Put On Your Warpaint {Hartmyre Blitz}

[florentine, d4b ❁]

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Boom. The first crash is the sound of my hammer upon the last piece of scrapheap tin. Boom. Again. Panic ripples along the surface of my skin. The third sound, way off in the distance, stops my breath. Marcia is my doctor, and she's been trying to tell me that the world isn't going to end. I'm glad I ignored her. The finished shelter stands before me, a funnel of saftey[/color] tucked into the hill right at the back of the graveyard. The view alone is enough to remind us why we should be here. Boom.[/b]

I wait for people to spill out from their homes in panic and confusion. Bombs are falling now, I'm sure of it. To be fair to my critics, I had no idea it would be so soon.[/color] When I spent the morning carrying tins of food and containers of water from my bedroom into the bunker, I figured we had days or weeks before the end of it all. (Thank God I chose this morning.) Boom. The third crash sends me into a full-scale panic, the likes of which have happened only a couple of times before. This time, though, it's real.[/color] I wheeze heavily, trying to drag the air in and out, in and out, employing the 'coping strategies' Marcia has patiently taught me.

"Guys! Guys, quick!" I shout, running back into the house in a flurry of arms and legs and words. Boom. Boom. Boom. The shelter is a work of art much like the coffins I painstakingly calve, however it serves to provide safety for the living rather than those for whom it is too late. Most of my siblings still breathe[/color]. "The world is ending, right now!" Nobody comes, but a faint groan can be heard from the other room. I fling the front door closed behind me and charge into the hallway, my words frantic and on the verge of tears.[/color] "Come on, everybody, my shelter is done and we need to save ourselves! Please!"

My entire life has led up to this moment - each second of careful preparation, yet I do not feel even the slightest bit satisfied. Perhaps later, when we're the last family in Panem, I'll allow myself to be just a tiny bit glad[/color] that I was right and those who scorned my desperate efforts were wrong. Maybe.

"Clara! Orion! Esther!" A tear, fuelled by fear, leaks onto my cheek.
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[willow .]

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And sometimes the rain fell, just a slight pitter-patter as it would crash into the roof and suddenly die, plunging itself into the cold stone without a second thought as though it would simply be the best option. I used to sit on my little bed and listen to each raindrop, counting off all of the lives and imagining that for every splatter of water, a person fell to the ground, lifeless. First it was little Anne, she died during a rainstorm and no one was quite sure how. So in the end heart-failure was blamed for the mysterious man in the dark who stole her breath away. It was just simply her time to go, and when I head the thudding of Teddy’s hands as he bangs on the door, and the sounds that rattle the windows from the outside, I can only think of how my time has arrived.

His eyes are frantic, bulging and lines of red shooting through his otherwise white corneas. He too, thinks that this is the end; he has known it all along. While the others sit around lazily and go on with their work Teddy has so much more in mind, he sees the underlying factors that help to bind our lives together. While they all say he’s foolish for so extravagantly imagining up this ‘end of the world’, I can hear the mysterious sounds that echo in the distance, they don’t sound like the bells of heaven.

And I never knew the world would end like this, with bombs surely crashing down around our heads, beating our small, worthless bodies into the ground. The image horrifies me and so I push it to the back of my head, I try so hard to forget what is going outside and I look up into Teddy’s eyes with a fiery determination to do whatever is the safest.

“Where’s the bunker?”

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[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

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There are many things hidden in the walls of the Hartmyre household; there are many questions with unknown[/b] answers hidden beneath the crackling paint that layers these walls. Questions that, though hopeless and impossible to answer[/color], linger around every member of my family.[/color]

Will Orion dig himself a grave someday, perishing due to the despair that shrouds my family?

Will Florence waste away into nothing, due to her fragility?

Will Theodore, my dear Teddy, always be so wary due to the fear I have casted upon him?

Will Esther always see a dead girl when she looks at her reflection, due to the black smoke that supposedly flooded her lungs and sent her to death with our mother?

Will Clara always be so dark and twisted, due to her innocence that was shattered by my foolishness?

And will I, brave Beatrice Maeva Hartmyre, always be so ignorant? Ignorant due to the fact that I actually believe that I may be able to heal the pain I have infected my family with.[/color]

I am staring at the flickering candle on my end table, holding onto the serenity of the light and forcing myself to not think back to the night I set our old home ablaze, when I hear the door swinging open and a figure charging in.[/color]

I'm not sure how I really know it, but every fiber of my being screams that my twin, Theodore, is up to something. Rising up on narrow legs, I leave my room and descend the stairs. A few of my siblings have already gathered around as Teddy literally begs us[/color] to join him in some safe-house he crafted to save us from an oncoming doom.[/color]

I'm not really sane enough to mock his views, but still, even I realize his judgments are masked by a fear that I'm desperate to take away. With a smirk forming upon my lips, that proud and reckless smirk that made it seem like I knew what I was doing[/color], I walked closer to Teddy, nodding at Clara as I strolled by her.[/color]

"Clara's right, Teddy. Where's the bunker located? We must make haste," I take a pause and stupidly forget to think through my next words, "lest we all burn to ash."

We're already burnt to a crisp.[/color]

words by tristen.
plot by clover.
template by zoe.
fc is jennifer sullins.

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[Wonder]

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florence hartmyre.

i can't drink this coffee
till i put you in my closet
let him shoot me down and let him
c a l l m e o f f

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†

Brush. I listen to the scrape tickling through my locks. I kiss the flame good night with a soft whistle, extinguishing it briefly, the windows in the room are too dirty to shine light through.

The night time was always best for work, it was easier to get done when there wasn't the flurry of a thousand children - or whatever number of kids the Hartmyre's possessed - running around screaming. Sewing and designing took precision and focus, a steady hand, and an admiration for all things of beauty. It was so hard these days to find that beauty though, it wasn't as if it crawled down the church walls screaming my name. (Look Florence, look! Look at the stone and admire us.) How atrocious a thought, to dress a person recently departed in a dress or suit in the pattern of marble stones. I'm sure the family would appreciate that. 'Dearly beloved, we've gathered here today to -' and then a circle of throwing up upon the sight of such a hideous costume.

The thought was hilarious, nonetheless. It was during the night that I worked, sewing endlessly, stringing together bits of life through fabrics, piecing together a puzzle of the lives of corpses that lay before me. The job was fun, I'm sure that no one else could do it better, at least, not within the Hartmyre's. But it's during the early afternoon, once I finally wake to the busy sounds of Teddy pounding away, and Esther's hauntings, that most inspiration was found. Edging slowly from the tree tops, the gusts of wind and the way the blew the grass so firmly - the people in the streets, disheveled and ragged yet sporting an ominous sense of beauty, these were the best of all places.

Clothing came to life through the weaving of my fingertips. The people were dead, of course, but they never looked more lively!

And then it starts - the yelling again, the screams, they only happened once a week and yet even the thought of it made me want to puke all over. Crying, screaming, wailing. Teddy, Clara, Beatrice. Ultimately, it was the most frustrating thing in the world, just shut up, the world isn't ending, it won't end until you get sliced through the neck, or beaten to death, or old age or something. But as a whole, never.

"Teddy, shut the hell up." I scream, and glare at the others. "And you two - stop encouraging him."

†

words by wonder.
plot by clover.
template by clover.
faceclaim is holly fogg.

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