:: MEELA BIRDBROOK :: D12 :: DONE ::

:: MEELA BIRDBROOK :: D12 :: DONE :: Jan 9, 2013 20:36:52 GMT -5

Quote

Post by meg. on Jan 9, 2013 20:36:52 GMT -5

MEELA AHLI BIRDBROOK.

[/color][/font][/i]

[/center]

THE APPEARANCE.

[/color][/font]Look down on the body that you have grown, Four mountains stand around you, they're not your own. And light squares and bodies are all you see,[/color]
Since you broke down, since I broke down [/right] [/tt]

You don’t look like your sister. It’s hard to tell the two of you are siblings, unless you know her story, and yours that follows. She is blue-eyed and spindly, a standout in the dark haired, dark eyed children of the Seam. You, on the other hand, are dark, eyes reflecting those that pass and hair shiny, healthy, alive and strong. She won’t ever pass three foot, and her limbs are like handfuls of hay, and about as brittle. Some of them stick out at odd angles, because of breaks that haven’t been able to heal correctly.

You are nearing six foot, huge compared to most of the kids around you, and you’ve always had enough to eat. Your body digests it well and so your thighs are bigger than you want them to be, seeing as you’re trying so bad to fit in, despite your mangled sister. They’re scratched too, deep scars new and old digging into them, but that’s a secret only you know. Your hips are wide, making your child producing look viable, and therefore your future look bright. You look different to her, look like you belong in this district and in this world, like this is where you were intended to be. You don’t really want that, but you know you’re not allowed to be jealous of Sierra’s looks, caused by her sickness. Why would you be, after all? You’re the one who’s going to live to adulthood.

[/SIZE][/color][/font][/justify]

THE PERSONALITY.

[/color][/font]Oh I’ll jump into your grave and die, And on my word you'll give up your whole life for me. You'll be reborn, bigger and stronger[/color]
I And less alive... [/right][/tt]

It rains so often here. Winter following autumn and merging into spring, it drizzles and drips and sometimes pours. And you, Meela, you wish time and time again that it would stop raining, that it could be sunny for just one more day. But you can’t change the weather. Why, you can’t change anything. You don’t believe that it’s within your power, no matter how hard you try. And my god, do you try. Why, just three weeks ago, you took a pair of pruning shears and chopped off your hair, trying to show your parents that you’re your own person, that they have no say in what you do. Technically, you’re an adult, yet you still feel so reliant on them, don’t you? And you hate it. You really, really hate it.

And then there’s your body. That’s the one thing you can control, the one thing you have power over, and my god do you use it. You ‘forget’ to eat, or you cram it all into your body, engorge yourself on foodstuffs you know your family can’t afford, only to make yourself regurgitate it after in a fit of guilt. Then you scratch yourself, the relief of your long fingernails cutting through your plump thighs so soothing, you wonder how you live any other way but this. The pain bites at you, and you bite back. One more thing to add to the list of things that you can control. There’s no rational reason for your self-injury, but you like it anyway, in some twisted way. You know it’s twisted too, don’t you? You know that rightfully your parents shouldn’t pay any attention too you, when Sierra needs their four combined eyes on her at all times, because no one knows when her spindly flower-stem will snap. It doesn’t stop you doing it, though. You think that, surely, it can’t be that bad to pleasure yourself with the one thing that makes you vaguely happy.

The truth is that you’re generally a cheerful person; except when you’re not. You truly would like it to be sunny everyday, and you appreciate it when it is. Your problem is that you can’t appreciate that rain has a place too. It doesn’t come after you, sweetie. There isn’t a cloud over your head, it’s just chance, just plain bad luck that your sister ended up a fragile empty skeleton like she is. Why can’t you see that?

[/SIZE][/color][/font][/justify]

THE HISTORY.

[/color][/font]Cross your fingers, hold your toes, We’re all going to die when the building blows. And the house that you were born in[/color]
Is crumbling at the corners. [/right][/tt]

It’s not as if you don’t love her, because you do. She’s your sister, and you love her desperately. You pretend you can’t imagine what your life would be like without her, but the truth is that you’re playing games. You know that your life would be easier had she never been born, or had she died at birth, but your stomach squirms with guilt, more guilt, when ever you think this. She’s your sister. You can’t think such thoughts about her. But you can’t help but remember a time before she was born, when your father would come home and swing you high above his head, and take you onto the street and play catch. You can’t help but think back on the smiling face of your mother that you saw as an infant, and think what a historical time that was. Your mother doesn’t smile any more. You’d like to think that she does in private but you know the truth. All she does is cook and clean and restrap Sierra’s bones, far from the days when she taught you how to cartwheel and would join in games of street cricket. She showed you how to select the hardest conkers, but now all she can say is ‘Don’t do that, Sierra might get hurt’ or ‘You can’t do that, Sierra can’t join in and that’s not fair.’ You want to tell her no, it’s not fair, not fair that Sierra can’t do all the things that you can do, and not fair that everyone looks of you like you’re a criminal because of this. But you don’t. You keep your mouth closed, because that’s what you do.

Your parents knew each other in the cradle, or so the story goes. Everyone thought they were perfect for each other, that they’d settle down and produce a family as close to perfect as district twelve knows. ~~And once again you think that Sierra ruined this for them, because she broke and that made them break and now they look at each other like they’re both so tired, like they just want to sleep.~~ You used to see the love, the dedication, between them, but with the birth of their second child and 112 distinct pops, that disappeared. One could say it broke, snapped, like a brittle branch, or a bone.

When it was just you, only your father worked. But Willow came along and she broke and all of your money was put towards medical fees and bandages and strapping tape, you could no longer afford to live like that, especially not with the new mouth to feed. And so your mum tended herbs in her garden, and sold sweet teas and painkillers and things to flavour off meats at the Hob. Little you, only a couple of years senior to your fragile sister but decades in your seniority, you were left to tend her. Oh, and she’d ask you to take her on adventures, go places like in the stories you told her. How could you refuse? Despite everything she was, and still is your sister, and you couldn’t help but pity her. You know she didn’t want your pity, but you gave it to her anyway. It was your fault, your fault entirely that she broke bones on the street or falling out of trees and doing dangerous things that she would never have been allowed, but you blamed it on falls out of bed and the uneven tiles in the kitchen and the high-above-her-head shelves where you kept the fresh bread. A lot of it was your fault, but a lot of it was also her fault. You’re both to blame. But, perhaps, you quietly think she is to blame a little more than you are. She’s broken more things than you have, after all.

It was always as if you were holding a baby bird in your hands. Let your fingers become too loose, and she’d fly away, but too tight and you’d crush her, break her toothpick-ribs and rupture her organs. You had to hold her just right, firmly but not too much so. You’re still holding her in the same way today. You’d like to let go, and think that she’d be tame enough to stay, to perch on your shoulder, but the truth is that you don’t know, and you can’t afford to find out.

[/SIZE][/color][/font][/justify]

Woah woah woah palate! Sister of Sierra Birdbrook Cross Your Fingers – Laura Marling[/color][/font][/center][/blockquote][/tt]