Never gonna + l e a v e + your soul alone // Stare

[rook]

r u b i k + w o o d a r d s

<sub>and if we look to tomorrow
and we know that these kids will follow
where we go and these steps are hollow

he’s gonna haunt your home and break your bones
never gonna leave your soul alone
because the things you’ve got will leave you all
on your own, own</sub>

[/sub][/color]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

<sub>People say that losing someone you love isn't easy. They're right. People also say that as time goes on, you learn to deal with the pain, it will get easier, you accept and learn, you move on. They're wrong. Maybe for normal people, maybe for people with older parents or infantile children. Maybe even those who, like me, have lost a sibling... Even they move on. But losing a twin? It's much more than a brother I've lost... I've lost a part of myself... And no matter how much time passes, I'll always feel like half a person.

I've no more tears for Pandora, I'm empty. I feel like drained wretch, lost and emotionless. I spend my days staring into nothing, Hope worries, Dad laughs.

My father... The one person who could possibly be a bigger asshole than Pandora ever was. He spewed Pan's dark side, it was him that made him who he was... This item of attraction that made ladies swoon. It's not looks, Pandora's actually moderately average... If it were looks, I'd be just as popular with women, at least on first glance... But Pandora and I are the same in terms of looks, so evidently it's this rebellious streak that made him so... Sleazy... And yeah, my father had a part to play. He was always dragging him back, holding him down from what he could be. He abused us as kids, but Pan was always the target. I was a success at school, Pan wasn't so naturally intelligent. Dad always told him he would amount to nothing... That's where I think it brewed.

He laughed. He watched his son, his creation, he watched him burn on that beach... He saw the shrapnel dig into his back, saw the pain on the face of his child and laughed. Drunken bastard... If I wasn't so shocked at what was going on at the time, I would have hit him. It's not wise, Dad keeps a roof over our heads and could easily beat me down anyway. It's not like it's the first time he's tried.

One day, you'll be strong enough to confront him...

My hair is getting long. Longer than Pan's, plus I need to shave too, my face looks ragged and stubborn, especially my sideburns and my neck. As I enjoy the slow walk home from work, I realize I'm becoming a man. I bring in the most income, and although my Dad has a full on beard, I'm starting to get to the three-day-beard stage of puberty, signalling that in a few months, the hormones will cut down too. I will, genetically, be a man.

I stop by the market and spot some leeks. Pan always made leek pie when it was his turn to cook, so I decide that it'd be nice for the three of us to enjoy it, a sentiment for Pandora. I approach the vendor, he knows me well and gives his regards for all of the Woodards' at this time. I thank him and pick my selection of vegetables for the week, leeks included. He gives me the leeks for free and I don't turn down the hospitality.

I then head over to the joinery. I buy two pheasants, getting no free hospitality here. The butcher never liked Pandora, my twin often stole from here because of the high prices. I can afford the decent meat now that we're only catering for three, but I'm still shocked at the butcher's lack of words, he just gives me an angry glare.
"Eh... Y'win some, y'lose some..." I mutter as I leave, not complaining at the decent batch of goods I'm able to bring home.

All that's left is the bakery for some bread and the all important pastry for Pan's leek pie. My chest is heavy and everything seems dark, although the sun peaks through. I scratch my face and carry on forwards, pheasants hung over my shoulder, basket of vegetables in my hand. It just feels like I'm buying less, which I am, and that's what hurts.</sub>

---

<sub>narrative
thoughts
personal speech
speech of others
singing

notes: Rook/Stare thread.
theme: Kids in Glass Houses - "Hunt the Haunted"</sub>

[Stare]

Doing everything that I believe in
Going by the rules that I've been taught
More understanding of what's around me
And protected from the walls of love

The town square is alive and busy, as it always is at this time of day. People talk amongst themselves and starved peasants desperately bargain for food while the rich admire heavily frosted cakes and treats in windows. Some vendors on the street sell fabric dye, cotton, thread, and anything else a weaver could need - the very reason I so often visit this place. The smell of freshly baked bread drifts through the air, taunting as usual, but today I manage to ignore it, instead tightening my grip on the scarce amount of coins in my palm and hoping I brought enough for a new weaving board and maybe a small treat afterwards. The lights prance all over me, swirling around my arms and legs and bursting in beautiful displays of color before my eyes. I laugh and chase after one of them, a pale baby blue, as it darts away toward the thicker part of the crowd. The warm breeze whips at my long locks, and my bare toes sink into the dirt road.

Summer is by far my favorite time of the year. It is the one time that the Earth fully opens up and finally breathes, revealing a rainbow of bright colors and creatures. Sometimes, when I need inspiration for a weaving, I flee to the forest with the lights dancing in my wake and explore the natural world, laughing with the butterflies and climbing trees to new heights in vain attempts to feel the sensation of flight. It's during those moments that I actually feel beautiful, like I have nothing but bright hues running through my veins and into my heart. I know I'm a fairy princess all the time because my Mommy and Daddy told me so, but when I'm in those woods is when I feel the most like one.

I remember one time, when I thought no one was home, I pulled out one of my mother's old dresses. It was long and white with lace on the color and sleeves, and the skirt poofed outward elegantly. I had carefully slipped it on (it was slightly too big, but I was beyond caring) and pulled out one of my old plastic tiaras, and I put on make-up and brushed out my hair until it shone. When I went downstairs, I found Will waiting to take me into town. I had given him the key to the house ages ago, but I was still surprised to see him there. That was one of the few times that I had ever felt embarassment - my face heated up and I fled back up to my room and changed before he could say anything. When I came back down, though, he said that I had looked lovely.

And then we never spoke of it again.

I miss Will. It's an ache in my heart that is always there, through the glow of summer and the glee of life. The lights cannot soothe the loneliness I feel there - I send letters to him often, but they're always returned to me within a few days' time. Maybe, because he was a tribute and he's so famous now, I'm not allowed to talk to him. One time I asked the mailman why my letters never reached Will, and he responded that I was sending them to the wrong place. He said if I wanted to talk to Will, I should go to the graveyard. But that didn't make any sense - why on Earth would Will be at the graveyard? As far as I knew, he didn't have any dead relatives that he visited so often that I rarely saw him, and he certainly has never worked there. I dismissed the man's statement as a confused one and continued on my merry way, though sorrow at the thought of not being able to speak to my best friend still spread through me.

I am jerked out of my memories by a snicker, and suddenly there is a foot extended in front of my path. I give a little yelp of surprise as I fly forward, hands extended before me in an attempt to soften my fall. First my palms and then my elbows dig deep into the ground, and I feel the sharp pain of skin tearing before I hit the dirt path with a solid thud. There is fading laguhter and running footsteps, and when I turn around I cannot find the person who tripped me. No matter - it happens so often that I've gotten used to it, though I repeatedly tell people that I don't like to play rough like that. Smiling and brushing off some of the dust on my cuts, I look up to realize that I have fallen right in front of a very familiar face. My eyebrows draw together in confusion - I thought all tributes are kepts in the Capitol after their "deaths"? - before I remember hearing that Pandora Woodards had a twin.

I jump up quickly and grin up at him. "I'm am so sorry, Mr. Woodards. I keep trying to tell them that I don't like the tripping game, but for some reason they keep trying to play anyway!" I give a little laugh and then reach my elbow upward to assess the damage. Nothing too bad - a bleeding cut and I bruise, but I'll live. Looking back up at him, I shift onto my toes eagerly. The lights swoop around me and explore this new person before me, but he doesn't even seem to notice. That's alright - Will told me that only I can see the lights because I'm special. "How's your brother, by the way? You must be really proud of him - he made it so far! Have you sent him any letters at his new home yet?"

No point in talking 'bout what you should have been
And regretting the things that went on
Life's full of mistakes, destinies and fate
Remove the clouds, the sun was there all along

[/justify]

[rook]

r u b i k + w o o d a r d s

<sub>and if we look to tomorrow
and we know that these kids will follow
where we go and these steps are hollow

he’s gonna haunt your home and break your bones
never gonna leave your soul alone
because the things you’ve got will leave you all
on your own, own</sub>

[/sub][/color]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

<sub>Some kid runs past with a sly grin on his face. Like everything I see, it reminds me of Pan. Mostly because he's clearly about to pull some kind of prank, but also because he has the same smile on his face that my brother used to wear. The smile that said 'Watch out, I'm trouble'. It makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time, so much so that the two cancel each other out and my face is neutral.

He darts in front of an unsuspecting girl who looks to be in her mid-teens. She has no idea that she's falling until she hits the dirt, right in front of my feet. I look up and the kid is gone, but he's left a cloud of dust from where he fled, my eyes narrow; exactly like Pan used to be. I look back to the girl, she's on her feet and beaming at me like an admirer. I take a step back, she looks a little out of it.

"I'm am so sorry, Mr. Woodards. I keep trying to tell them that I don't like the tripping game, but for some reason they keep trying to play anyway!" She says with a grin. Mr Woodards? Isn't that what the District Ten moron kept calling Pandora? The creepy nickname is enough to send shivers down my spine. At least he, like my brother, is dead now. Evidently she recognizes me to be Pandora, and made the link that he has a twin, or a brother who looks a lot like him. It annoys me that she feels she has to show the recognition, what I'd like more than anything right now is a bit of anonymity. Clearly that's not going to happen.

"Kids will be kids..." I say, the pheasants still hang from my shoulder. I shift my stance and she shifts hers, almost copying me. She checks her elbow that she fell on, it's bleeding a little and I feel bad that I don't have a bandage on me. She doesn't seem to mind, though.

"How's your brother, by the way?"
The question takes me aback, my face scrunches up into a confused frown. Maybe she hasn't watched the Games in a few days, or-
"You must be really proud of him - he made it so far!" Oh, so she does know. Then what kind of question is 'How's your brother'? And she's talking like it's a game-show, like if you lose you just get a sympathetic pat on the back, not a knife in your neck. This girl is out of line.
"Have you sent him any letters at his new home yet?"

That does it.

"What kind of question is that?! Are you out of your mind?!" I drop the wicker basket because I'm so angry. No, not angry, upset. Upset and angry at the same time? Who is this girl with all the questions?
"My brother is dead! I'd appreciate it if you weren't so insensitive about it!!" I yell angrily, people turn there heads and shoot us glares. I feel their eyes on me, but I don't care. I lean down and start to replace items into my basket that fell out. My face is a tomato red, my eyes almost watering.

Almost.</sub>

---

<sub>narrative
thoughts
personal speech
speech of others
singing

notes: Sorry for the wait.
theme: Kids in Glass Houses - "Hunt the Haunted"</sub>

[Stare]

And I heard your voice, as clear as day
And you told me I should concentrate, it was all so strange
And so surreal that a ghost should be so practical
Only if for a night

I blink when he yells at me, watching the whicker basket fall to the ground. The fall strains parts of it and I hear them crackle and crunch in an attempt to keep it together, don't let yourself fall apart just yet. The food that had been kept safely inside now spills out over the ground, vegetable collecting dust on their smooth surfaces. I watch them tumble and jump before coming to a halt, and then look back up at Pandora's twin - Rubik, I believe it was - my eyes drawing together in slight confusion. The lights had flown away from him the instant he raised his voice, and they now tremble and swarn around me, keeping just beyond his reach. A few take their perch in my windswept locks while others hover over my shoulders. I watch as he stoops down rather abruptly and attempts to gather his things back up, color spreading across his face.

I float down gently to kneel across from him, my small hands reaching out to replace the food he has lost before my fingers brush the hair out of his eyes (people tell me of this concept called personal space, but I have never truly understood it), tilting my head to the side slightly when I see the intense look in his eyes. I glance to both sides but can see no brightly painted people with microphones and other assorted electronics, and I turn back to him, relieved. "Mr. Woodards, there are no cameras here. You don't have to pretend Pandora is dead anymore." Having finished cleaning up the mess he made, I rise back up again, brushing the dust off the ruffles of my off white skirt and smiling at him again. A few of the smaller lights tenatively float down to my fingers, clinging to them like diamond rings.

"You know, I had a friend who went into the Games," I say brightly, shifting my weight onto one foot and eagerly brushing my hair behind my ears. A few people shoot me odd looks before continuing on their way, but I hardly notice. Memories of Will watching me as I chased the lights around until I was so dizzy I could barely stand flood back, and I press my lips together fondly. "I write to him every day, but for some reason, the letters never seem to get to him. I guess his new life in the Capitol is busy, just like Pan's must be now." One light, sunflower yellow, buzzes annoyingly by my face, and I gently shoo it away. The lights loved Will - he was the only person besides myself who they would actually land on and touch, and I told him so often. It always saddened me to know that he, like the rest of the world, could not see them.

My thoughts slowly return to Rubik, and I can't help but think of how amazing the resemblence is between the twins. If I didn't know any better, I would think I was standing here by Pandora. I liked Pan - he was among my favorite tributes. I don't know what drew me to him. Perhaps it was the fact that he was from our district. Maybe it was because he kind of reminded me of Will, in a way. Either way, I cheered him on until the final moment, and when he "died" I almost cried, before remembering that none of it was real. His was by far the best, the way he jumped in front of that other girl in order to save her life, consequentially sacrificing himself. I still don't understand how they make it all look so real.

The lights still stay away from Rubik, ever cautious of him now. "You know, you really shouldn't yell like that," I say, brushing a scarlet one off my shoulder. "You scare them away, and they really did seem to like you before." Of course they did. The lights love everyone and anyone until they give them a reason not to. That's why I enoy they're company so much - they're always willing to be my friend, even when everyone else is far too busy. And of course, they stuck with me during the hard times after the Keepers refused to let me into an orphanage. It is they who deserve the credit for my incredible weavings, for they are the ones who keep a constant flow of joy running through me even when everyone else seems especially weary or sorrowful.

"My name's Senalia, by the way," I say, sticking out my hand and beaming. "Senalia Livery. I'm a weaver who lives down the dirt road on that hill over there."

In the grass was so green against my new clothes
And I did cartwheels in your honour, dancing on tiptoes
My own secret ceremonials before the service began
In the graveyard doing handstands

[/justify]

[rook]

r u b i k + w o o d a r d s

<sub>and if we look to tomorrow
and we know that these kids will follow
where we go and these steps are hollow

he’s gonna haunt your home and break your bones
never gonna leave your soul alone
because the things you’ve got will leave you all
on your own, own</sub>

[/sub][/color]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

<sub>I'm leaning down to pick up the remains of the fruit, now sandy and dusty from the unforgiving earth. It'll wash off, I tell myself. I'm not angry that I've dropped the basket, I really don't care, I'm angry that this girl has completely stepped over the line. Is she trying to be funny or something? Is this her idea of a cruel joke? Maybe she's just messed up in the head...

As I place my hand on an apple the girl is adjacent to me, assisting in collecting the dropped fruit. My face scrunches up in confusion - Now what is she doing? A ghostly smile appears on her face as she looks at me and brushes the hair out of my eyes with her hand. I don't react to this, I just stare at her. She's weird. Very weird. I'm not used to physical contact with a girl, but this? This is beyond normal.

"Mr. Woodards, there are no cameras here. You don't have to pretend Pandora is dead anymore." She says, her voice patronizing, almost stating the obvious to me. I double-take, is she even aware of what she just said? I try to keep my cool, but I'm losing my patience with this girl. I'm oblivious to her intentions, it seems like she's either really thick or incredibly harsh. Something in her eyes tells me it's neither. Some twinkle tells me she thinks her words are genuine. If that's the case, she's just ignorant.

What does she mean 'pretend'? Does she actually think that on some level my brother is alive? I consider that she lives in a fantasy world where the Games are literally just Games, and these deaths are fake. Wouldn't that be great, Pandora would come home and everything would be butterflies and rainbows again. My frown intensifies, I can't just assume that she's being brash and malicious. I have to push this. Question.

"Who's pretending? I saw chunks of razor shell dig their way into my brother's back... I saw him collapse and bleed to death, I saw his body drifting out to sea..." I snarl, this girl is pushing me past the limits of my comfort zone. I don't talk like this to anyone, ever. I'm Rubik Woodards, the kind loving brother who's the complete reverse to Pandora. But now? Now I want to be every bit as nasty and sarcastic as he once was. I want to release that demon, because I'm sick of people like the girl in front of me.
"And next week I get to see the bloody remains of his body come back in a box... So don't tell me he's alive..." I finish with venom.

"You know, I had a friend who went into the Games,"
"Are you even list-"
"I write to him every day, but for some reason, the letters never seem to get to him. I guess his new life in the Capitol is busy, just like Pan's must be now." Her voice is so angelic and innocent. Has she even heard me? She's lost in her own little world. I don't want to play along but part of me says I have to. The only way to relate to people like this is to act like them yourself. So Pan's alive and he's living in the Capitol? Well, that's fantastic. Shame I can't visit him, but at least he's eating well.

"You know, you really shouldn't yell like that," She says and brushes her shoulder with one hand, like an insect is crawling by her ear. My face is a puzzle, "You scare them away, and they really did seem to like you before." She says matter-of-factly. 'They'? She must mean 'me'. She might be one of those people who speaks in second person, which isn't a rare thing. People speak weirdly in deeper parts of the district.

"My name's Senalia, by the way," She sticks her hand out and beams at me like I'm a celebrity, which I suppose I am locally, "Senalia Livery. I'm a weaver who lives down the dirt road on that hill over there." I stare at her. She's definitely not all there in the head if she thinks this fantasy world of hers is real. It's not. Her friend isn't in the Capitol with Pandora, they died in their respective arenas. Her friend must have been a past tribute, in which case it's likely I know their name and face.

This conversation is over. I want nothing to do with this girl and her messed up mind.
"Your friend is dead, just like my brother..." I pick up the basket as I say the words in a near whisper, my eyes lock with hers, mine almost a raging fire.
"Good day..."</sub>

---

<sub>narrative
thoughts
personal speech
speech of others
singing

notes: Sorry for the wait.
theme: Kids in Glass Houses - "Hunt the Haunted"</sub>

[Stare]

And every demon wants his pound of flesh
But I like to keep some things to myself
I like to keep my issues drawn
It's always darkest before the dawn

I frown at his retreating form, chewing anxiously at my bottom lip. While he didn't shout his last few words, the whispers were laced with an intensity and anger that made the lights draw away from him as if they had been struck. I murmur words of comfort to them, letting them balance on my fingertips and the backs of my hands delicately. Normally I would just let him leave - it's not the first time people who shouted at me and then left me watching in confusion as they stormed away, but there's something different about this one. He didn't seem to just be getting into the role of a boy with a deceased twin... he seemed to believe it. And so that is why, instead of turning around and going to buy that new weaving board, my feet scramble and then prance to catch up with him, the lights leaving a fairy trail of colors in my wake. "Rubik, wait!"

I catch his arm in both hands and jerk him around with surprising force. A few nearby Keepers become tense, eyes buring, and I press my lips together tightly. I've never cared for the officials - it was because of them that I didn't get into an orphanage when my parents died. They deemed me a "threat to the other children" and tossed me to the street where I could try my luck. Why they would believe me dangerous in any way, I have yet to discover. Still, at their suspicious glances, I release his arm but move myself so I stand directly in his path, my tiny frame preventing him from taking another step. A few others give us curious looks before moving on their way, but I hold my ground, never easily swayed once I have made up my mind about something.

"Will was my best friend," I say slowly, carefully. And he was. He didn't play the games that I don't like and he didn't trip me over and he almost always had time for me, except for when he was working in the factory. He didn't call me nicknames like freak or loser or crazy, either. Although I'm sure those other people have the best of intentions, the names are strange and confuse me. Will always got angry when people called me those, though I never understood why - they were just being friendly, after all. "He was nice and he told those funny boys not to trip me anymore. He was my friend because no one else seemed to have the time to be nice to me." My eyebrows draw together slightly. "If he was dead, Mr. Woodards, I assure you I would have known. But the Games are just that, Rubik - a game. People don't actually die in them."

I laugh at that, because I can't imagine a society that would actually kill children for pleasure. It makes an excellent drama to watch on the television, though, far better than those boring news programs talking about the uninhabited District 13 or the newest juicy Capitol story. I've always enjoyed the special effects - everything looks so incredibly real that I sometimes lose myself in the show and become a bit overemotional. The tributes always act so well. Will was incredible, for he had never seemed like the type to pretend well, in my opinion. But no government, not even the Capitol, would be so cruel as to send twenty four defenseless kids to fight to the death. That's just... just wrong, and it scares me to think that Rubik thinks that it's all real.

"Pandora isn't dead," I say brightly. "He's living in the Capitol with Will. I bet they live in the same place, because they're both from District Eight." I positively beam at this, for I can see the two of them becoming great friends. "You can try to write to him, but as I said, the letters don't tend to get to them." Still smiling, I look at the dust beneath my shoes, kicking up a small puff of a cloud. My eyes are sad, though, more distant. "I really miss Will, and I'm sure that you'll miss Rubik... but I'll be here for you, if you want me. I know what it's like to be alone - no one was there to comfort me when Will left, and that was rough."

And I am done with my graceless heart
So tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart
'Cause I like to keep my issues drawn
It's always darkest before the dawn

[/justify]

[rook]

r u b i k + w o o d a r d s

<sub>and if we look to tomorrow
and we know that these kids will follow
where we go and these steps are hollow

he’s gonna haunt your home and break your bones
never gonna leave your soul alone
because the things you’ve got will leave you all
on your own, own</sub>

[/sub][/color]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

<sub>I kick up a dust-storm with my feet, a little cloud by my feet. I tend to do so when I'm thinking, a bad habit that most find annoying. I look for a rock to kick, but there are few pebbles about. Gritting my teeth I try to think things over. Playing her words over and over in my head, decoding what she's saying, figuring out a response. All the while she looks at me with a sense of honesty. She has offered me friendship, something I haven't had in years, she offers me comfort too. I can't just turn her away, even if she does think that all the Tributes are somehow alive, living in the Capitol in secret. A world where the Games are simply that, and nothing more.

False hope...

But I cling to it, for some absurd reason. The idea is planted in my head and no matter what, I can't shake it off. What if it is true? What if Pandora is alive and kicking, drinking Capitol alcohol and trying to keep himself sane? Somehow I don't like that idea any better than him being dead, but it's the lesser of two evils. Maybe he'd like it? I know I'd find it hell, but I'm not Pandora, I'm me... I can't judge what he'd be like in that world. The world that doesn't exist, I need to remind myself. My brow creases as I release a slow sigh, my back teeth gnaw at the inside of my cheek.

Part of me really wants to believe her, but it's just not fair. I've been fighting with my conscience for weeks, trying to get myself to accept that he's dead and buried, that I'll never see his smug face again... And now that I'm finally getting somewhere with moving on, some girl comes out of the blue and tells me some stupid story about how the entire Games are a conspiracy... That there are no deaths, how it's all staged. A publicity stunt to oppress the people. It's a ridiculous idea, but it tugs at me, my head says no but my heart pumps belief through me.

Could he be alive?

You saw him die...

I saw what they wanted me to see. I saw what could have been special effects.

Stop bullshitting yourself, he's dead...

I close my eyes. I'm so confused by the situation, but for some reason I'm glad that Senalia has offered to be here for me. It's good for me to be around someone more my age, Hope's words of comfort can be a little patronizing. I could do with some obscurity in my bleak life. Senalia is definitely obscure.

"So what if they are?" I say, not harshly, more of an unsure tone. Yet then my voice grows in confidence as I continue, "Is that any better than them being dead?" My eyes glisten with memories of Pan. How he used to be, how much of an inconvenience he was to have around. But we couldn't live without him.

And we're not. I wouldn't call this living. Not when I'm dragging myself out of bed every morning and crying myself to sleep every night. Jolting upright from visions of my Brother's bleeding face every time I attempt sleep. Seeing Pandora's in the faces of everyone I meet, everyone but the one person who shares his face: Me. Is that living? And is it any better if he were alive? Isolated from us, never seeing us or speaking to us... Is that any different from him coming back in a coffin?

She keeps moving her hands in annoying ways, like she's swatting away flies or something. I can't really figure out what it is that she's doing, but then again I can't figure out what she's been saying, so that makes sense in relevance.
"Why do you keep doing that?" I ask with narrowing eyes. She's quite spirited, her eyes dart from place to place, like she's chasing something... Invisible demons. I do that sometimes: see things that aren't there. Hallucinations they call them. I'll be walking to market and see the body of Walker Jiggens in the earth, or I'll see Jana Hale in a group of people. It doesn't stop there, I dream of the other tributes that my brother was so close to. I know things about them, bits of conversation that Pandora had, it's like I heard them, it's like I connected. Dreams of seeing Cyrus and my Twin on the beach, talking that famous talk.

But most often, twisted dreams of Destiny Lentsil, where instead of Pandora, it's me. I've taken his place in the world of fantasy. I dance with her, why am I dancing? Did I hear Pandora talking about dancing? Lights above us flash every color, and nothing matters. We both smile, like we're not going to die. Then it shifts into the forest, where Destiny's gang meets Pandora's gang, no... It's my gang now... There's fighting... Jana is slaughtered, but then the fighting stops. And then there's just Destiny and me, that tense moment between the two of us. She approaches me and wraps her arms around my neck, kissing me softly yet full of passion. It's just like in the games.

Yet it's not. It's a nightmare. Destiny's laugh is a witches cackle, she stops kissing and pushes me away, triggering a sharp pain. A knife sticks out from my back.
"Who could ever love you?" Comes the taunt, and then I collapse into the jungle floor, my eyes dead. It's always the same dream, it always ends the same... With me waking in a cold sweat.

Because I'm not an object of desire, not like Pandora was. I'm the opposite to him, I've never had anyone. Days went by where I was selfish enough to pretend to be Pandora, just to see if it would work. It never did. I could never be him, I could only ever be his shadow.

His shadow and nothing more.</sub>

---

<sub>narrative
thoughts
personal speech
speech of others
singing

notes: Brain fart.
theme: Kids in Glass Houses - "Hunt the Haunted"</sub>

[Stare]

Growing in numbers
Growing in speed
Can't fight the future
Can't fight what I see

"Papa!" My breathless voice rings out through the darkness, echoing quietly. The ice laced wind snaps against my cheeks, raising a rosy color that spreads over my face. My boots are slightly too big, and so I struggle to move through the heavy blanket of snow the crunches beneath even my feather-light steps. Mama wrapped me up well tonight - I wear two layers of gloves beneath the mittens that Grandma knit for me (I still have those mittens. Bright pink and midnight blue, they are far too small for me now, but I still pull them out from the depths of my drawer for inspiration every now and then), a thick coat that's sleeves stretch out over my palms, and a snowy white hat that presses my hair tightly against my flattened ears. A few snowflakes, like delicate crystals, nestle themselves in the golden brown strands that are whipped around my head as I soldier on. I stumble forward a few more paces before finally giving up, leaning over my knees and panting. My hot breath whispers past my lips and into the air as tendrils of silver against the dark of night. "Papa, wait up!"

His strong form stops pauses to turn around, and the shining of his eyes is visible even through the haze of white being blown between us. His footprints leave a trail for me in the snow and I follow it to the best of my abilities, bowing into the wind and wrapping my arms around my sides. When I finally reach him, my chest is rising and falling rapidly, my bones sing a song of quiet exhaustion, and my feet absolutely ache. "I'm tired," I say pathetically, dropping my arms to my side and listening to the way the wind howls in my ears. He smiles down at me warmly and then kneels into the snow with his back turned toward me. My face lights up in delight and without hesitating I wrap my arms around his neck and my legs around my torso, burying my face in his shoulder in an effort to keep away the cold. We rise and continue onward, trudging through the cold for what feels like hours before he finally lets me back down. I blink in the darkness and see nothing but an expanse of white before me and then the black shapes of trees on the horizon.

"Where are we Papa?" I ask, slipping my arms out of my sleeves and into my jacket. He holds one finger to his lips in a sign that I should be quiet, and I press my lips together and look around expectantly. The snowfall has lightened considerably, though the sky is still a flawless sheet of onyx above our head, and I look back at my father in confusion. "Listen, Senalia," he says softly, closing his eyes and standing perfectly still. And so I do the same, stiff against the wind and as silent as death itself. Suddenly, next to me, I hear my father's voice transform from its normal warmth into the cold, animalistic sound of a hooting owl. He nudges me softly, and I do the same. We wait for only a few moments before our answer comes, a song consisting of only one note that cuts across the plain to reach us.

We talk with the owl for a long time before reluctantly returning home, half frozen on the outside but glowing with a secret warmth within.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

"So what if they are?" he demands, though his voice is far from harsh now. "Is that any better than them being dead?" I pause at this, shocked, the smile falling from my face as I stare at him for what feels like eternity and I remember my father's cold hand in my own, his face expressionless (lifeless) in a slumber from which he will never awaken. He was so full of warmth even in the darkest of times, but there, on that bed, he was cold. There was just nothing inside of him, not even a flicker of heat, and when I tried to look inside of him and find the hearth that had thawed me out so many times, I can only find a frosted over unbeating heart. "Yes," I say quietly, my voice as empty as he had been when I said goodbye for the last time. "It is always better than them being dead."

He's quiet for a moment before frowning at the way I brush aside a few of the lights. "Why do you keep doing that?" The smile returns to my face, slow and distant, and I gesture toward one of the glowing orbs that hands in the air between us. "The lights are afraid of you because you shout," I say simply, ["so they cling to me, and it can get annoying after a while." The light, a brilliant shade of emerald green, suddenly spirals upward and bursts like a firework above our head. My smile widens, and when I look back at him, my eyes are filled with laughter. "But they're quite beautiful. I hope that someday I'll be like them."

I remember the first day the lights appeared, cautious at first. I was leaning over my storybooks, reading aloud quietly, when I saw them hovering uncertainly a little ways away. It's the only time I have ever seen them be shy, and it was short lived. When I invited them into open arms they rushed toward me, a rainbow of colors that swirled around me and danced delicately over my skin. I tried to catch one, and it was then that I realized I could not touch them. The source of their light is nonexistant - they simply are radiance itself, as bright as the sun and as glittering as diamonds. I couldn't ask for better friends. They are there for me always, able to make me smile and laugh, for they are free spirits and love to prance and make mischief. I would feel so alone if I was without them.

Some people believe that you become a star after you die. I believe that you become a light, which is even better, for you are free to roam the world and yet still have the brilliance and pure beauty of the sky's natural gems. "I love them. They've been my best friends ever since Will left."

People they come together
People they fall apart
No one can stop us now
'Cause we are all made of stars

[/justify]

[rook]

r u b i k + w o o d a r d s

<sub>and if we look to tomorrow
and we know that these kids will follow
where we go and these steps are hollow

he’s gonna haunt your home and break your bones
never gonna leave your soul alone
because the things you’ve got will leave you all
on your own, own</sub>

[/sub][/color]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

_"Yes,"

[/i] She says, her voice different now, more serious, "It is always better than them being dead." She addresses, I feel like a fool. Our opinions differ on the matter, but she seems so certain that I can't muster up the enthusiasm to argue any longer. You can't change what is fact to someone, even if it is indeed a lie.

I blink, my face expressionless as she tells me about the lights that float around us.
"They've been my best friends ever since Will left." She says.
Since Will died
I need to remind myself that her world is false. Pandora is dead, as is her beloved Will.

I remember Will, I was Thirteen years old during the 56th Games, too young to remember details. I do remember that Pandora was transfixed to our crappy television the whole time. He used to watch the Games religiously, right up until he was Reaped. He rooted for Will, I remember that much. He got quite far, I think... Day Six or Day Seven? He was a hopeful of ours. I start to wonder if at any point Pan was happy to be a part of something he watched so eagerly...

These lights she talks of are invisible to me, only real in her head. She told me that they're scared of my loud voice, that I'm too aggressive. I'm not usually angry and violent, it's just the shift in my personality since the Games.
There are no lights. She's just an insane girl with an insane world that she's created inside her mind. A world that would be oh, so idealistic. A world where the Games were faux, a conspiracy. How exactly does she know that? Is it an assumption or what? She hasn't been told by anyone, she hasn't been in the Games... Where is her evidence?

I subside my rage and try to be rational. I once said that it was necessary to take everyone's belief's as correct. Everyone has their own opinion on the world, and it's only fair to respect that. That was what I had told my brother when he told our little sister that Ripred did not exist. I myself don't believe in a greater power, but Hope is free to believe what she wants. It took some convincing to stop Pandora destroying what she believed in, but now I feel like a hypocrite telling this girl that her beliefs are wrong.

The longer times goes on, the more I see myself turning into him...

It's annoying, how this whole thing has changed me. Morphed me into a darker form of myself. Is it wrong that I associate my dark side with Pandora? Was that all he was to me? Dark? Dark and mean and sleazy... My opposite. Now I'm heading on a collision course, a crossroads where I need to answer the big question:
Who am I?

"I respect your beliefs, but at least in return respect mine... I'm in a dark place right now, and I've been through a lot..." I say, starting to sound like my old self. Respectful, logical Rubik. I smile for some reason, like I've discovered that there is still some of the old me left. I don't have to be all depressed and angry all of the time. I can live a little, try to go back to before this all happened. Even if I am a broken soul, I can still make do with what's left. It's better to have something than nothing at all, right?

[/color][/sub][/blockquote][/blockquote]

---

<sub>narrative
thoughts
personal speech
speech of others
singing

notes: Sorry for the delay.
theme: Kids in Glass Houses - "Hunt the Haunted"</sub>

[Stare]

Smiling face, that no one really knows
Singin' bout the passion in my soul
Playin' it safe, move in time with the beat
Take a chance, learn a new dance

Life is a dance, a ballet of sorts, and we are the dancers who will either make or break the show. Our footsteps can be velvetine, so noiseless that no one can find us unless they are searching. We can be quiescent, making our performance fall to ruins as the audience looks past us, searching for all that we are not. Or we can be breathtaking, beautiful, stunning. We can leap and spin and throw willowy limbs out to the world as if we are embracing it, steps incandescing our light into those who are lucky enough to lay eyes on our radiance. (It is a metaphor, child, and yet you live it as if it is a law. You prance around your bedroom and bow and bend and twist to an aria only you can hear and think yourself graceful. Darling, you should know better.) And yet, as life continues and we know we must try harder, our dance becomes more weary. We feel ourselves dragged down by the steps we have already taken, and dread hits us when we think of those yet to come. Some, like Rubik, forget their passion and their movements become uncertain. They fall apart, in a way, collapsing on the stage every now and then before rising and stumbling on. A select few even choose to end their performance before the curtain falls, so lost are their souls. But ladies and gentlemen, no matter what happens, no matter how horribly we mess up, the show must go on.

He's lost. I can tell by the way his voice is so distant even when his eyes burn with a rage I do not understand. His false beliefs have led him into a tangle of darkness from which he cannot escape, fingers reaching for those of whom he thinks to be a ghost. But Pandora Woodards is not dead - why is it he seems so determined to believe he is? The lights trail along tendrils of my sympathy, drifting closer to lips that are now pulled up into a strange smile before suddenly landing on him wherever they can. His shoulders, his hands, the top of his head... my eyebrows shoot up in surprise and I am silent for a moment, stunned. They've never done that for anyone before, except for Will and myself. "They like you," I mumur in awe. "They like it when you smile."

Before I can continue on the thought, though, I feel two hands land on my back with huge force, sending my light frame flying forward into him. The lights scatter as I gracelessly crash into him, feeling him stumble slightly against the sudden weight but somehow manage to stay upright. I immediately pull back, rubbing my smashed nose, and turn to see three retreating forms - one boy and two girls, from school, I think. "I don't like that game," I call to them for perhaps the hundredth time this month, my tone friendly with only a hint of frustration beneath. I don't like a lot of the games they seem to play with me, for they always seem to involve me falling some way or another. Reaching a finger up, I find blood trickling from one of my nostrils, and quickly press my hand up against it to prevent it from getting on my clothes. "I'm sorry, Rubik," I say, my voice a slightly different pitch to prevent it from sounding funny. "I hope I didn't hurt you."

That's happened with Will an I once or twice. Of course, back then I was even smaller than I am now, and he was several years my senior and caught me easily. People knew that we weren't related, but we were treated like it. Will was like an older brother - he watched out for me. I must admit, I miss that kind of protection. (Big men with shiny bottles. Ugly laughter. "We'd like to... ah... scare the crazy right out of her!") Not that I needed to be protected, of course. But it was still nice.

Returning my attention to Rubik, I inspect him carefully and find to my relief that I didn't get any blood on his shirt. The lights have returned, most gathering around when I hit him but a few drifting over to me and floating near my throbbing nose. I smile and wave them away with quiet reassurances, lifting my hand away to find to my relief that the bleeding has already stopped. It wasn't too serious, then, although I might have a bit of a bruise in the morning. I frown, then, remembering what he said earlier. He's in a dark place right now. He needs a light, and I need a friend.

Maybe we can make this work.

"I'd like to help you, Rubik," I say cheerfully, smiling widely now. "I think it's time you see some light in life."

Almost eighteen,
A real lady now
I'll keep trying to figure this life out
I want to figure it out

[/justify]