Lorraine Mercier | District 4

[chelsey]

the drowning mermaid.

f i r s t a n d l a s t // Lorraine Mercier

a g e // sixteen

g e n d e r // female

d i s t r i c t // District 4

t h e m e s o n g // Eet by Regina Spektor

f a c e c l a i m // Barbara Meier

It's like forgetting the words to your favorite song.
You can't believe it; you were always singing along.
It was so easy and the words so sweet.
You can't remember
You try to feel the beat.

[/i]

t h e r e f l e c t i o n

a p p e a r a n c e

Hush your silent tears.

Wipe away the sparkling liquid that streams down from your glistening green irises. It stains the pale bleached skin on your sodden and soiled face. Gravity pulls it to the ends of your lips, a magnetic attraction forcing you to taste the salty bitterness that makes you shudder at the taste. Your skeletal body shivers under the thin covers that surround you, but still you reach out for the kind of warmth that'll heal you. Grab the comb that lies on your bedside table, and tame the wild red locks that have grown like red vines perched in a nest. Return it once more to it's original rich beauty, where it shimmered in the sunlight and danced behind you under water. Cleanse your soul with the fortunes of the ever vast sea, and fill up the gaping hole in your broken soul with affection and cherished memories, that have long since faded in your brain - tattered and wrecked by the hurricanes of your heart.

Your walk has slumped from a triumphant march to a sullen trudge, every shuffle of your slow steps a muffled cry. Still, you hold yourself together, clinging to your abdominal area as if to keep it from falling apart. But, does it work? Does it keep you from crashing to the ground? Does it keep you standing strong? But, I see through the strong facade you've built. You falter, still, at the sound of my name. At the cry of the seagulls. At the sight of crashing waves. You still think of me.

Oh, Lorraine, in the midst of smoke and ashes of the self destruction you've inflicted upon yourself lies the bloodied and bruised sister I once knew and recognized. Though she now remains unknown to me and even to yourself, that girl was and is a warrior - and I see her fighting to survive now, even when the reality around her continues to crumble apart. My strong sister, I wait for the day to see you rise again.

d e p t h o f d e s p i r

p e r s o n a l i t y

I see you now, Lorraine, a glassy layer of cool liquid separating us. You are sinking beneath the water's surface, drowning in the atmosphere which you once held so precious to you. How have you forgotten to swim? Can mermaids drown, too? If you think hard enough, if you dig up the memories that's been buried in your conscience for years on end now, you will remember how your legs and arms synchronized through the silky ribbons of the sea, bringing you to a pace and swiftness that doesn't exist in anyone else.

Remember, Lorraine? Do you remember?

Where is my old sister? The one that gave the world a smile when there was absolutely nothing to smile about? The one who possessed a strong resiliency despite the burdens thrown at her? The one who never faltered, even during the worst of storms? Where is she, now?

She's still there, though, isn't she? But, she looks at me now with alien eyes - suddenly, I am a foreign stranger, and not your younger sister. How long has it been, sister? But I know that you still haven't forgotten me.

One thing that hasn't changed about you, however, is your kindness. This one trait, at least, hasn't withered away from your sorrowful years. When meeting strangers, your woes are put behind you and disguised in the form of a broad smile. Oh, but your empty eyes are a dead giveaway.They say eyes are the windows to a person's soul. The emerald irises that look, but don't see. Still, the visible pain on your face diminishes in the presence of someone else's pain. You never allow those around you to suffer, even if you are suffering yourself.

But, still it seems, no amount of kindness in the world could save you from the solitude you are now embraced in. Solitude is a dreary thing, something that we all fear of sooner or later. When alone, you are suddenly at your most vulnerable state. And, when you are vulnerable, this is when the monsters come out and play. They'll come and pull your hair, jab at your ribs, tear at your clothes, and drive you completely mad. But you're strong, Lorraine. I know you can fight back. Why don't you fight back? The loneliness only reminds you of your losses, and I see you toss and turn in bed at night, wishing for the day whenthe Sun will finally rise and toss your troubles out the window. But the hope inside of you for this day disintegrates as the nights wear on, causing you to only grow weaker and weaker. Fight back, Lori, I know you can do it. "That day's not coming, is it?" You whisper to yourself at night, fighting back those tears that threaten to fall overboard. The day will come, Lorraine. Don't give up. Not just yet.

What happened to my strong Lorraine? The sister on which negativity would bounce right off of, and head straight back at the person who directed it to her? The girl who never held fear in her eyes, the woman who ignored everyone else's petty hatred and criticism? Sure, I called her hard headed and stubborn before, but now all I want is to welcome her home and hold her in my arms. Don't tell me that sister is gone, because I know she lies deep beneath your toughened exterior - buried in the depths of your despair. Just dig deeper, Lori, dig deeper and she will resurface, and you will find her. But, for now, you remain frail. If the simplest of things crash into your structure, you will fall, fall, fall tumult to the ground in a heap of eroded rubble, ashes, and smoke. The negativity thrown at you will seep into your system, sink into your mind, swallow you in it's frigid touch.Insecurities hang around the crown of your head like a halo on an angel. It dangles in front of your tear sodden face, it's taunts and teases driving you to the end of madness. Now, your possessions are cradled close to your heart, and they suffocate in your relentless arms and under your warm breath. "I can't let go of this, or else it'll leave me like everything else. It'll leave me like everyone else." They won't leave you Lorraine, they wouldn't leave if you loosened your iron grip around them. Don't you know by now, sister, that protecting and trapping are two entirely different things? You can only confine something for so long until they begin to crave freedom. What better way to gain freedom than rebellion?

Oh, Lorraine, how weak you have grown.

But, just dig deeper, and you will find her. Dig deeper.

p o o l s o f s o r r o w

h i s t o r y

Dad doesn't play anymore, does he? No, no, of course he doesn't. If he did, I'd be able to hear him. "Arthritis just gets the best of me, Lorraine." Is his constant and petty excuse, but you know for a fact that it's a lie. After all, he's still fully capable of tying fish nets together better than you. Playing, to him, is a haunting reminder of the scarring past that never fails to trail after him.

I never forgot the story of how Mom and Dad fell in love. Remember the days, back before we knew that the world wasn't full of miraculous fairy tales and endless happy endings, before we realized the world was cruel and merciless villain. The days when Mom and Dad and you and I were together, the days when we were all whole.I remember it now, blissful evenings in which we all sat by the fire place - it's crackling warmth setting my pale cheeks into a pink glow - while Mom and Dad told their story. "It was his music that made me fall in love with him, how his music made it seem that nothing could ever go wrong. How it made it seem like my happy ending was suddenly waiting just around the corner." Mom would always say, before she clasped Dad's hand in hers, and he continued. "But, it was your mother's voice that won me over. Her voice made me feel like I was flying over the horizon, with her song carrying me through the wind." And then, satisfied at the short but romantic story, we would sigh happily and watch with loving gazes as they shared a peck on the lips. Routinely, Dad would sit at his piano bench and play a happy song while Mom stood behind him and serenaded us with the cheerful lyrics. It was the perfect life. The happy days. Nothing could go wrong.

But, it did.

How I cried and cried and drowned in my own tears when she left us. How you held me through the night, clutching me tightly as if I was a baby rag doll - still I let you hold me, when I had no one else to hold. "Why did she leave us, Lori? Why doesn't she want us?" I'd sob in your embrace, my sadness and anger spewed at no one and nothing in particular. Why? Why? Why? I'd ask time and time again. You were older, you were wiser, and therefore - you must've held the answers. But you didn't. "I-I don't know, Rachel. I don't know." These stammers didn't comfort me, your answer didn't satisfy my childish senses, didn't wipe away the tears of my motherless youth hood. Even when she told us that nothing could go wrong, she made the worst occur. Mom abandoned us.

Why, where, when, and how she is remained unknown to all of us. She left us in bitter despair, drowning in pools of our own sorrow, with only questions left somersaulting in our heads. Why did she leave us? Why did she leave me? What did I do wrong? What did I do to make her leave? What could I have done to prevent it? We bargained, oh, for God's sake, we scraped and bloodied our knees begging that she'd come back to us. She had to, right? She was our mother, and she just had to come back to set things straight. To tuck us in bed, kiss us good night, sing us a lullaby, and assure us once more that nothing could ever go wrong.

But, it did. Because she never came back.

Maybe she's dead. Maybe she's murdered by peacekeepers. Maybe she's wandering around between districts, right now, with a new crowd. Maybe she's moved in with another family assuring them that nothing would ever go wrong. But, we'd never know.

It was time to pick up the pieces of our hearts that she left shattered, oh, but where to start?

You were the first to be whole, again, Lori. Hasty broken pieces glued together with trembling eleven year old hands - but whole all the same. Yes, maybe whole, but never the same again.

Suddenly, home cooked meals began to appear on the table at dinner. Clothes were washed and folded. Rooms were tidied and cleaned. Things were beginning to become normal again - or, as normal as it'd ever be. But, at least, now there was consistency. A pattern in life that was greatly appreciated, routine that was widely welcomed by our family. This seemed to awaken Dad, because he started putting effort into work again, paying for the food that you prepared. He still played then, on the nights when we finished dinner early and asked him to play a song or two. He'd play, but the pain was more than evident in his eyes. He still thought of Mom. Still, even with Mom violently ripped from the family tree, things were beginning to look up.

But nothing good lasts forever. And, disaster striked yet again. But, this time, aimed at me.

Lori, I suppose you were scared. That Mom’s sudden disappearance forced you into thinking that everything dear and precious to you would run away as quick and dismissal as her. You loved me, and I know that what you did, you did for the best. Or, at least, what you thought to be best. But, your over protective instincts and possessiveness over me, my safety, and my security wrapped around my neck like a tight knit scarf - wringing at my neck and suffocating me to the point of rebellion.

[/I] I was twelve then, and you were fourteen. At the ripe age of twelve, I thought I held the whole world in my hands. Oh, but I might as well have. I was confined, Lori, as if I was a princess locked away in some dismal tower. Or, I liked to think so. But, I was chained up all the same. Freedom was something I’ve never tasted on my tongue before, and, oh, how I craved it.

By then, you were one of Four’s top swimmers. Though I was utterly trapped at home, the world seemed to be at your disposal for continual adventure. I watched with pathetic envy as you won trophy after trophy for your swimming capabilities. Maybe I would’ve won some, too, if I wasn’t so restricted then. I didn’t even know how to swim, and I lived in District Four for goodness sake. You refused to teach me, though, either out of laziness or you believed it to be too dangerous.

If you wouldn’t teach me, then I’d do it by myself. And I did.

The ocean was warm and inviting that day, Lorraine. It seduced me with it's soothing lullabies, and glistening surface - washing over me with the comfort of knowing that new change was near. Hardly a person remained in sight when I stepped on the sandy beach that outlines the coast of our home. And those gray clouds across the sky didn’t seem threatening at all.

But this wouldn’t be the first time I was wrong.

By the time you heard me screaming for you, it was too late. Still, you ran for me, stumbling down hill as my cries of pain softened with the foreign rocking of the waves. ”Rachel! Rachel! Rachel, I’m coming!” My ears could barely detect your screeches with the thumping of the ocean and the beating of the rain fall above. My vision grew foggy as I watched you jump into the sea, and as the waves pulled you to and fro - a liquid barrier between us. Still, you screeched my name, spewing salt water from your frozen lips. You were determined, you would save me, even if that meant you couldn’t save yourself. ”Rachel! Rachel! Rachel!” What could I say back to you? My will to survive then has already sunken rock bottom, and I have long since stopped thrashing at the violent water that encased me then, because no kicking or pulling could save me now. I felt like a puppet, yanked with strings controlled by the gray storm that raged over head. My head bobbed under and over the surface of the ocean, me taking large intakes of salt water into my lungs where oxygen should’ve been. I couldn’t see you, anymore, Lori. I couldn’t feel you wrap your arms around my now weightless body, and I didn’t feel you carry me back to shore. I didn’t feel you trying to pump the water out of me, and pump air back in. I didn’t feel your tears splatter against my pale skin, or the rain that washed away your cries.

I didn’t know, Lorraine. Because I was already gone.

You never swam again. Merely underwater, you still hear me screaming for a rescue that would never come. The guilt that piled into your heart caused you to ask yourself once more: What did I do wrong? What did I do to make her leave? What could I have done to prevent it?[/i]

Instead of swimming, you’ve taken Dad’s old sport and renewed the family piano. You spend most of your hours here, watching your fingers dance between the black and white keys, performing a perfectly synchronized choreography. The pain is still evident in yours and Dad’d eyes, no matter how hard you try to conceal it.

It's silly though, isn't it Lori? Silly and ironic. Dad doesn't play because of the memories that are attached to it - but you, Lori, play for an escape.[/justify][/blockquote][/blockquote]

You spend half of your life trying to fall behind.
You're using your headphones to drown out your mind.
It was so easy and the words so sweet.
You can't remember
You try to feel the beat.

[/i]

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

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