Blanche Derilium | District 3 [done]

Blanche Derilium | District 3 [done] Feb 18, 2012 0:33:11 GMT -5

Post by chelsey on Feb 18, 2012 0:33:11 GMT -5

the misunderstood.

( f i r s t a n d l a s t ) // blanche derilium (blonsh duh-ril-yuhm)

( c o u n t a n o t h e r y e a r ) // sixteen

( t h e h o r m o n a l i m b a l a n c e d ) // female

( h o m e s w e e t h o m e ) // district 3

( t h e m e s o n g ) // mermaid, regina spektor

( f a c e c l a i m ) // katie fogarty

d i s t o r t e d v i s i o n

Sleep well, love?

Goosebumps trail Blanche’s ghostly arms, and her hands reach out for a blanket, a sheet, a cover, anything

[/I] to shield her away from the voice that haunted her. Instead of finding the warm sheets, she is coldly embraced by the speaker’s haunting arms. She shudders in it’s freezing clutch, shrinking into a fetal position as the speaker suffocates her with it’s oppressive weight. Blanche sinks into the stiff mattress, her surroundings crumbling in on her as she gasps for air, her thin hand reaching out for the moon light that smiles through her bed room window.

[/color]”Please,” She whimpered desperately, trying hard to keep what little oxygen was left inside of her.

I can’t hear you, darling.

In a futile attempt to grasp the smallest hold of reality and setting that apart from fantasy, she opened her eyes in a jolting start - a shrilling scream climbing out from her lips. The instant where she gained her vision, again, the weight was lifted off - as if it was never there to begin with.

It was never there to begin with.[/I]

Tears trickled down from her eyes as she lay still on her bed, helpless and hopeless. Her body ached and she was sure that this time, there must’ve been bruises. Bruises were good. Bruises were evidence. [/color]Bruises could prove that there was someone - something - out there. There had to be, right?

Limping with pain, she struggled to reach the mirror on the opposite end of her bedroom. The carpet was cold and scratched at her bare feet - but still, she sought evidence.

Her grey eyes were wild and distraught, her blonde hair in a disarray. Her body weak and trembling, skinny as a stick, and it seemed that her wobbling knees couldn’t support the rest of her weight. Streaks of tears ran down her high cheek bones, some dripping at the edge of her chin. She brushed her ghostly lips with her lanky fingers, pinching them as if a pinch could bring color back into them. This didn’t alarm her - this is how she appears most of the time. This is the form she sees herself in most of the time, the form how everyone usually describes her as. This is her - truly her. She is not beautiful, she is not charming, she is not enchanting. No, Blanche Derilium is as ghostly as the voices that haunt her.

Finally, she peels her gaze from her reflection to her skin. There surely are bruises this time. She says to herself, her long fingers poking at her aching body. Her arms - her arms are covered in budding goose bumps and fresh scars bleeding at her wrists. But this is normal, this is real - this is expected. She’s seen this before, these scars a thin line between imagination and reality. After all, she did them to herself.

But these scars aren’t what catch her attention. Blanche’s body is bathed in purple and blue spots, and, at the sight of them, she collapses to the ground - shrieking at the realization of the pain that enveloped her body. She was blanketed in bruises. But bruises were good, right? Bruises were evidence. Why was she shrieking?

The bruises were bubbling.

Bubbling as if the blood underneath was boiling, ready to burst and emerge into the surface. And then she heard it - the first pop! She was bursting.

Blood cloaked her carpeted floors and drenched her sweaty clothing. Her screams echoed into her parents’ ears, and in they came, out of breath from running down the hall - eyes wide and tired but bizarre, as if they’ve seen this all before.

They switched the light on, and it flickered before ridding the room of darkness. There, they beheld their daughter screaming and crying and writhing on her bedroom floor - completely unscathed.[/justify][/blockquote]

b e h i n d t h e h a z e l e y e s

Demonic. Demented. Distressed.

As a Derilium, you'd think that all these "d" characteristics would be considered normal. But, this is Blanche Derilium. She is anything but normal.

Daily life proves to be a daily strife as long as the voice shadows each and every move of her's. It's a man vs the supernatural battle - and Blanche must stand on her own to fight against her own demons.

The voice doesn't have a name. Every time Blanche would ask for it, it'd laugh and fade into the dark, only to come back again with, yet, another defiant proposition.

It's hard trying to discover who exactly she is when this voice always tells her otherwise. And, it's even harder for people to discover who she is when her actions prove her unpredictable. When this voice always leads her away from reality. But, there are, at least, few things that she does understand about herself.

Her favorite color is blue - blue because the sky seems to stretch out with this vast color and staring into it can almost seem like she's escaping the world here. A smile is rare to come across Blanche - even the fake smiles. But when she does smile it's the most genuine and heart felt action she could ever produce. She prefers showers over baths. Baths give the voice a screaming opportunity to pull her under the soapy surface, and Blanche will not know how long it'll take for her to ever emerge again. And, lastly, singing helps.

Blanche does not sing good, in fact, far from good. Her voice cannot maintain a steady beat, nor does it hit all the right notes. Through other's ears, it sounds silly and rough. But, through her own, it proves as a solution to save herself. As long as her own voice sings, the others will not come.

The demented blonde has no companions - no support, no pillar, no fort, no nothing to protect her from the harshness of her world. She comes off too weird, too quiet, too abnormal to gain the smallest of friends. Even her own parent's have partially given up on her, their attempts at convincing her that - "There's nothing there, Blanche! There's nothing there!" - the voice isn't real become fruitless.

But, how can they not believe her? Are her cries of help not genuine enough? But, even more important, how can they not hear it too?

[/i][/justify][/blockquote]

t h e b a c k s t o r y

She wasn't always crazy.

A vague memory of blonde curls bouncing about and gentle laughs streaming through the air cloud the very back of Blanche's mind, and she realizes that it is her. The memory ends with the sound of other kid's laughter, jokes jabbing her in the ribs, stomach, and heart.

When she was young, she was the center of all of her class mates comedy. Her innocence was destroyed when she was forced to gulp down the fact that being what they called - fat - meant being vulnerable.

But it seemed to everyone else that the actions that ensued hereafter only added a whole new level to her vulnerability.

To her, the end of this vulnerability came in the form of self harm. and starving herself Her health began to decrease and her energy was diminishing, but it didn't matter to her, as long as her stomach was shrinking, too.

The change didn't come over night. It took weeks of purging and even more weeks to muster up the bravery to follow through to finally see the effects that began to debilitate her body, and mind.

It was just another night hanging her head over the porcelain bowl, the filthy remnants of that night's dinner jugging out of her damned mouth. The touch was soothing at first, like a lost puppy being petted for the first time. The touch swept her stringy hair away from her sweaty face, and brushed her moist neck with a cool breath. She lay her cheek on the porcelain when the heaving finally gave up, taking little shallow breaths as she closed her eyes.

"Momma?" Whispered thirteen year old Blanche Derilium, allowing herself to fall back into her old childish tactics. All was silent, but she still felt the presence of a figure. Tying conclusions together, she assumed that her mother was crying at the sight of her daughter's actions. Food, shelter, and safety that the Derilium's possessed was something almost unheard of for most of Panem, and throwing it all away was more heart breaking than wrath-worthy. "I'm sorry, momma."

Her limp hand reached for her mother's open one, but when it came to no avail, she opened her eyes and fell back in fright when she found herself alone.

Well, not completely alone.

The voice made it's first appearance here - at Blanche's most vulnerable state. The little power that she had left was instantly taken away from her right then and there, and handed off to the unseen force that never soothed or comforted her again. Instead, this thing, this voice comes when least unexpected - and when most unwanted.

Of course, at first she wouldn't accept it. She couldn't wrap her head around the thought that there was a voice that belonged without a body. She couldn't understand the dynamics of fire collecting at the tips of her hair when she looked in the mirror. She didn't know why her reflections would change shape every time she glanced at it. She didn't want to know why her own shadows took a mind of their own and enveloped her whole body and mind alike with a fear brought from the darkest and deepest pits of her mind. It didn't make sense. These images just didn't make sense.

But, mind always conquers matter.

And, in this case, mind is the only thing that Blanche is ever sure of, now.

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

Oh, this is such a bad bio. But, at least the coding can make it seem like it's of any worth...

And, to make things clear, Blanche is delirious. ~~(Hence the last name, Derilium, aka Delirium with the "r" switched around.)~~ Aren't I clever?