Darcy Byrd -- District 6 [FINISHED]

[chelsey]

Name: Darcy Byrd
Age: 19
Gender: Male
District/Area: District 6
Appearance:

Personality:

WHO DOESN'T LOVE AN OPTIMIST?

History:

RAISED BY HIS GRANDMA WITH HIS THREE LITTLE BROTHERS BECAUSE HIS PARENTS GOT KILLED BY CRAZY PSYCHO SERIAL KILLERS . NBD.

Codeword: 0d@1r
Comments/Other:

fc - julian morris. kayoooot.
theme song - dreams awake by lee koch

[chelsey]

the flightless bird.

f i r s t a n d l a s t // Darcy Byrd

t h e c o u n t d o w n // nineteen

f r o m s o n t o f a t h e r // male

h o m e s w e e t h o m e // District 6

t h e m e s o n g // Dreams Awake by Lee Koch

f a c e c l a i m // Mathias Lauridsen

t h e v i b r a n t f e a t h e r s

a p p e a r a n c e

He smiles a lot.

He smiles as if nothing has ever gone wrong, as if nothing will ever go wrong. He smiles with his lips pulled up at the edges, and a dimple in his right cheek - that's when I know he's sincere, when I know he's actually, genuinely, happy, when I know he isn't trying to be strong for us. He's always strong for us. But, it's those smiles that begin with a quivering lip and end with a slight curve do I know he's lying. Grandma tells me lying is bad, and that any one of us who does choose to do so, will have the liar spanked out of us. "Lying is a sin." She always tells us, usually in her rocking chair by the fireplace, a tiny book in her wrinkled hands - with the worn, gold tinted letters that spell out the word BIBLE barely visible on the cover. "And sinners go to hell." But, Darcy's not going to hell. I'm sure that even an unjust God which, I know for a fact that He is unjust, because what "just" God would let bad things happen to so many good people? would not condemn my brother to a fiery pit of endless torture. Even an unjust God could see past Darcy's blunt lie that plays across his lips, and see that his lie isn't the kind of lie that sinners do, but the good kind. Is there even such a thing as a good lie? Because, Darcy never lies for the benefit of himself, like all other sinners, Darcy lies for the benefit of us.

Old photographs of my parents hang around the creaking house, the faded pictures clinging to the peeling wallpaper that's clamped against Grandma's old walls. They're like ghosts to me. I can't see them, but I know they're there. Their frozen eyes, whose vision is forever captured and imprisoned behind the glass of the frame, follow me wherever I go. They witness my faults, take sight of my success, spectate my entire life through the flimsy surface of a photo. Sometimes, unconsciously, I catch myself staring at these strangers pinned to the wall - absorbing how much Darcy looks like our dad. Their fair complexion, their tufts of soft brown hair falling over their heads in tiny waves, their broad shoulders, their wide smiles. If it wasn't for the age and eyes, an outsider could've passed them off as twins.

Asides from preaching, Grandma tells me that Darcy has my mother's eyes. She tells me that my mother had intensely warm, brown irises that melted the heart of my father, as if the intensity in those amber orbs ignited a spark fire between the two of them - a love so strong that it never ended up until the very day they died. My memory, however, seems to be erased of such a pair of eyes - sometimes, I catch glimpses of it through foggy memories, those warm brown irises staring at me with love and compassion. Although, I'm never sure if this is my mother or just Darcy.

Ronald, however, always argues with Grandma on this particular point. He's the only other one of all three of us (excluding Darcy) that remembers Mom and Dad. "Grandma, you're obviously losing your memory. Mom's eyes were hazel, not brown." "Ronald! Your mother would disapprove of such disrespectful behavior towards an elder, why don't you get rid of that attitude of yours -" "How would you know what she approves of and what she disapproves of?! Why does it even matter, she's dead now! She's dead, stop trying to bring the dead back to life -"

[/i] The conversation would usually end with either Ronald throwing an insult at her Bible, or Darcy intervening.

Sometimes, I would wake up at night to the sound of Ronald screaming, begging for our mother to run. Rowan, who sleeps in the bed opposite to me, never wakes up - or, at least, doesn't show it. Instead, he'd always leave me to fend off Ronald's cries for myself. I'd stuff my head behind the weight of my pillow, so desperately trying to drown out the sound of his nightmare, until I could hear Darcy's footsteps behind my door. Soon, Darcy's soothing voice would flow beneath the crack of my closed bedroom door as Ronald's muffled cries echoed through the dark house. "Shhh, Ron, it's gonna be okay. We're gonna be okay." "She's gone, Darcy, she's gone." "I know, I know, but everything will be alright -" "You always say everything will be alright, but it's not alright - " "Shhhh - " "It's not! It never is, and it never will be!" "It will be, I promise." Agonizing weeps would fill every nook and cranny in the house - and I was never exactly sure if Darcy was crying too, but - eventually, it'd fade into silence. But, every time, one question would always hang in the air, always answered with the same response, before the house could ever return to a mute peace again.

"Darcy? Are you still awake?" "I'm right here, buddy."

". . . Is she ever coming back?"

". . . No, Ron. No, she's not."[/justify][/blockquote]

b e n e a t h t h e p l u m e

p e r s o n a l i t y

There's that saying that you have to learn how to walk before you can run. I'm more than positive that Darcy had to learn how to run, first.

And there he runs, jumping over obstacles and veering off dangerous paths and paving smoother roads - all the while hauling the rest of us right behind him. Aren't you tired Darcy? Aren't you tired?

[/i] He's ran with for us for seven years now he was twelve when our parents died, and he hasn't even slowed down one bit, since then. Why doesn't he stop? Why doesn't he stop trying to get us to move on, why does he keep pushing us forward - forward to what? Or is he really tired himself? Is his legs, lungs, heart begging him to stop for the sake of their well beings, but - [/color]for the love of God - he won't stop. Is he really running for us, or is he just trying to escape the clutches of whatever may hold him back?

Or, maybe, he is held back. Maybe some awful memory strikes him in every nerve beneath that pummeled flesh of his, and he's oh so desperately trying to escape. Maybe he doesn't even want to run for us. Maybe everything he's ever told us is a lie. Maybe he's crying for a way out, crying for a rescue, crying for refuge, crying for someone to run for him. Who'll run for my brother?

Where is my brother heading? Does he run towards the light of the vibrant Sun, or will his tears catch up to him and drown him with it? Will he emerge from the ashes of our heartless existence, rise out of the chaos and destruction that has become our daily routines? Or will he fall, fall, fall just like the fate of our late parents?

And if he falls, do we all fall, too?

Grandma says that there’s only so much weight an object could bear. That, eventually, it’ll have to crumble under the heavy load it carries. “Its only logic, dear. Its called gravity.” But, gravity has not striked my brother with his oppressive hand just yet. No, my brother defies gravity and flies within and through the crisp air of the atmosphere. He twirls infinity signs into the glowing orange embers of a sunset filled sky, promising - always promising - that things will be better, and that, when they are, it will be forever. Promises mean nothing when they are renewed over and over again without any fulfillment, but the way Darcy speaks, the way he swears on his life and the way his eyes stare out into the blazing sky, searching - always searching - for that better life for us makes me patiently wait for this promise to come true. He searches through the atmosphere as if that life hid behind the clouds or the setting sun or even beyond the red and orange sky, and, if only we digged deeper, we’d find it. “I promise, Rupert, I promise.”

But, the clouds never part to reveal that life waiting on the other side. The clouds rain down on us, slashing through our weathered skin with mighty rainstorms, sickening thunder, and clashing lightning. It rages above us, over us, in us. It hollows out our empty souls, until we are so light that we, too, can defy gravity - until we too can no longer feel the pain. It’s more than that, though. The pain is always there, and it never will leave us.

But, Darcy always stands strong, always faces the storms of hail, sleet, and snow with a smile plastered on his face. “Always the optimist, Darcy certainly is.” Grandma says. “Why can’t you boys be more like him?” Ronald’ll grunt, Rowan will silently trudge out of the room, and I’ll wonder why exactly we aren’t like him? Why can’t we boys be more like Darcy? How can we be more like Darcy? How does Darcy even be Darcy?[/i][/color] How does he act as if he knows everything will be perfectly fine when everything obviously isn’t? How is he so strong for all of us, but hardly for himself? How can he smile while we all suffer? He suffers, too - I know it for a fact. Why won’t he just allow himself to be weak for once for the tiniest of moments? Why won’t he reveal to us who he truly is on the inside?

Maybe Darcy hates us. Maybe he detests the sight of us because we remind him of his lost hopes and faded dreams. Maybe he wishes that we’ll suffer the same life of responsibility that he suffers now. Maybe he curses the day we were born, the day his sorry fate was sealed. Maybe he wants to run, run, run away from us, from home - run back to places where dreams are not lost and parents do not die.

But he won’t run away from us, because he knows that he’s still on the track of running for us.

Doesn’t he know by now, though, that we can never learn to run on our own if we’re never taught? It’s what they say, isn’t it? You have to learn how to walk before you can run.

"I'm not tired, Rupert." He'll answer me after I prompt him with many questions, usually after his work shift or during breakfast after another sleepless night dealing with Rowan's nightmares. "You can stop worrying about me, now."

"But you are." I want to tell him, shout at him, accuse him. "You are tired, I can see it in the way your eyes stare without seeing, and the way your presence droops with effort of exertion. You're tired, Darcy. You're tired of pretending to be happy when we all know you're not. You're tired of picking up the fragments of our broken lives while your own life is more shattered than all the rest of ours. You're tired of remembering Mom and Dad, you're tired of doing their job for them, for us. You're tired of realizing that you're so young, but so old. You're so, so, so tired Darcy. Stop running our races."

But, instead, the words get caught in my throat - like bugs on a spider's web - and they stick to the insides of my mouth like cotton, and force the words back down, until they're all flushed and forgotten, and all I can muster out is a tiny and pathetic, "Okay."[/justify][/blockquote]

o u t o f t h e n e s t

h i s t o r y

My brother could've been something.

He could've been something great. He could've made a difference in the world. He could've been whatever he wanted to be - a doctor, a lawyer, a teacher, an engineer.

But, instead, he chose to be our father.

Darcy was twelve years old the day our parents died. Ronald was eight. Rowan was six. I was three. Other kids lost their parents that day, too. Some mothers, like Grandma, lost their daughters and their sons. Some husbands lost their wives, and some wives lost their husbands. But, some were not as lucky as us.

They always tell me that I'm too young to understand. "You're only ten, Rupert, you don't need to know now. I'm sure you don't even want to know, now." Too young, they say, too young to understand that my parents didn't just "die," they were murdered.

There are few things I hate about myself.

One, the splash of freckles on my face that almost make me just seem like an ungodly shade of light orange.

Two, the fact that my ears don't wiggle at the tips like Rowan's, and how, no matter how hard I try to make them, they just won't.

Three, the only thing I remember about my parents isn't them singing me lullabies or reading me bed time stories or pushing me on a swing in the park or treating me and my brothers out to ice cream - but it is their blood curdling screams begging for us to run, and me watching from the corner of their bedrooms as those screams are mercilessly silenced.

I used to sleep in my parent's bedroom. A small, make-shift crib dully sitting by one of their dusty walls. I don't remember it. But I do remember the view that came with it. Small pillars of wood supported the outside of the crib, like a fence surrounding whatever was kept inside. My parents were never more than a few feet away from me, with their own sleeping figures entwined together like two coils of wire, slumber dragging around them over their stiff mattress. A window sat to the left of their bed, and from the window, I could see beyond the points of my two unconscious parents. I could see the stars gathering around in clusters against the black night. I could see the moon glowing towards me, soft tips of light unfurling through the glass window. I could see the yellow eyes of an owl that hooed, hooed, hooed the whole night through. I could see the shadows of the murderers who came to kill for fun.

Maybe I ought've had cried then. I should've given a loud welp to stir my parents awake, a flood of tears to force them to get up. They could've stood a chance, then.

The view doesn't stop there, though.

It extends to the point where the door slowly creaks open, to when the dark masses of shadows swiftly enter the room and tiptoe to the sides of our parent's bed. It goes on to when the shadows violently shake my father awake, and force him to empty out his wallet until there's not even a single penny left. It goes on to when they force my parents down to their knees, hands raised above their heads, my mother's sobs ringing through the house. It goes on to when Darcy calls out for our mom - "Mama? Mama, what's happening? Where are you?" - only for our dad to shout back to him to stay where he is, to stay out of the room - "Darcy! Don't come here, do you understand, don't come in here -" It goes on to when my father is knocked unconscious by the handle of one of the guns meeting his temple. It goes on to when my mother's screaming and crying and begging for them to have mercy on us - "Please, please, you can't do this, don't do this." It goes on to when the clusters of stars begin not look so bright, when the moon doesn't glow anymore, when the owl flies away, when the shadows are given a voice - "That's where you're wrong. I can do this. And I will." It goes on, and on, and on, and on. . .

But it ends with two gunshots echoing in the dead of night.

I don't know how I made it out alive. I don't know how any of us made it out alive. I think I remember Darcy's arms reaching for me to pull me out of my dark cage crib, and the wind slicing through our hair as we ran, and ran, and ran away from the only home we've ever known. Later on, I learned that the house was burned down, along with all the other victim's houses. The murderers were caught, and hung by peacekeepers at the town square. We were orphans, along with many other children of our age. Other men and woman were widows, and parents like Grandma were just heartless, fragile beings who would never be called "Mom" or "Dad" again. We were sent to live with Grandma, and she welcomed us with open arms but something was never right with her again, something was always missing, the empty look in her eyes would never leave, the hollow sound in her strict voice would never soften, she would never be the same again, either. But, she was broken, just like the rest of us.

Darcy raised us more than Grandma did, he raised us with the amount of love that our parents would've given us - probably even more. He watched us grow and we watched him turn into a adult during the times he still should've been a kid. He was an old, wise man trapped in the body of a twelve year old.

There are still nights when Ronald wakes up screaming from his nightmares. There are still days when Rowan won't speak for an entire day because he has lost the will to do so. There are still moments when I'm left cold and shuddering from the sudden rush of memories of that night. But, Darcy is always there in the end - his smiles are there to comfort us, his arms are there to protect us, and his promises are there to reassure us. "Things will be better soon, Rupert. They will be, I promise."

But no one is ever there for him.

c o d e w o r d

O-DAIR

c o m m e n t s a n d c o n c e r n s

I'm not even bothering to check for typos, so my apologies if there are some...

NORMAL // BBBBCC
EMPHASIS // 555555
SPEECH // 777777
HEADINGS // 9999AA and 777788

[/size]

so brothers, sisters let us march
let us show the world our hearts

[/I][/center][/size]

[chelsey]

THIS IS DONE. FINALLY. W00T.

[pika]

Oh my god Chelsey you flawless creature. Can I RP with this boy, please. Kthx. He's perfect. So are you. I cried. The end.