Re: LYANA GORAVICH ✿ THREE
Aug 28, 2012 3:38:08 GMT -5
Post by ✨ on Aug 28, 2012 3:38:08 GMT -5
lyana mariposa goravich
three
2/5
✿
When you try your best, but you don't succeed
When you get what you want, but not what you need
When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep
Stuck in reverse
Could it be worse?
"Oh, little dove, how far you’ll fly
When you sprout your wings.
Oh, little dove, how far you’ll fly
When you realise life’s wondrous things.”
The song is silly, filled with no purpose – but she sings it regardless. Quietly, just quietly – so no-one else in the house can hear her. Softly, through little pink lips chewed down through years of frustrated nibbling, the words fill the room up and billow out of the half-opened windows she pulled up with little hands like smoke from a fireplace, or steam from a shower. She only dares to sing alone, when she is at peace with herself. The words in this song flow perfectly through her head, not once tripping over a miss-matched syllable or stumbling over back-to-front letters that flip themselves over, teasing her like the kids in her class that giggle as she crashes over the stupid little lines.
"Don’t – you – dare – laugh – at – me!" she yells as each bark of her voice follows another slam of her fist into the boy’s arms, face, anywhere she can reach. She’s 6 years old, temper as fiery as her hair that billows down the back of her head and swishes around a glaring expression, brown eyes screwed up as she yells, screams, and unleashes on this boy who’d laughed at her for slipping down the pages of the book she tried to read aloud in class.
"Lyana! Lyana, don’t!" Marina cries amongst a chorus of bewilderment of the kids who crowd around the girl and her victim – but the red-head ignores her sister. Lyana wants nothing more than to be the smartest Quint – like Klaus, who sits under a nearby tree happily huddled in a book, not paying any attention to his sister’s uprising at all – having no trouble whatsoever skimming over the letters. It’s so easy for him, so simple. Why could nothing be easy for her? The other quints are smarter, stronger, prettier, kinder. Lynna is the ugly duckling of stories, the useless one. Good-for-nothing idiot who can’t even read.
Her childhood was spent watching Jamar do exactly the same to kids who teased him, so why was this any different? Why should Jamar be allowed to slip out of trouble for all those years as he sought revenge, and she not? The boy becomes the source of her frustration, pent-up anger billowing out of her clenched fingers until her arms ache, begging for the muddled jumble that is her head to go away, go away, go away. Only until Hopper wrestles her off of the poor, bleeding boy and drags her off, kicking and screaming, do the sobs begin to escape.
"He laughed at me, Hop" she croaks in the privacy of her brother’s company."Coz I can’t... I can’t..."
She couldn’t bear to let her secret slip into the minds of others, not even to her big brother.
"Don’t need them, Lee" he replies quietly. "They won’t bother you anymore, after that. Fighters don’t need to read."
Fighters don’t need to read, but 6 year olds do.
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It is quiet, in her old home. Half the house packed away in cardboard boxes to be whistled up to the Victors Village. She grew up without her mother, but that was never strange to Lyana, because she’s always been good at being independent. [/color]Good at standing up for herself, good at surviving in a pool of four other versions of herself. Refusing to be ignored, refusing to be pushed aside. Even now, as she glides slowly across the polished floors of the home she grew up in, tiptoeing across the shiny surface with freezing pale toes, memories fill up the empty spaces in the rooms and in her head. Hands trace the spines of books that Klaus loves dearly (The Hostiry of anemP, Stores from strict ThreeDi, Camera Taps ind Tracks) and the dust that collects on their shelves.
She feels like a water lily floating ever-so gently down a little stream. Small, quiet – making its way as it pleases. Eighteen years of tears and laughter, arguments and hugs, have all taken place within these walls. The spaces between each hidden pillar hardly speak now, if not for a placid drip of a tap in the bathroom every so often, or a creak of a rusting door hinge. Lyana is infamous for her constant, stubborn ramble, but even in this moment she feels as if by breaking the tender silence, something else will shatter entirely. Memories turn into gold when a fifth of you is missing. It has all been so surreal, these past few weeks – or has it been months? – since her brother’s victory. Time seems almost insignificant now. Everything seems insignificant. It always had. Nothing else mattered apart from herself and her constant struggle to fight her trickster eyesight. Everyone else came second, or not even that. But when Klaus’ name was called, the whole house turned upside down. Suddenly, reading didn’t matter. Letters didn’t matter. Numbers and pages and equations didn’t matter. Lyana being the best did not matter anymore – Klaus being the best did.So they watched, in this very living room, and recorded it for him as Klaus had wished - his idle fate with death. Each day turned into a month with each tense moment as a blade slashed at him, or as a figure crept closer towards his location. The 61st Games drained her and her siblings to the core, and the red-headed quintuplet was far too tired to fall asleep.
If she wasn’t carrying a nasty temper already, perhaps she wouldn’t have lashed out at her siblings quite as much. Every question directed towards her or plea for her opinion turned into a slamming of doors, and the mere mention of Klaus sent her hurling insults at every person she could see. Now, stepping quietly past each door with dainty steps, her light blue eyes scan the brass knobs, representing each sibling. Hopper, Klaus, Jamarion, Lyana, Marina, Tacara. Had there been nameplates hung on the doors too, then the learning process would have been a whole new challenge to overcome. Another battle with squiggly lines and broken syllables – she can barely manage to spell her own name right, let alone 5 others. But only now, coming to the end of her thinking process, does she notice the spare wooden frame at the end of the corridor – pointed chin tilting upwards as thin brows furrow questionably. The family had always used the room for storage and such, just being the “junk” room. But what if it had been intended for someone else?
And she imagines, for a moment, another sibling. A sister, perhaps - with red locks like her so she wouldn't get teased as much ("You hair is funny" "Your face is funny!")[/i]. Perhaps she would be like her, with a muddled up mind - struggling to read the names of the tributes left that your brother has to kill before he is crowned [/color]
"Klaus!"she barks, shoving the book he was contently reading out from under his nose. "Hey wh-"
The poor kid barely has time to react before another book is shoved in his face - this time a workbook, blank if not for the curly 'Homewokr' sketched into the top-left corner in fancy letters. "Do my work," she commands, "or I'll get Jar to beat you up."
As he hesitates, she slams her hands down on the table surface and leans forward. "Do it! And if Jar won't hurt you, I'll do it, ok?" A scowling glare is all it takes for the boy to sigh, picking up a pencil as he starts to complete his sister's threatening ultimatum. A smug smile blossoms on her face - she still had it in her. Who needs stupidbrain-cellshomework when you have your own genius at home?
Another gold star was placed in the Goravich sister's book the next day. She'd shine, no-matter who she had to hurt.
She has only really come here to pick up her paints, after all. [/color]Everything seems a dream to her, and she needs a reminder that life goes on - it is not over yet. It never really will be, with a brother as a victor. Even after their final reaping, and Klaus is whisked away from them again to 'mentor' two more poor, lost souls; it will still be interview after interview, photo after photo. Her hair still shines and her skin is light with make-up from this morning's badgering questions, pale blue fabric of her dress shimmering in the sunlight that spills into her almost-empty room.
("Are you excited to see your brother again?" "Which sister are you?" "Do you think you all look alike?" "So, tell us, who was born first?" "What did you think of this year's arena/tributes/twists/alliances?" "How close are you all?" "I....." The questions become too much, too overwhelming, twisting into the silly letters in her head that don't quite match up. "I like painting" she barks to the camera, the only thing about herself that she is sure of)[/i]. [/blockquote]
Clasping the wooden box in her hands, she traces the edges slowly. Lyana - Don't Tuch etched into the material by shaky, inexperienced, ten-year-old fingers that would much rather be holding a paintbrush than a nail. Someone else had offered to do it for her - but no, little Lyana was determined as ever to be independent. [/color]Painting was her thing, this was her box - she'd do it herself. She knows every name of every shade of every colour in this box, and exactly where they should lie. Klaus once told a story of a man who carried his soul around in a suitcase, and it made her think of this box. Klaus' sister smiles, adding her own light into the room, and carries the box out of the room, down the hallway, and off to her new home. She is a girl with a paint-box soul, and for now, dyslexia can hide away in the shadows.
But if you never try you'll never know
Just what you're worth
Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you
Just what you're worth
Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you
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