D3 ☿ { Teresa Mercury } ☿ DONE

[loren]

Name: Teresa Aurae Mercury
Age: fourteen
Gender: Female
District/Area: District 3
Appearance:

Personality:

I'M SCARED OF EVERYTHING AND BURN MAHSELF IN BATHTUBS TO REMOVE 99.9% OF GERMS

History:

DADDY WAS BOTH DAVID AND GOLIATH.

MOM IS MAD AS A HATTER.

I'm a Mercury, bitch.

Codeword: odair
Comments/Other:

Chelsey's Mercury Plot~ <3

[loren]

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fourteen | female | district three | Monster[/size][/font]


Violent wrists, and then her ankles
Silent pain
Then he slowly saw their nightmares
Were his dreams
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b r u i s e d ☿ a n d ☿ b r o k e
appearance

Floods, the result of a ghastly amount of water gathering to surmount normal confines, can only torture a peony for so long before it forfeits the will to live. The waters can only suffocate, can only fill every organ, can only taunt its victim with its teasing touch on every inch of their body before they wave the white flag of defeat with their inaudible shrieks. One can only be looked upon in town like the most hideous of lepers before they befriend the ground; far too broken to raise their heads and meet the daunting gazes of others. One can only see the patches of blue their mother wore with pride before they baptize their skin raw in searing bath waters. One can only live in the Mercury household for so long before they realize they’ve never truly lived, but merely endured.

Teresa is the broken tree; limbs wickedly gnarled by constant strikes of lightning from the towering menace above. And what a violent storm she was, on an infallible rampage that seemed to lack an end. It’s impossible to see the peace beyond the tornado when you stand at its core. She eroded Teresa’s smiles of naivety with waves of rage. A constant biting habit caused scarlet fractures to tattoo themselves onto her puckered bottom lip, occasionally flooding her mouth with the metallic acid of her own blood. Grey, clouded, and despairing, her eyes hold onto every overcast memory of the natural disaster that was Annora Mercury.

a l l ☿ I ☿ a s k
personality

And, as with every natural disaster, there was the catastrophic aftermath. Teresa was bred on a battlefield; forced to face her father’s wrath alongside her siblings in the frontlines. They were unarmed child soldiers pitted against the undefeatable god of storms; the deity who could only be slain by the terrorist reflected in the eyes of his young.

Once the storm subsided for the last time, Teresa was left as a bastard of glass. She saw in the unmuted violence of her father, and the irreparable insanity of her mother, that the beasts of her childhood fairytales were real; that they nest within us. That they exist in the destruction of the hurricane and the earthquake; in the devastation of the vicious father and negligent mother. Monsters disguise themselves as power, and corrupt the politician and molest the child. But, unlike her juvenile storybooks, there weren’t heroes written into her reality. No man on earth can stop nature’s forces when it decides to drown and ravage land. Every man is apathetic to their brother, turning a blind eye to deceit and desecration when it so obviously is presented before them.

The outside world was a fucking mess, so Teresa Mercury left it.

It was much more reasonable, much more safe inside her home, where the only demons exist enslaved in her mother and brother’s skulls. Inside her room, with every curtain drawn and her door locked, she can pretend all those that exist through the archway simply don’t. With the scalding water risen up to her nose, she can purge her skin free of all the world’s filths simply by burning them off. She can protect herself from the giants and the beasts and the rains and the fires, simply by hiding from them all.

a ☿ g l a s s ☿ c h i l d
history

They pity the children with hushed whispers and slight shakes of their heads.

Because only the living can write the history books; and they curse the names of the defenseless dead whilst they rot in their graves. And I died a long time ago. My body remains, a hollow shell of a prison in which I’m forced to marinade in every tormenting memory that ever broke my heart every second of every day. For the children, they say. But since when did the criteria of being a ”good mother” state that you had to willingly accept fruitless anguish? I learned far too young that I am nothing. I was bred to be unloved by those I desired affection from the most, and unable to love those who expected it of me. But I can only blame myself for expecting anything other than to be both unloved and unloving.

Not that it matters, anyway. My body lives on, pumping wasteful air throughout the unfeeling frame that forfeited its will to live the night Otis Mercury crowned himself with a tiara of his own blood and bullets. My final misdirected penance: I remain an outcast on earth amongst my spawn of pariahs whilst Otis walks amid the gods of his own kind, spends his eternity with her.

I worshiped the undeserving ground Otis was forced to grace his feet upon. My little exiled angel. He was my last trace of grain in my lifelong famine, the last standing building in a world of limitless storms. I adored him. I worshiped him! Every last eyelash and freckle I knew by heart. I knew what creased his brow and dimpled his cheeks. And I had a heart that would gladly accept every angry blow if it meant it was touched by his hand. I had a heart that sang his name like a broken lullaby.

And yet, I knew his eyes were waiting for someone to come along and fill their vacant loneliness. Waiting for someone he would never let me be. Waiting for her.

Her who's touch embedded itself into his skin and taught his flesh to convulse at the mere brush of any other. Her who inflicted wounds so deep and acrid unto my pitiful angel that he all but wept when day broke the night sky because it meant spending another day in lonesome agony. Her who, though far away, engraved herself into his very marred heart so that on my virgin wedding night he burst through the doors with vodka heavy in his breath and glazed in his eyes and staggered his steps so that through his deadened moan came the first lethal stab of many

"Celeste."

I had a heart that would sing his name like a broken lullaby until all the stars fell out of the sky, but he wouldn't hear it. He was in love with a phantom of his past that I could never dream to parallel.

"Celeste."

Otis was a god in love with a star.

And I was lost in the velvet curtain of darkness.

Monster,
How should I feel?
Creatures lie here
Looking through the windows

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[loren]

LE FINI

[cass]

Lovely <3

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