A Stone's Throw // (Windy)

[L△LIA]

( C A L L I O P E L O R N E B L O O M )





Roll away your stone
I’ll roll away mine
Together we can see what we will find
Don’t leave me alone at this time
For I'm afraid of what I will discover inside

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You knew this day was coming, just the same as you know that everyone on this earth must breathe in before they can breathe out. Yet, you thought you had numbed yourself to this inevitability, that you were prepared for the day this kind of desperate request would find its way out of Napoleon's mouth, poorly masked in one of those everyday exhalations. You lied to yourself. Maybe that's nothing new, but it doesn't change the way your remaining brother just managed to break one of the few pieces of your soul that hadn't been completely demolished yet.

It was the look in his eyes that tipped you off, that feverish expression of deprivation. He had the face of a man — what man? Napoleon is no man — whose very blood has been boiled away until all that remains is a thick, sticky substance that refuses to go where it's told. There was a part of you (it is the part that is sometimes still able to remember how you really did love him once, before you began to hate him so viciously) that hoped he would stop himself from crossing this line, but you always knew he would. Even if you hadn't taken Aesop's place working in the medicinal factories, this day was always coming for the two of you.

It seems that all my bridges have been burned
But you say that’s exactly how this grace thing works
It’s not the long walk home
That will change this heart
But the welcome I receive with the restart

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His voice was more casual than you expected. The two of you were scrounging the kitchen cupboards for breakfast, surprised and pleased to find enough flour for pancakes, and when he started the conversation you thought you'd be discussing the weather or one of the other safe non-topics the two of you stick to these days. A voice like that is not what you use when begging your sister to steal drugs for you, to take up her forever-too-recently dead brother's real job, instead of simply donning the uniform and going through the socially acceptable motions.

When you processed his words, your mouth falling stutterstopopen slack as an egg slipped from your hand and cracked itself at your feet instead of the mixing bowl it was intended for, there was indeed some of that numbness you'd predicted. However, you didn't account for the sheer amount of rage that would accompany it, burning the haze away until your hands were reaching for the other eggs. One after another, you pelted him with them — and in that way you were both attacking each other with evidence of things that died too young — screaming with an incoherence terrifying enough to rival his worst morphling trips. Marked fear found its way into his expression after you ran out of egg-ammo, still too angry to breathe properly (you just inhaled and inhaled some more, lungs devouring the oxygen too quickly to bother with anything like release) and standing altogether too close to the drawer of kitchen knives.

Stars hide your fires
These here are my desires
And I won't give them up to you this time around
And so I’ll be found with my stake stuck in this ground
Marking the territory of this newly impassioned soul

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Bolting from the apartment, he ran like you were his worst fear and as you began to chase him, you couldn't help wondering if maybe that had become a kind of truth. Napoleon Bloom is infamous for his ability to run away, however, so it wasn't long before you lost him... but didn't all of this begin when he lost you? That was his own fault, you tell yourself, hands balling into fists as you kick a loose rock across the sidewalk you're aimlessly wandering down. Your anger seems to ebb slightly as the rock skids away, so you pick the next stone you find up, absently turning it over in your hand a few times before —

"Yeah, you better run, Napoleon Bloom!" At least he has enough sense left to know that. Voice cracking as you yell at the emptiness surrounding you, it doesn't come out nearly as menacing as it was in your head. Frowning at yourself, you square your shoulders before winding your arm back to hurl the stone at the nearest tree, smirking as it thunks against the trunk hard enough to take a shallow bite out of the bark. Gathering several more rocks, you proceed to send them flying through the air, one after another, exhaling a little more steadily as each one carries away a fragment of your rage. "Idiotic halfwit of a numbskulled schmuck!" You're still heaving with an excess emotion though, insults spilling haplessly from your mouth as your throws begin to miss almost as often as they find their mark, too busy venting your frustrations to care where the wayward projectiles might be going or what they may happen to collide with.

But you
You’ve gone too far this time
You have neither reason nor rhyme
With which to take this soul
That is so rightfully mine

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[wimdy]

Can't make my own decisions
Or make any with precision
Well maybe you should tie me up
So I don't go where you don't want me

In the metaphorical dressing room of the theatrical world of Elijah the Great, there were a great many masks hanging, ready to be used and perfected in trial and error. They were neatly dangling off of hooks in a row, carefully taken care of. No cracks. No flaws. They could always use more detail though. There was never a day when a line didn't get added here, a shadow get painted there. It was a continual process. A desk sat in the corner with blank masks, ready to be chosen and worked on and added to the prestigious wall of disguises. They were worked on carefully, meticulously, always changing to fit the need of their wearer. They were flawless and diverse, one for any occasion needed and then some, just waiting to be plucked off their perch.

Other than the pristine corner dedicated to the false visages, the room was a mess. It was cluttered and dirty and falling apart. A hole in the roof let in bad weather, wreaking havoc on the already atrocious conditions. The bed- what bed?- was covered with torn up papers and spilled chemicals and mounds upon mounds of dirty clothes. Ripped pants and stained shirts littered the floor like a path, weaving messy circles and delicate swirls over dirt-covered floorboards of mahogany glaze. Rough sketches masked the dilapidated walls of peeling mossy green pain, the parchment creating a marbled surface filled with questions and dreams and disappointments. Filled with truth.

It's just my humble opinion
But it's one that I believe in
You don't deserve a point of view
If the only thing you see is you

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In truth, the dressing room was the run down center of Eli's mind, the only place where his messy persona could be spread out for the world to see. Except that was just it. The world couldn't see it. He was trapped within the confines of his mind and couldn't let the audience see what was just behind the door. No, not when what lay behind it was such a disgrace. He was wrapped up in himself, trying to rid himself from the ridicule and the pity and the judgment of the world when he couldn't help his own condition. Instead, he performed on stage in his array of masks, keeping the world guessing what could be beyond the painted faces and dramatic arches of his facades.

Another gaping hole lurched into existence, drowning him in faint sunlight and cold air. A literal hole this time. It was no secret that his actual house was ready to cave in. The door hung off the handles. The roof had several gaps- which was especially irritating in the winter. If only his brothers would send along money as a gift for their household. Eli could do without the hair product. His mother could live without new cook-wear. His father didn't need a new lab coat for his collection of five. A roof job would be nice. It would be practical and helpful. That's not how his brothers work, however, so they were stuck with other things while their hands froze off. Eli glared at the rubble in the center of their kitchen for a moment before glancing at his parents. They were staring right back at him, their cold, unforgiving eyes subconsciously pointing the blame already. Exit, stage left.

If God's the game that you're playin'
Well, we must get more acquainted
Cause it has to be so lonely
To be the only one who's holy

It had only taken a moment to slip on his mask as he walked out the door, his indifference suddenly radiating off of him in waves. His feet took him through the motions of walking, silently leading him through the town and dropping him off at a small group of trees. A finger popped into his mouth quickly before he thrust it into the air, judging the faint breeze before removing himself from it by curling up against the trunk of one of the larger trees. He'd forgotten to grab his gloves while fleeing the hostile inferno of his home. The irony. His bedraggled little house was possibly the farthest thing from home he'd ever seen. I suppose if I removed myself from the environment, it would seem very homey... Or would they be picking on Jericho instead? he pondered, hand carding through his hair in frustration. Oh, the injustice of it all. It wasn't right. Eli felt fit to burst within those four crummy walls.

Bwak!

Eli sprang up from his position against the tree, one of his hands covering his forehead in shock. He stumble sideways a little, attempting to avoid whatever was hitting him, when another object struck his neck. His eyes barely spotted the offending object on the ground when he was struck again, this time on the hand covering his- surely- bleeding forehead. It took him a moment to find his assailant, but sure enough, there they were still pelting rocks in his direction.

"What is your problem, crazy? Do you enjoy throwing rocks at people on a daily basis or are you just as blind as a bat?" Eli seethed, swiping his bloodied hand away from his face to swat away a rock flying at his chest. His eyes narrowed into deadly slits, glaring for all their worth at the girl before him.

You don't have to believe me
But the way I, way I see it
Next time you point a finger I might have to bend it back or break it, break it off
Next time you point a finger, I'll point you to the mirror

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Lyrics: Playing God by Paramore[/center][/size]

[L△LIA]

( C A L L I O P E L O R N E B L O O M )





Tell me something real
Tell me something true
I just want to feel there's something left
That I can do

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There is a brief moment between the next stone leaving your hand and the realization that your projectiles are hitting something other than the tree (which you have oh-so-cleverly nicknamed Napoleon Dumbass Bloom) within which you could have probably stopped the current rock from flying towards his face. However, his rather unfortunate choice of words while exclaiming "What is your problem, crazy?" only makes your eyes narrow a little further and banishes the part of you that says: Oh! Calliope! Don't! You don't even hear his ludicrous follow-up. "Do you enjoy throwing rocks at people on a daily basis or are you just as blind as a bat?" No, your mind froze the moment he made the particularly tactless decision to call you crazy.

The word claws its way through your skin and buries itself in the most fragile part of your soul, until there's nothing any inner or outer voice could say to convince you to interrupt the trajectory of the small, but suddenly dangerous object in your hand. It hits him right in the chest, in the same place his declaration of crazy hit you: the heart. There aren't many words that hurt you as much as that one — but dead or Emberstatt certainly tie for the prize, even if they only seem to win the Victor's title half the time.

Crazy? It echoes through your mind, knitting your eyebrows together as you fall into the kind of stunned stillness that should have preceded your last "accidental" attack. You try to tell yourself that maybe he doesn't realize who he's talking to, that he doesn't recognize you, but the seemingly nonstop interviews that consistently graced every television screen in Panem with your face make that seem something less than unlikely. You are the sister of the late, crazy Aesop Bloom — the dark horse underdog of a second place champion in the 59th Hunger Games — and you are hard pressed to find anyone who doesn't know it. You know, you've tried.

Swallowing down the urge to pick up another stone to hurl — for fear that you really might find yourself in the territory of a legitimate crazy afterward — you ball your hands into fists at your sides, trying to convince them not to shake too visibly. "I—" Your voice is far too damaged for your likeness: frail, quiet, and high-pitched with weakness. Taking a breath to steady yourself, you squeeze your eyes shut tight and summon that perpetually stubborn defiance that has been your most reliable companion these past months. When you open your mouth to try again, eyes still closed off from the world and forehead creased from the effort, you're relieved to find that you at least retain the sound of strength. "I have a lot of problems, yeah." You are blunt and to the point; there'd be no hiding it even if you tried. That luxury is just one more thing the Capitol deemed you unworthy of keeping.

When your eyes flash open, locking onto his with all the petty anger you hadn't yet finished venting, you even manage shift your stance into something halfway casual, summoning a slightly twisted smirk of sarcasm to your face. "Do you enjoy making yourself a target or are you just a glutton for punishment?" With that, you lightly kick a stone in his direction, watching it roll harmlessly towards his toes, as if daring him to do something about his own anger. After all, you are a Bloom. While you might have violent disdain for the assumption that your family is full up with crazy, there are still other, less deniable descriptions and each passing day makes you less and less ashamed to own up to them. Sure, you spent most of your life with your nose pressed to the pages of a textbook, collecting A's and accolades as if they could be legitimate steps toward your future, but no matter how you tried, you were still always a smart-mouthed, street gutter darling, hood rat of a Bloom. You'll prove it if he wants you to.

But
I'm nobody's baby
I'm everybody's girl
I'm the queen of nothing
I'm the king of the world

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[wimdy]

A knife. Eli felt like his chest was struck through with a knife. He gave a quick, surprised cough as he dropped his slightly bloodied hand from his head to his chest. The sore spot smarted when he touched it, his already dirty grew shirt gaining a few red blotches in the process. It's not like he cared much though. Eli doesn't care. No, not about anything. But damn if that wasn't one of his favorite shirts. Not even a little bit. Eli stopped rubbing at his wound to pull his jacket around him a little more in the mild air. The perfect image of cool and collected. At least, that's what he liked to believe.


And there's the sore spot. Not even a minute and I've found it. Point for Eli, he thought, eyes quickly darting around their location. Not a person in sight. Well then, he was free to pick the fight already thrown at him. Believe it or not, Eli wasn't a complete jerk to the world. His deeds may come off arrogant and self-serving, but he often finds a way to anger someone to the solution of their problems. Then again, that was mainly accidental. Maybe his main goal was just to make people tick.


He watches her silently, carefully, as she closes herself off for a moment, her insecurity and vulnerability rolling off of her in waves before being sucked back inside. There's not a trace of that weakness left when she speaks again, clear and in command. Their eyes lock, the sheer anger and rage burning through him as Eli passively stares back. What else can he do? He can't back down or back away in any sense. That would show that he himself is weak and that's something he just can't do. So he keeps himself locked in their little daring dance, examining her carefully. She's quite a good mask-maker herself, he thinks wistfully, eying the careful lines of her disguise. The subtle roll of anger, the cool, collected look. It's not as perfect as his, though. No, his is perfect. Hers has cracks and scratches across the surface. It wasn't prepared carefully like his, crafted slowly until it was a delicate work of art.


"That much is obvious, darling. One only needs to see you a moment to realize you haven't taken your medication this morning," he quipped, a smug smirk settling across his face. If there was one thing Eli could do, it was piss people off. It's not like he had really tried to find this talent at first, but it seemed like the longer the wore his masks, the easier it was to chafe people's hides. When one becomes the master of disguise and the art of concealing one's true feelings, it becomes easy to find the chink in someone else's armor. It was what he did. In order to keep himself safe, he tended to victimize others with his words.


Eli leaned back against the tree once more, his ankles crossing as he slouched against the rough bark of the trunk. A sly smirk quirked his lips upward, his eyes glinting with mischief. "I guess you could say I'm a bit of a masochist," Eli drawled. That was about as far from the truth as it got. If there was anything in the world that Eli hated with every fiber of his being, it was pain. Physical pain he could handle, if expected and not too severe. Okay, he was kind of a wimp in every way possible. Emotional pain wasn't something he dealt with well. Eli could hide it and bottle it away, but the toll it took on him was greater than the mountains near the Capitol.


His eyes dropped to the pebble by his toes quickly, an eyebrow raising of its own accord. Small, usually harmless, dull, and useless. A nothing. If the pebble were to disappear right at that moment at his feet, he wouldn't care. Not one bit. There was nothing anyone would say or do about it. Eliwas the pebble. If no one starts caring for this pebble now, no one ever will. He stared at it a moment longer before bending down and picking it up, rolling it around in his palm a moment. It bounced in his palm as he tossed it once, twice, and caught it with a quiet thump against his palm. Without another look at it, he slipped it into the left pocket of his jeans and looked back up at the girl.