Felix "Dragon" Ringo D5 DONE

[Emma]

Name: Felix Ringo
Age: 13
Gender: Male
District/Area: District 5
Appearance:

Charmer. Gorgeous. I can breath fire. Just look into my eyes babe.

Personality:

Charmer, Bold. He can breath fire.

History:

Codeword: odair
Comments/Other:

Faceclaim- Benjamin Lasnier <333

[Emma]

I can see a new horizon
Underneath the blazin' sky
I'll be where the eagle's
Flyin' higher and higher

F e l i x R i n g o

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Aged 13
Resides in 5
Note: Capable of breathing fire.

I can breath fire. I am a dragon. The smoke steams out of my nostrils. Flames lick my nose as my mouth opens, their fingers fighting for oxygen. The heat does not harm me, for my scales are too thick, too tough. A little bit of fire never hurt anyone. At least not me. Fire bug they call me. But I'm not a pyromaniac, just a firebug. The child who likes to stir the fire, play with the coals. Touch the fire, not caring or avoiding the probability of being burnt. Black charred fingers never bothered me. Although I have lost the ability to feel pain in them, the scars marking the damage within as a permanent warning. Being bold is my forte. And that's what has pushed to this cliff. The this rocky face of possible death. But I won't die. I am a dragon. I can breath fire.

People line the shore, watching as this idiot boy, me, stands on the face of the cliff. A deadly ledge of rock where it falls into a deep lake. The ledge is lined with trees, a slightly forested area. The rocks are a sharp and lava-like sort, able to break skin and draw blood easily. But I don't care. I stand almost naked on the edge. Wearing only a pair of shorts. The people call to me, yell at me, mixed emotions running threw the crowd that has gathered. Some egging me to jump. Some yelling at me to smarten up and put my cloths on, and to "get down from there!" But I ignore them all. It is time. I look at the waters below. Deep, dark, murky, and polluted. A muddy sort of color, the lake is a drop off, hundreds of feet deep. Man-made, cause by a damn further up the lake/ It was once a river I suppose. But now it's just a hole full of water. Invisible waves crash against the rocks with a sicking smacking noise. I look at the sky, the sun, peeking from behind a white fluffy cloud. A chilling breeze runs across my bare body, freezing to the bone. It is time. I spread my wings, my scaled, leathery wings, and leap, as far and as high as possible before catching the wind.

The world goes into slow motion as I fall, the bone-chilling breeze rushing past me into my eyes, making them water, blurring my moment of vision before hitting the water. The feeling of falling causes my heart to beat in my windpipe, and I fail to inhale before hitting the cement wall of of water. I slam into it. The pain in unbelievable. The stinging pain shooting all over my front half of my body. It forces the little remaining air from my lungs in a bubble. I cannot see. My eyes are closed. Slowly I pull them open, resisting the poison of the water, the hurting in them urging me to close them. The image is blurry and green. A plain, nasty green, the sort of color that you would see on a dying leaf. But It is lighter up there, that way is up. I thrash and kick, doing no use. My lungs begin to scream for air as I continue to attempt to swim. My arms reaching for the oxygen above, my legs failing to propel me. I have plunged to far, I am too deep. No way telling how deep. But much to far. My heart is pounding in my ears, which feel like they are bursting in my head. Panic settles on my brain. I am going to die.

Fatigue begins to ache my limbs. I continue to struggle, thrashing and clawing at the light above, my pale skin looking ghostly in the murky, ill-lit water. I open my mouth, to breath my fire, to take a desperate breath. Nothing. Water kills the fire. Water fills my lungs. Water is the substance of all life. Water is the substance of my death. My body can not move. It is done. I float limply as if merely a leaf floating in the sea, displaced by something. I close my eyes. I might as well enjoy it. Give my eyes a rest from the stinging water. Blackness under my eyelids. Sorta like bliss. They rest, as I try to ignore the extreme pounding of my heart, hungry for oxygen. My lungs burning, screaming and shrieking for air. I ignore it as I watch the fast motion video in my eye lids. The projector of my brain flicking the switch, my eyelids the silky canvas acting as a screen for the show.

It is my life. This show. It portrays the moments of the greatest importance, and the ones of least. The moments that defy me, my memory throwing up everything it has ever seen, moments before my heart stops and my brain quits. The images are so clear, even more than when I saw them, their colors so vivid and bright, the detail is breathtaking, if I had any, with no errors or mistakes. It is like a dream, but I have lived it, seen it, and most of all, breathed it. Breath. Don't think about that Felix. Don't dare. But I always dare.

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***

The first memory that flashes before my eyes. I could never remember that moment, no matter how hard I tried. It was my birth. The feeling of the cold, dry air as I take my first breath. My cry wails around the room as I breath. My mother gasping in relief awe. The scary man, the doctor, hands me to a strange women as I continue to cry with the discomfort. She baths me quickly. She wraps me in a little blanket, my soft, delicate skin sensitive to the new environment. Just minutes old, I am handed to my mother. Her eyes filled with tears at the cite of her first child. She feeds me, tears running down her face as I suckle her breast. My father whispering words of admiration to her, his arm around her, smiling from ear to ear. They are talking. Once I am fed and settle down, they admire me. My eyes, barely able to open, look at the world around me, my bright eyes shining threw my thick, heavy eyelids. They mutter something about my foot. A birthmark. It has a particular shape. A sort of flame. It starts halfway down my foot, starting in a sort of rounded bottom. It's flames lick the knuckles of my toes, its color reddish orange, fresh and dangerous. I was on fire. Some force causes me to open my eyes even wider. My parents catch it. They mutter something about a spark in my eyes, and how I was a fire child, one from an unknown force, a gift, a sort of sign. The color of my eyes an unbelievable blue. They are like the base of a fire, blue and beautiful. [/color]"We should name him Felix." My mother turns to my father, his face amazed at her genius, and he nods with warm smile.
"Felix. Felix Ringo." He confirms, before kissing my round, bald head.

***

The next memory flashes across my eyes. I couldn't ever recall the place even though i know where it is. Now it looks different. In the present, the surroundings look very much like they do here, but the atmosphere is extraordinarily different. This atmosphere feels young, the very air oozes youth. I left the same place just this morning, the sickly polluted air feeling empty, no nutrients, no oxygen in it to supply your brain, dry air, dead air. I stand at in a mud puddle, bare feet, the thick wet dirt reaching up halfway to my knees, grasping my legs as a brace around my tiny shins. I couldn't be older than 2. My body is naked, not a speck of clothing on my body, but there is no bare skin. Mud covers my entire person. Every inch of me, even my lips, is covered in the substance, as I rub in on myself, hypnotized by the feel of it. My hands bend and pick up handfuls after handfuls and rub them on my body. I rub it in, on my belly, in my fine, bleach blonde hair, on my arms, legs, and bottom. I pick it up, examine it close to my face, my nose practically touching the muck, my eyes narrowing in curiosity. I let it drop, turning my hand to face the earth, the mud falling in slow motion, the sound of it plopping back into the pit, my smile, my dimples opening to reveal tiny, white teeth. A charmer smile.
"FELIX!" My smile drops with the upward jerk of my head, my nose pointing to the direction of my mother's voice. She's standing in the front doorway of our house, the white paint peeling away from the frame, her hands on her hips, irritation crossing her face beneath her dirty-blonde fly away hair. HSe stops down our sturdy stares, her face darting from side to side to catch any on-lookers. My usual mother, always has to be sure nobody sees her not doing what's perfect. She reaches, pulling my roughly from the puddle. She carries me at arms length, putting me threw the door before her, and sending my dirt body straight into the bathroom, putting me in the slightly rusty claw-foot tub, and running the always cold water. She scrubs me until my skin is raw and red. She rubs my hair clean, or attempts. The mud is gone but the colour is different. The bleach blonde has turned darker, matching the colour of wet sand, the exact colour of the mess upon my mothers dizzy head. The colour never changed back.

***

The next is unexpected. I am much older, about 4 years of age. I can remember this memory, but it's very fuzzy. It is my father and I sitting under the huge oak tree behind our house. I sit cross-legged, pulling out grass, and twirling it in my fingers, subconsciously as I sit attentive to him as he speaks, his voice capturing everyone's attention. His voice so deep and lusting. He later told me, his voice could turn men into soldiers, and women into slaves, but he chooses not to, simply because the history of men like that didn't seem to end very well. Men he says who existed in history who had the greatest mouth pieces of all time. Men he says are named Hitler, Martin Luther King and men named Kennedy. They all ended up shot. By their own hands or assassination. People are always hated. But you need to dare them. You can become great and powerful, and have it ended, but hey, at least you got there. You got so grand that people needed to kill you. And you did it by talking. My father could be one of those men. But he works as a oil-rigger for the Capitol. He would hate me for how I earn my pocket money.
He stands above me saying "Felix. Don't dare. Don't do it. If it seems wrong, if it takes guts, if it could get you in trouble, don't dare. Don't risk. Don't go near the water. And don't go near the fire. Young man, please. But his words never meant anything to me after that day. They would repeat themselves to me every time I dared. I have always been a reverse physiology kid. If you tell me to do something, I will do the opposite. My parents never really caught on. I find myself in more and more trouble every time I take a breath. This lecture changed my whole life. That was the day I decided to kindle the spark on my foot, and in my name, and make it into a flame, eating down the log that is the world, turning it into ashes.

***

The next fast forwards to the autumn, the leaves on the trees and ground varying colours of golds and browns. The distant crunching of fallen leafs under feet grows closer and closer. I finally catch a glimpse of the focus of it all. It is me. I am about 7. I am holding a girls hand. She is very pretty. But I can not recall her name. Her hair fell halfway down her back, and was the same colour as the copper wire running in the walls. Her green eyes darting back and forth to my eyes and her shoes, a glimpse of a smile showing threw her masked expression. My face showed my cool, smart look that I use for heart-throbbing and performing. My mouth easily speaking words of flirting, her eyes gobbling up my perfect features I had began to develop. My light-olive skin even looks smooth, as it wraps my slender body. My spark eyes had become the jewels of a snake charmer. They would glint and entice the looker with every sweet work from my perfectly shaped lips. By white smile, quirky and desirable. But my hair had developed it's own mind, much like my mothers. But my flame scar had grown more ugly, more darker, and more noticeable with every passing day, each year it turned several shades of red darker, it's tongue licking my toes as they wiggle in an attempt to escape. It was the ugly side of my physical appearance, making me so damn near perfect, but literally going up in flames. The girl and I sit down on a log, our fingers still entwined, when we lean in for a kiss, the blissful innocence making it so romantic, before an unknown frock stirs the pot, and the memory is gone. I remember her. Not her name, but her fate. She ended up dead about 2 years after. A terrible accident regarding the cliff I had jumped from. I tried to remember the cause but the memory of the dark day slips into oblivion before I can snatch it.

***

A few years fly past again. More of my charming personality, and the risk-taker within reveals itself. Meaningless life lies between the memories. But one again catches my eye, slowing down as if caught in a whirlpool current. I am again a few years older. I am 9. My father is gone to the oilfields. Away for weeks at a time. The money in those weeks is spread thin. We receive money when he comes home, but during, we can only afford what we need, with little wiggle-room for luxuries. In this particular time, I am stomping from a shop, the prices too high for my desires. The smoke pluming from my flaring nostrils, my gears in my head began to turn. I can breath fire. I sprint home, my feet crunching in the pavement of the packed market square. Once I reach home, I head straight for my father's little tool shed in the back. I scatter the tools from the work-bench, my eyes searching for one thing in particular, our extra lamp fuel. I quickly find it, its container faded and slightly rusted. My face breaks open into a devilish grin. Next I find some slow burning oil. I grab both containers under my armpits and race to my house. I run to my bedroom, stripping naked as I go. I'm wearing nothing but my tighty-whiteys. I run to my battered oak dresser and pull out the pant drawer. Finally I find my prize. A pair of air-light parachute shorts I once got for some prize. They are bright blue, made of shiny material, making swishing noises as I pull them on my legs. The slippery feel to them tickles my legs as I dash to the shed again, grabbing 2 rags. I Then run out to one of the few tress in my yard and break off a branch, shards spraying and snapping in protest. Stripping it of its few green leafs, i saw off the edges flat and tightly bound the rags to each end, surely securing them with rubber bands. I then put the oil in a little tin tool box, which is a rusty sort of green, with chipped paint and a squeaky handle. I grab my stick and head back towards the town-square.
Once I get to the square, I have a hard time ignoring the stares. Of course they're staring. A perfectly chiseled kid is walking threw the market with no shirt carrying a rag stick and a green tin box.

Head down, and lets go. I set down my things and begin to prepare, opening the box, and delicately placing the things on the ground, and then propping the box open, for collection of payment. I then open the oil, and gently dip the rag sticks in the substance and puff out my chest, holding the stick, and begin to speak, "Ladies and gentlemen! May I have your attention please! My name is Dragon, Dragon the fire eater. Now if I may, does anyone have a match?" I stand awkwardly for about 30 seconds looking around before a man sheepishly hands me one from behind some children. I take it with a nod of thanks, and without hesitation I light the match on the rough stone street, the pathetic light appearing more grand with the pounding in my ears. I light both ends of the dipped rags, ignoring the gasps. I then hold it carefully as I bend down and pick up the lantern gas. I Hold it to my lips for a moment, looking at the gathering crowd, before taking in a mouthful of the stuff, ignoring the acid taste, trying not to swallow or spit. I then take slow, deep breaths through my nose, and take the blazing stick firmly in my hands.

I begin to spin it around me, each end of the stick on either side, doing their own out of sync circles. The sound it roaring in my ears as the flames swell with the increase of oxygen. Once I get used to the pattern, I begin more intricate spinning patterns. I begin to breath harder, my head pounding. I feel a burst of courage, and throw the stick in the air, perfectly horizontal, catching it with one hand and throwing it again, over and over. I feel the suspense peaking. Time to finish, time to the finally. I catch the stick for a final time, and bring one flame just inches from my face The heat radiates onto my sweating skin. With a final movement, I purse my lips and blow hard. The gas mists from my lips, catching the flame and soaring it feet from my face At the same time, I move my hand away for effect. I am unaware of the cheering applause, as the adrenaline flows out of my body.

I catch my breath as I notice the amounts of people placing coins in the container. I am shaky, the rush over. I wave a thanks to the clapping crowd and begin to pack my things again, and pocket the money. I call to the people one last time, reminding them of my name. I depart quickly, and run home, the pounding still in my head.

***

The memories swirl yet again, the images of more performances, more complex, arise. They last only seconds. Memories of my parents, numerous friends, and new rivals. They were impostors, jealous of my nerve and skill. Many ended up in the hospital, with terrible burns that left scars. I never burnt myself, my luck never faltering. As the years went by, my routines were so extravagant, and I had become known all over town as "Dragon." My parents were the only people who would ever call me Felix. The in-pore of performance money allowed us to have better things. Clothes, food, and other luxuries we lacked before. The day my father found out poured into my view. His face was hurt, his eyes ashamed. He looked simply disappointed. But I never quit. He told me, a year or two later, that he was proud of me, that I lived up to the name Ringo, and that Felix was a good choice.

***

The memory flow stops. My eyesight returns back to my eyes, as they stare into the murk outward, the image they see blurry. The picture is getting lighter. I cannot see it anymore. They cloud over, the whiteness floating in menacingly like smoke. They threaten to choke me. The murk is gone. I can hear yelling. They are muffled. But they grow closer. They sing to the beat of my dying heart. Thump thump, thump thump. And it stops. The beat is gone. My head hurts. Hurts so bad. I can feel my brain swell against my skull. And now it's all fading. All of it. I can't think straight. Good bye love. Good bye world. Good bye dragon. Good bye fire. Don't forget me.

Just before I let go, a force grabs my arm, pulling me from the singing. I feel like I'm going up. The force pulls harder, and my body hangs beneath them, floating limply. I feel the cold air break my hand, running down my arm to the rest of my body, the oxygen stinging my chilled skin. Peoples voices, not angels, yell to each other, as the sound of waves muffled in the cylinder I seem to be in. I feel pressure on my face, as someone attempts to revive me. The singing that was there before is gone, the fading flowing back, memories of what I had done returning.

My lungs swell with air, the water still sitting in them. Finally everything comes back to me, and my chest convulses, my throat revolting water that had collected in my lungs. I cough for a solid 5 minutes, while strangers pat my back, giving me either words of comfort or scolding me. I begin ti puke uncontrollably, water rushing up from my stomach with my little breakfast. I have been saved. People cloak my naked body in blankets, and when I cease from throwing up, some muttering wards of recognition. My body goes stiff as me teeth chatter, the boat we are on slowly breaking waves to the rocky shore.

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[Emma]

Finished. I only started in April, ppffftt.

[[ retro gm ] angel lí ✨]

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