbness, the inability to feel anything. Neon-nailed fingers traced the ridged lines along her good arm like they would prayer beads. The razor blade had been her salvation in those years, the years before she had learned to hack, learned to feel hate. The blade brought her pain, and that was better than nothing. And every time she'd breach the lily-white skin of her forearm, she'd tell herself that this was nothing, that what Leo had felt was ten times worse, she deserved this, it was her fault, all her fault...

She took off like a neon rocket, racing down the stairs and through the hallway, flinging open the front door. She was just able to spot her young friend's form as he retreated down the street. Lyla may have been far behind, but her legs were longer and she was moving at a faster pace, bright-pink high tops thudding against the pavement. "Jules!"

She reached out and gripped the child's shoulder, spinning him around to face her, breath coming in sharp gasps over carnation-pink lips. She really needed to start running again. She was starting to get a little out of shape. After the blonde was able to get her breathing under control, she still wasn't able to discern what she could say to make it okay for Julian, to fight off whatever monsters still chased him. Maybe it was that he thought that she couldn't understand what he was going through, she didn't understand the pain. Why should she? She was a rich, pampered little girl from a normal family that loved her. White brows knitting their way into a frown, Lyla thrust her good arm out in front of the young dancer, the harsh light of the street lamp throwing the jagged scars into sharp relief.

"I know what it's like to suffer. I know what it's like to have that hurt inside that's so deep that you just want to die and make it stop. I know what it's like to walk around feeling like you're not even alive for years on end, standing in a crowded room screaming for help but no one listens to you. I know how you feel, Julian, and you're going to be hard-pressed to find someone else who does, so don't shut me out, dammit!"

A distant part of her felt bad for cursing in front of a child, but Lyla was too caught up in the moment to care all that much. Features gradually softening, she resumed her default action of brushing the locks of gold back into place with delicate fingers, that sad smile painting her face again. "Don't let yourself turn into me, Julian. I'm an ugly soul carrying around a huge load of hate. And even though you don't hate now, you will. You'll hate so much that it'll start to consume you. There's nothing I can do to save myself, but I'm going to save you if it kills me. So please, please just come back, okay?"

[sadniss everdeen]

Julian Rockshaw

.: I keep it caged but I can't control it :.

[306EFF] I'm not very eloquent; really, I much rather like to move.
[FF7BB0] Words confuse me, they tie my tongue and heart into little knots.
[90AD30] Whatever isn't said remains in the safety of my mind.
[ECD672] People think I'm slow, but that's okay. All the smart people I know are sad.

so stay away from me, the beast is ugly
I feel the rage and I just can't hold it[/font][/size]

"I already hate!" It comes out as an infuriated wail, fists clenched and teeth bared into a pitiful imitation of the unknown feelings I can sense swirling in the pit of my stomach. It shakes the houses around us with its unexpected volume, a snarling prose that sounds so out of place from the cavern of my docile mouth. My fingers are trapped between quivering in tight fists by my sides and raking through scattered blonde locks in unbridled agitation. I yearn for simplistic lives and clear emotions, but my mind is one jumbled mess of warring thoughts that howl a furious gale in my head and renders me mute to communicating what I truly wish to say. "I am fourteen fucking years old, Lyla, and I am sick and tired of my father trying to ruin every goddamn thing that happens in my life! Every time people try and help, every single goddamn time something happens and they end up getting burned. I hate him and I hate myself and I hate all these things that get in the way!" Once started I cannot stop; my eyes are frenzied and open wide, they gleam stickybright in the half darkness that shrouds us in a suffocating anonymity.

Her earnest feelings make me wince on the inside and almost shudder into giving in, but this blind fury that has taken hold will not let me out of its grasp. "No matter how you try and see yourself, you are kind and worth protecting. This is bigger than us; you can't hold me and sing so that all the nightmares will go away, no matter how much you wish it! He's bigger and stronger and he's killed people more than once that threaten to unleash a shitstorm like this one, and it's always my fault. I won't let you become one of those people, even if it means wandering right back into the jaws of that house."

There is blood everywhere; it's on my face and my hands and my shoes and oh god I think I'm going to be sick from the smell. A body lays in a crimson pool of its own making, eyes frozen in perpetual terror even as the light has long since faded from the orbs that stare up sightlessly at the overcast sky. As I drop to my knees all I can think of is this is not okay and shaking fingers touch the waxen flesh that is cool and lax to the touch. A wedding finger lays bloodied on the unmoving fingers and it glints malevolently in the harsh light from above, casting shadows to create an abyssal mouth that is frozen over in a silent scream. A low, keening wail begins from my chest and slips through my lips, jerking my hand back as if burned when the head rolls to the side and the tongue flops out lifelessly. I can't be here with the death and the blood and the pain, but I can't escape the hollow eyes burning into my back, or the outline of my father's figure watching me flee with neutral triumph.

I always win, Julian. Never forget that.

I am jerked out of my memories with an almost palpable tension, wiping away the tears that threaten to pool as the memory of the constant gaze haunts my nightmares. My wrath has cooled to a slow, sluggish river, but it does nothing to diminish the underlying urge to keep her safe. "You can't protect me, Lyla. I'm already broken." It is soft and bitter but nonetheless truthful. "I know I'm being selfish by turning you away and wallowing in my own self pity, but I-I'm," the sudden lack of words to finish my sentence makes the frown deepen on my face. "--finally standing up to him on this." My fingers find the laces and pull them apart, shrugging out of the ruined sweatshirt and stepping up to her quietly. "Look at me, Lyla." I murmur, stepping into her warmth and taking pale hands, splaying them against my ribcage that doesn't require any type of breathing to see clearly from underneath pale skin. Blood runs in rivulets and stains the porcelain surface a dirty rust, still aching from the retaliation just an hour ago.

She is warm under my cooling skin but I lock eyes with her, clenching my jaw against the screaming in my brain that roars at me to fallbackretreat!emotionaloverload, dangerdangerdanger with each second that passes. I am nothing more than an animated skeleton with pretty hair and wounded eyes, and I'm unsure why she doesn't yet see that. "I'm nothing like your brother. I'm not worth protecting." This self-loathing was drilled in from years of disapproving glances and drunken tirades, but it's nonetheless very much real. Ken and Barbie have their plastic perfection with plastered smiles and unwavering devotion, while I'm stuck with nights where it's just easier to forget.

[/size][/blockquote]

somebody come and save me from this
make it end[/font][/size]