Krisondra Queens -- Distrct 3 [DONE]

[chelsey]

Name:
Age:
Gender: Female
District/Area: District 3
Appearance:

Personality:

OCCUPATION? PROSTITUTE. AND IDGAF BETCH.

History:

SOLD AS A SEX SLAVE TO THE MAN DOWN THE STREET BY MY DAD. PSH NO HARD FEELINGS.

Codeword:
Comments/Other:

so I just fiinished a bio and I'm starting another one. w00p

[chelsey]

the enslaved seductress.

f i r s t a n d l a s t // Krisondra Queens

t h e f o r e v e r y o u n g // eighteen

s w e e t s u m m e r k i s s e s // female

t h e c l i e n t ' s b e d // District 3

t h e m e s o n g // The A Team by Ed Sheeran

f a c e c l a i m // Haley Bennet

t h e p l o t // Rags To Riches

t h e a b u s e d s k i n

a p p e a r a n c e

We spend half of our lives wishing we could grow up, and the other half wishing we had never grown up at all. Innocence is something so beautiful and pure and granted to each and every individual, and yet, something so unwanted at the same time. For some unspoken reason, we all crave for knowledge - for an access of unlocking all that is known to the universe. Every single secret and puzzle that hides itself in the shadows and crevices of the entire cosmos must be deciphered. It’s human nature, the will - the ultimate desire - to know everything. We dive head first into an ocean of wisdom, our own damned curiosity weighing us down beneath the pull of the waves, until we’ve sunk to the bottom of the seas - drowning in unveiled mysteries we once so desperately sought.

I am drowning.

From the very beginning, I have always been told that I was beautiful. Beautiful, the men with greedy eyes and eager hands told me, simply beautiful. My father once said, “You’re a piece of art, Kris.” The simple statement fed my self esteem, watered the confidence I so desperately needed. I looked into the mirror, and I saw what everyone else told me they saw. “Art,” daddy told me, “You are art.”

I became a painting, delicate porcelain skin brushed by the careful hands of a painter, several different shades of white and peach combined to perfect my skin tone, several different shades of golden yellow and emerald green to perfect the light in my eyes. I became a sculpture, crafted by the rough hands of a sculptor, hours spent to mold the round curves of my waist or the slender tips of my finger. I became art, and, soon after, I also became property.

Daddy sold his art to the man down the street, “All great artists have to make a living, sweetie.” I didn’t like the way the man looked me - like he owned me - the only problem was that, he did, in fact, own me. The first night with the man who would become my slave owner was horrific. “You are art, Krisondra.” Daddy’s words rung in my ears. “Art.”

“Art,” I repeated to myself as he pressed gentle kisses to the feather light skin of my temple while his hands ran wonders down the cracks of my spine, almost as if to convince myself of my own worth. The man whispered soft chants into my ear, “You’re beautiful, Krisondra, you’re so, so, so beautiful.” And I looked into the mirror, but I could no longer see what he saw. The once soft curls of my glistening mass of blonde hair lay in a wild frenzy resting near my waist, where it had grown matted and knotted and untamed. My eyes no longer fluttered open with daydreams and naive fairy tales bouncing off the length of my lashes, they opened in fear of witnessing the monster that kept me captive, and they always wish they had kept them closed. The skin clung to my bones like burnt paper, bruised with dark shades of purple and black until the pure white of my youth could no longer be found. Ribs pressed against my chest, a ghost’s skeletal fingers pounding on the internal walls of my body - pounding and pounding and pounding until I was broken and no longer useful. I cut my hair, my skin, my stomach, my legs, my arms until I was snipped into little broken pieces all under the power of the edge of a knife. “Tell me, am I still beautiful? Am I beautiful?” “You’re beautiful, Krisondra, you’re so, so, so beautiful,”

[/i] I was beautiful - until the day that I wasn’t.

“And who told you that you could ever be beautiful, princess?”[/justify][/blockquote][/blockquote]

t h e b i t t e r k i s s e s

p e r s o n a l i t y

Mama used to tell me I was her diamond. I was priceless, to her, I was her gem, her jewel - her precious treasure sent from heaven above. "And don't you ever dare to forget it, sweetie,"

[/i] She'd say right before bed time, kissing me softly on my forehead and pulling the covers to my chin. I'm sorry, Mama, so sorry for forgetting my own value, for losing my worth. I'm so sorry.[/s][/color]

If I could put a price on myself now, Mama would shake her head and tsk. "You're worth so much more than that, Kris, so much more." But, I know better. Good people are the ones who hold the true value - the ones who are the diamonds, the gems, the jewels, the treasures sent from above.

I am worth nothing.

I am not good, I am not kind, I am not admirable, I am not pure.[/b] And if men knew this, would they still gift me their money, still invite me to their beds? No, my worth doesn't even belong to stand among those of the good - because I am cruel, bitter, and a hollow being of my former self. My price? Buying me would not be worth a single of your pennies. I am filth on the streets - dirt cheap, and easy money. "Whore!" Will other bastards, just as unholy as us, scream at me on the streets. "As if you were any different from the rest of us?"[/s] Prostitutes are the scum of the earth - they contaminate our air, petrify the lands. Prostitutes - [/color]"Only ten dollars for the night." - are, in truth, worth nothing.

Contrary to popular belief, prostitution is not a goddamn "career," not a fucking "hobbie," not a "lifestyle" that any of us willingly chose. We do what we do in order to survive, and yet, what we do the most also destroys us the most. This is desperation at it's finest. I am desperate, I am hopeless, I am futile. But, most of all, I am so, so, so sorry for forgetting my own worth, Mama worthless.

If I could fly back to my days where kisses did not hurt, and when caresses did not sting - I would chain myself to the past and never allow myself to move forward. I pray for days where I am submerged in the bliss that comes from ignorance, to dive head first in the purity of the sunlight and the crisp taste to the air - and to not drown in my own knowledge. I've seen too many things, felt the blow of heartache and the burn from anger. How do I unsee the things I've seen, unhear the things I've heard, undo the things I've done? Because I'd kill to wash down my eyes and my skin - scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing at my skin until my flesh blisters under the bite of a sponge and opens new but painless wounds from the bristles of a brush[/i] - to plunge myself under the soapy surface of a bath and [/color]forget the things I know. I'd kill to just be clean again.

But, what good will mourning over my own innocence do? It'd kill me. Because the poor and petty do not survive in this world, sometimes even the good and just fail to do so. It's those who are callous, merciless, and heartless that make it through life okay - who make it to the top successful. Life - it's all just a cruel game where we trample upon the innocent and destroy the honest.

It's about time I beat them at their own game.[/i][/color][/justify][/blockquote][/blockquote]

t h e r e m a i n s o f i n n o c e n c e

h i s t o r y

I've always been daddy's little girl.

Mama used to tell me how much Daddy adored me, how much he loved me, how he'd stand in between me and a bullet. "He'd do anything for you, sweetheart," She told me. "Absolutely anything."

Mama died, one day.

Daddy never let me see her when she was sick. He locked her up in her room, like she was a goddamn prisoner. On those days, Daddy stayed in her room from the minute the sun rose to the second the moon came out. I could imagine him, his disheveled hair and budding beard slightly glowing from the light that peeked in between the closed blinds. He'd have a half empty beer in his left hand, and Mama's hand in his other. He'd stare at her, as if staring could heal, but she would look away - at the wall, at the window, at the itchy blankets - anywhere but him. The pain on his face would be unbearable for her. I'd wait outside the door, cradling a doll in my arms, and hugging it closer to my chest when the darkness began to roll in to the house. Sometimes I'd sing to Mama, even though I knew she couldn't hear me through the thick walls of our house, but I'd like to think it'd bring a smile to her and Daddy's face. As if the innocent chastity of my voice could heal her, wash away her disease and mend Daddy's broken heart. If it did, I never got the chance to know, Daddy never acknowledged it once he stepped out the room. He never acknowledged me.

[/i] When he stepped outside of Mama's room, gently closing the bedroom door, he'd step over me as if I were no more than the doll I clutched in my arms. "Maybe some sunlight would help her, Daddy?" I'd ask him quietly as he moved down the hallways. "She's going to be okay, Daddy, she's going to be okay. She has to be okay."

The day she died, something snapped inside of him. It was like witnessing the aftermath of an earthquake or a tsunami. Destroyed. Everything was destroyed.[/i][/color] Only this time, I had no idea how to patch him back up again.

Daddy used to tell me that I looked a lot like Mama, something about the spark in her eyes or the way we walked. It made him happy at the time, and I remember him bending down to kiss my cheeks and raise him up into his arms, until I was tall, tall, tall[/i] - so tall that nothing could ever touch me, [/color]no one could ever hurt me.[/i] Funny how the thing that made him happiest also became the thing that forced him to send me away.

I was six when Mama died. I was sixteen when Daddy sold me to the man who lived down the street.

"It's survival of the fittest, sweetheart." He told me as I was dragged out the front door of my only home. I clawed at the man who wrapped his arms around me, who pulled me over the threshold of the doorway. Did Daddy notice? Did Daddy care for his little girl? No. His head was bent down over the wad of bills the man presented him, his lips silently moving in a mantra to count my worth.

He didn't even look at me, he didn't even tell me goodbye.

I lasted a month until I could no longer bare being touched, until I could no longer stand being kissed, until the ache between my legs proved to be too painful, until the throb in my weakening heart pounded at the cage of my ribs, until I was sure I would break. Until I was "No longer beautiful, don't know why I wasted my money on a piece of crap like you. Get out of my sight, Krisondra." Escaping was easy, my master the man stopped to care to look after me. All it took was one of his empty beer bottles to shatter the window in my dungeon room and I was free.

Though, no one's ever truly free, now are they?

I signed the Rags to Riches contract when I was half way dead, a mere skeleton wandering the streets of the city. I had a bed, I had food, I had a home where I would not be threatened. Though, how ironic was it that when my lifeline balance began to dwindle away into the hundreds that Magnus held a gun to my head and told me "Only the fittest survive out in this world, sweetie, and so far, you're not off to a very good start."[/s][/i] His words rang in my ears, and I was brought back to the day that my own father sold me for his survival. And, suddenly, I became just like my father.

[/color]I sold my body.

And I have hated myself everyday for it.

Those men who buy me know nothing. They know nothing of struggle, of despair, of strife, of worth. Don't they know that they're making love to someone who's already dead?

I visited my mother's grave, once. A lonely tombstone sitting on the top of a barren hill. Here lies the remains of Emma Queens, beloved wife, mother, and friend. She would have shook her head if she saw how I wept that day. It never hurt to be alive so much, before, when what seemed to be the only thing pure and good was dead. "I'm sorry, Mama," I cried, hoping she could hear me between the layers of earth that separated us. "So sorry." What I failed to notice was the tombstone lying next to her. Here lies David Queens, cherished father and husband.

Apparently, he wasted the price that man paid on alcohol, wasting away in our old home. When I asked old neighbors about it on the way down (who were too blind to realize that I was his daughter), they told me he was found dead in one of the closets, a rope around his neck. I must've shed thousands of rainstorms for my mother - and yet, not one tear was shed for him.

What ever happened to survival of the fittest, daddy?[/justify][/blockquote][/blockquote]

c o d e w o r d

odair

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

grammar mistakes are probably in there, sorryyyyyy for being too lazy to read over it

NORMAL // 664433
EMPHASIS // 996644
SPEECH // DDAA99
THOUGHTS // DDBB99
HEADINGS // AA8866 and 884433

[/size]

it's too cold outside
for angels to fly

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[chelsey]

OMG DONE FINALLY YES

[d10f ekta ram // [earthling]]

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ACCEPTED!