ATROPOS FATE, DISTRICT FOUR

[gamemaker kelsier]

[atrb=cellSpacing,20,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 500px; padding: 0 0 0 0px; border-radius: 10px 0px 0px 0px; background-image: url(http://i.imgur.com/GZLINu4.png); background-repeat: no-repeat, padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 35px; bTable] ATROPOS FATE "Atropos by all rights, is utterly mad. She is well suited to simple tasks, such as cutting the thread where her sisters have told her to. Just as she is the one who cuts the thread in the shop, she is the one in charge of ending your life. She will decide whether you are dumped in a pit of snakes, or if a piano is to fall on your head. She can easily make death look like an accident, just by using Decima's timing to give the perfect chance. Although it is her job to delegate the killings out to those more suited, such as Bastille and his lackeys, or other parties that are desperate for more time or cold, hard cash. She adores the site and sight of blood, and was the little girl that pulled wings off flies just to watch them squirm. She is as cold and unfeeling as her sisters, yet more so."

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N a m e : ATROPOS FATE
A g e : SEVENTEEN
G e n d e r : FEMALE
L o c a t i o n : DISTRICT FOUR
F a c e c l a i m : RIMMEL NEFFATI
J o b : SHOPKEEPER
S o n g : Running To The Sea - Susanne Sundfør
P l o t : THE FATES
C o d e w o r d : ødair[/td][/tr][/tr][/td][/td][/table][/center]

[gamemaker kelsier]

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[atrb=style, word-spacing: 1px; text-align: justify; opacity: 0.6; padding: 35px 10px 0px 10px; border-radius: 5px;] Atropos (/ˈætrəpɒs/, Greek Ἄτροπος [ˈatropos] – "inexorable" or "inevitable", literally "unturning",[16] sometimes called Aisa) was the cutter of the thread of life. She chose the manner of each person's death; and when their time was come, she cut their life-thread with "her abhorred shears".[17] Her Roman equivalent was Morta ('Death'). Her fingers are long, unearthly pale things. The sun is a fair and foreign creature to the young lady. Preference for that shining bright orb has never been her's but sometimes she misses the reminder of it's warmth. The rays that make their way in through the cloudy windows at the front of the wool shop are never enough. The shop itself is tucked safely away into one of the labyrinthine alleyways that make up the fourth district, far from the hustle and bustle of the boardwalk. Once, the girl in question decided it would be great fun to leave the shop and stay out in the sun all day long. In retribution for her actions, she not only received a spanking but a burning, red-hot and painful sunburn that peeled the skin off her skinny frame and made her cry at night from the ache. It left her with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and gave her a sickness that attacked her head for days. Once upon a time, there was a happy couple, bright eyed and beautiful, bursting with love and adoration for each other. They were both eighteen years old when they were married, the very day of the reaping when both of them were finally free, the couple got married. Mr. Fate's family owned a wool shop that had been passed down from generation to generation. They imported the wool from District Eight, wove it into thread, and sold it for a reasonable price. There were many beautiful colours in the shop, all the ones that could be imagined, and all the ones that couldn't. The new Mrs. Fate loved the old wool shop almost as much as her husband did, and when Mr. Fate's father retired, he passed the shop on to his son and daughter in law. The two ran the shop well together, working happily as a team, only ever bickering when they fought over who got to lick the cake mix bowl. Mrs. Fate was heavily pregnant with her third child, Atropos, when she took the couple's son, Prometheus, to the market to buy some fish and fresh vegetables for Sunday Night dinner. Although the way was winding, Mrs. Fate knew her way about, and was not worried for the long walk that was ahead of them. Her son, Prometheus, only a year old, giggled in his pram, reaching out with grubby fists at the albatross flying over head. When they reached the market, the hustle and bustle disrupted the quiet of the life Mrs. Fate had become so accustomed to. Still, she smiled and laughed, for the happiness of the Sunday Market crowd was catching. It had only been for a moment, that's all it was, just a moment where she looked away from the little pram that held her baby boy. In that tiny moment where she bartered for fish with the Saw family, Prometheus was taken from the pram, and whisked away into the crowd. The young mother screamed and cried for her baby boy, and the whole crowd shook with her sorrow, and felt sorrow for her. They lent in the search, but were unable to find the small child. Too young to get up and walk away, too young to fight off his kidnappers. Prometheus was lost. After the loss of their first son, the couple was a lot more careful with going out. In fact, their first daughter, Nona, was not allowed out at all. She was barely old enough to understand, just a wee thing as well. Her older brother of only five months difference was gone and suddenly her home had become a cage. Not even the distraction of a new little sister would rescue the Fates from their fate. A year after Atropos came Decima, a fierce child, but still not a boy. There was no sign of Prometheus, and no one to replace him. The young couple that had been so fresh and happy were embittered and the wool shop fell into disrepair. The children fell into disrepair too, feral, gorgeous slips of things. They were beautiful, but none of their looks or demeanor could make up for the kidnapping of their older brother. Atropos, for her part, was beautiful and quiet. Her eyes were big brown orbs that seemed to swallow the whole room up every time she slipped through a doorway. She was always very talkative growing up, and certainly, whenever she had anything to say it was never very clear. She would make comments here and there of the goings on of the household, speaking of something that had happened the week before, or of things that she swore were to come. Still, for all her oddities, she was bright, she was cheerful. Ever the curious child, the young girl clicked the latch on the back door of the shop when she was ten years old, to walk out into the hottest day of the summer. The sky was big and blue above, the canal in front of her was murky and there was a dead fish flipping about in the waves from the sea. She could hear the cry of an albatross. She had only been outside once before, and the that had been holding hands with both of her sisters, her father in front and mother behind. It had been five steps out to get the mail from the box and then five steps back in. It wasn't safe, their parents would say. Yet, Atropos was never one meant for the stability of rules, she was created to smash them into the ground. That day, her feet took her to her fate. Skipping happily along, she brought herself to the shoreline, where market day was going on. She wore no shoes, and her hair was long, loose and wild. It was the colour of coffee then. Her features are a cup of coffee, with milk stirred in and a drop of honey for sweetness. That day, she ran along the board walk, watching the ships that came and went, climbing on the rocks below, sticking her feet in the sea. This was against every rule the young girl knew, but still she went, giddiness making her tired, her tongue thick from lack of hydration. It was only when the sun began to set that she made her way home, burnt to a complete crisp, almost purple with burn. She was hot and feverish, her very brain felt as if it were being cooked alive. As coolness filled the air, she let out tiny sobs, her aching body making it hard to walk. Still, she found her way back to her street where her mother was keeping watch for her little girl, her father having spent the day looking for her. There was no punishment that he parents could give that was worse than the pain wracking her body. It spread her brain out on a rack and burnt it to a crisp, somewhere something short circuited. Her eyes became haunted in her face, unseeing. Where she seemed to be looking, there was always nothing, but she spoke to the nothing in a questioning and muttering whisper. Her skin peeled, and none of the salves that her mother knew seemed to help her. The sun had not only heated her skin, but boiled her brains as well. As her body healed, she did not. Where she had once spent afternoons running through the house laughing, or stood at her mother's side to cut the wool, she became a sweet far thing. Long after she healed, she didn't. She held entire conversations with the dust that streamed through her window. They thought her utterly mad beyond help because when they spoke to her she never responded, let alone acknowledged their presence. She even referred to herself in the third person, as if she was detached. The only ones who seemed able to get through to her were Nona and Decima, even then, that was only in private. It wasn't long before their mother found the first body on the kitchen floor, the tail of the tiny brown mouse still flicking, the head gone as if taken off with a pair of sharp shears. She tried to put it off as it being the cat, but she didn't think that the cat could get such a straight line. After that, other tiny corpses began to turn up, the body of a fly here and there, wings carefully plucked off, or even a squirrel once, all four feet carefully snipped away and the head missing. At first, the mother tried to hide the deeds of her poor, demented daughter, but it was made difficult when the little beagle turned up, head and tail-less, ready to go in the oven. The mother screamed at that one. At that one, the father marched up the stairs to confront his estranged daughter, but when he shoved the door open, he and his wife were met by an even stranger site. For the walls were plastered, covered completely with bits of paper, sequences of words that made no sense, such as, "HE IS INSIDE THE GRASS," and, "THE TREE IS WET CAN IT." Yet still, yarn was stuck into the walls with pins, attaching note to note, words to words, until the yarn spelled something. It was not just anything either, but a name, the name of a brother the girl never knew. Words and markings filled the floor space too, written with the blood of the small animals she had killed. A collection of heads lined the windowsill, all in a certain state of decay. The smell was horrendous. Her voice shrill, and body shaking, the mother ushered her daughter out of the corner she rocked in, and into the arms of Nona to be cleaned up. In the meantime, she and her husband took to scrubbing the floors. As they worked, and as her husband tossed the heads into the canal outside the window, they read the walls, and looked at the pins. Information that their daughter could not have known lined the walls, but here and there, there were notes written in a hand that was clearer, that held information. It was written on tiny pieces of parchment that rolled back up when unpinned. As they read the information, their faces nearly broke from shock, for here was a path in front of them to find the boy that they had lost fourteen years prior. With the new information, hope formed in the heads of the couple, clearing away the misfortune that had always tailed them and their children, for here was a lucky break. It even said that their boy was still in this District. Just far out, in the boondocks. They could find their son. So the father said he would go, but the mother said she would go to because she had been the one to lose him in the first place. They left on the morrow, leaving Nona in charge with explicit instructions to not leave the shop, and to watch after her sisters. Atropos, for her part, had taken to carving mixed up words into the very floorboards. Her parents did not care, they were too feverish with the information that their son was still alive. When their parents had still not come home after three months, the sisters took matters into their own hands. Atropos took to wandering the streets at night, bare foot, hair hanging loose and stringy with oil. She was far gone, still is. No one knows where her mind went but it stays there, and every now and then she'll bring home a dead thing like a cat leaving a bird or a mouse in her master's shoe. She's hidden the shears so that she's the only one who touches them. To her, they have become sacred, and her lucidity is even more. Even her sisters find it hard nowadays to find the sister named Atropos behind those wild eyes. Still, now the crazyness is not the same. More of her sentences make sense. It is as if her insides have all been scooped out and someone filled her with ice. She is always cold to the touch, no matter how many sweaters she layers on, and they still all think her insane. They do not know however, that beneath her ivory surface, there is only cold, calculating, genius. She is far saner than she appears to be, but with madness one gets away with much. Sure, there was certainly a time when she did not know which way was up and spirits clouded her vision. That time has passed, and it has left her with a gift. Now she can finish her sister's sentences, and is as creative as she is cruel. She loves to see the things she kills squirm, death by Atropos' hands is never forgiving or easy. It has been three years now since their parents have returned, and in that time the girls have set up an altogether different kind of shop. They all lack the empathy needed to treat a human life with respect because they were raised in such seclusion. They care for no one but themselves. So they still deal in wool and fabric, but instead of just cutting string and snipping through fabric, they severe tendons and slice through arteries. Atropos, is left with the deed as she is the one fixated on blood and who is too mad for suspect. Decima decides just when they will die, and Nona decides just how much they will charge for one life. It was Nona's idea that I act utterly insane so our parents would leave us alone. She's always been the smartest one. We are cruel like this, us Fate sisters. We are terrifying when we want to be. Whether we mask our sanity with insanity, or glide through life with a cold and clever step, we are all three the same. My sisters and I do what we do not only to make a living, but for the pure fun of it. We have grown up in boredom, yet now we hold the district in the palms of our hands. Fate is a feral and cruel thing. We are Fates, your fate to be exact. Your name is in the ledger, darling, so make no mistake, soon I will design your death. You won't know when or how, but my sweet, it will painful. My name is Atropos Fate, and I am her, the insane one, who refers to herself in third person. You can't trust me. Trust me here and now though when I say that this, this is going to fucking hurt. And the river flows beneath your skin Like savage horses kept within And all is wasted in the sand Like breaking diamonds with your hand

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[gamemaker kelsier]

◉‿◉ fin.

[cass]

i swear i love everything about your writing. she is perfect, you are perfect. <3333

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