Mikhail Ivashkov::D6::FIN

Mikhail Ivashkov::D6::FIN Jun 7, 2013 23:28:48 GMT -5

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Post by k!ah on Jun 7, 2013 23:28:48 GMT -5

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::Distrcit 6::Male::18::

.: A P P E A R A N C E :.

People have told me that the person I see in the mirror is not always the person that other people see when they see me wandering down the street. They have told me that if I was to see my clone on the street that I wouldn’t even recognise myself. I used to laugh at them and tell them how ridiculous they sounded; they would raise their eyes brows and walk away. But was what they were saying true? Or were they stories that you would tell your children at night? That is something I will ever know ~~well unless someone knows about a cloning machine that I could borrow…~~

Today I stand in front of the mirror, trying to understand, trying to form an image, of what others may see, what others may see in me. When others look at me to they see bush man hair? Or do they see a bush afro; do they see what I see? When they look into my deep brown eyes, do they see a boy who is lost, who is immature and selfish, or do they see a boy who is scared and deeply regrets his choices in life? What do others see? What do I see? Well I see hair that looks like it belongs somewhere along the edge of the fence that surrounds the district, not on my head. I see deep brown chocolate eyes that tell stories, which show the hardships of my life. They are innocent, but deep down, hidden by so many other stories, I see hatred and regret, I see sadness and a broken soul.

The mirror shows me a man with lean muscles that run up his arms and legs that wrap themselves around his torso, giving him a strong athletic appearance. I see a man who is tall, he stands proud, but something in the way he stands gives the impression that he is not all that he makes out to be, that this confidence that radiates from his is only a mask, a mask that covers up the true person who hides behind it. The man who is staring back at me in the mirror has a chiseled face, his lips tipped slightly at the corners. He has a stare that seems to look into my soul.

As I look closer I can see the faint outlines of scars that lead from the man’s right shoulder all the way down his tanned arm ending at the tips of his fingers. The scar if faint but to anyone who looked closely it was as clear as day. But that was not all for his scars, down the right side of his leg a more prominent scare has made a home, running from halfway down his shine to his knee. Turning away from the mirror I ask myself one more time, what do others see when they look at me, are they horrified? Scared? Do they feel sorry for me? Or do they see and angel, a person who would never step out of line?

.:
P E R S O N A L I T Y :.

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When I was younger I used to be that annoying kid, the one that always had twenty questions, very curious. I used to want to understand why things happened, I wanted to know what caused them. I used to want to know everything. But as I grew up I lost the need to want to know everything and became the type of person who hides things. The type of person who keeps to themselves, not want to catch the attention of others. I became the type of person people avoid. But that didn’t really bother me, not after everything that had happen to me, not after the things that I had done…

By in no means am I the type of person to cave into people at comfort them at the first signs of a break down. I tell people as it is. Tough love I like to call it. For this reason people don’t usually come to me for counselling, if they’re really desperate for someone to talk to then they come. In saying this I like to hide my true feeling behind bitchy comments and snide remarks. I hate people who crave attention by self-pitying themselves. It make me want to punch someone in the face when people come to me telling me about how much they hate their life, and wish that it was better.

I sound like a total ass, right? With my sarcastic attitude and sour personality. But that’s just on the outside. On the inside… well there is a totally different me, one who is caring and kind, one who loves making people laugh, one who want to be loved. I used to let this part of me shine, I used to let it be the real me but like I said before I hide the real me, I hide the person I desire to be. Scared that if I let people get to know the real me that I will hurt them like I have done before. So instead of risking hurting the people I love I become a person who is not lovable.

.: H I S T O R Y :.[/center][/size]

Life I used to associate with something that you cherish, that should be filled with mistakes and achievement. With goal reaching and goal failures. But most of all I used to associate life with forgiveness. For most of my life I was told that no matter how big of a mistake you have made, all should and will be forgiven. And until recently I had believed that god would be able to forgive me for any of my mistakes, that there was nothing that I could do to be deemed unforgivable. But it wasn’t until I did something completely unforgivable that I realised that not everything was forgiven if you asked. Yes maybe God may forgive, and others, but what does that matter if you cannot forgive yourself? If you cannot forgive yourself then, even if others forgive you, you will never been able to move one.

It breaks my heart, my soul even, to remember the terrible things I have done. The terrible things I have done to my family. A few months ago my whole life turned around; a few months ago I did an unforgivable crime. I watch my sister be killed. Some of you may be wandering why that was such an unforgivable sin, thinking that it was not my fault, that I couldn’t help that she was killed in front of me…. But the thing is I could have stopped her death. If I hand’t of froze… well, she might of still been a live today.

It happened not even a few months ago. I had been walking down the deserted streets of District Six, I had been out for a walk, trying to clear my mind. It had been a hard day, I had gotten myself into a bash up with a kid that lived down the street, he had said shit about my family. I had snapped, flinging my fist into that once pretty face. Some of my friend had to pull me off him before I could to any serious damage. I was still raging when I had left the scene, my mind hurt, confused, angry. I know my family weren’t perfect but they gave no reason for that kid to start bad mouthing about how my sister was a slut and would get into anybody’s ants if they waved some money in her direction. I mean it had been no secret that my sister had been a whore… But still to have someone rub it into my face… well I hadn’t taken it well.

The streets had been quiet, only the muffled sound of my worn down sneakers could be heard as I wandered down the streets. I had stayed in the middle of the dirty cracked road, where the street lights shone the most light. I had been watching my shadow as I moved, fascinated by the way a different angel of light could disturb the image, glad to have the thought of my sister of my mind. That’s when I had heard the scream. Loud and desperate, piercing the cold night air. The scream hadn’t been what made me shiver, it had been the fact that I recognised the voice, like I would have recognised my own. That when I sprinted off towards the direction of the scream, my heart beating in my throat, I could feel dread creep into my limbs as the sound of the screams came closer.

That’s when I saw her. There was blood all over her face, her arms were also covered in blood and mud. My mind was all over the place as I watched a man lumber over her. He had a knife in his hand, which was pushed up against her neck. As I stood there the knife went in deeper, her screams becoming louder and more desperate. Her eyes were wide with fear, tears leaking down her bloodied face. All I could think was no no no no! Please no!. But I didn’t move. I couldn’t move. My feet stayed plated on the ground. My body refusing to move forward, refusing to let e help her. That’s when I realised that she had saw me, her gaze locked with mine. Pain. Desperation. Love Shone within them. They seemed to tell me that she was sorry, that she was scared, that she loved me and that she knew she was going to die.

That’s when my senses kicked in, a screamed ripped from my throat, just as the knife was dragged across her neck, draining the life from her.

I screamed.

I ran at the man, slamming my body into his. All my rage and anger and grief surged through me, and I let it out, bringing my fist slamming into the man’s body, over and over and over again. Until he moved no more. Until he was nothing but a dead weight at my feet. I twisted sobbed racked my body as I move over to the lifeless body of my sister. With her head in my lap, I ran my fingers through her dark hair, memorising the feel of her hair in my hand. I cradled her head in my lap, tears and sobs taking over my body. I stayed like that for as long as I can remember. I kept blaming myself, telling myself that it was my fault that she was dead, that if I had not of froze, she would still be alive. And from this day forward I still blame myself for her death.

I am Mikhail, and I am unforgivable.

{Other}