:| a change of heart ||Dreams |:

[k!ah]

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{ A g e :: 1 8 }
{ G e n d e r :: m a l e }
{ D i s t r i c t :: 2 }
{ s e x u a l i t y :: s t r a i g h t }

The blade in my hands was something that made my heart skips a beat. It was perfect, the silver coating of the weapon as clean as the light that flashed endlessly through the depths of my eyes. It had perfect balance as I moved it from one hand to the other in perfect precision. It was something that I wished I could have in my own collection, something I wished belonged to me. But it didn’t’ It belonged to the training center which I was in now, it belong to the capitol- who were very cautious of the things that left this room- meaning nothing. You enter the room with nothing but the clothes on your back, you leave the same way. You could steal anything that called this room home- nothing. It was all well-guarded- as it should be I guess.

I smile at the blade once more before placing it down carefully on the table before me. The center was filled with a various amount of people, all different sizes, different shapes, different ages and different genders. I watch as a girl- no older that 13- pick up a sword and with what seemed like no effort at all, slice through the tender neck of a dummy. I tilt my head to the side slightly as she placed the blade down with a satisfied smile. Sometimes I wandered if my family really was as dangerous as they seemed.

Snorting I brush the question to the back of my mind- my family was defiantly a force to be reckoned with. We were slightly out of the lope, people who took pleasure in making the death of others oh so very slow and the pain that our victims would go through would be excruciating. Turning away from the girl who was now playing idly with a knife I move to pick up the knife again. I balance it delicately in the palm of my hand, just before I close my eyes and allow my brain to connect with the weapon perched between my fingers. I felt it. I could feel the cool touch of the blades handle against the pale skin of my palm. I could feel the slight tremor that ran through it as I moved my hand closer to my face, my wide eyes opening as I took in the beautiful instrument. Then I hold it like it is meant to be, facing the blade away from me ad into the open air.

Then I thrust out with the blade, arching it high then low then left then right- a perfect diamond in the still air. My movements were fast- I knew that, I had trained to be fast, deadly even. People feared me, they knew what I was capable of, they knew I was dangerous, my family especially. Almost each and every one of them have faced me when I was a raging ball of anger, and almost each one of them have come out with a battle scar to prove it. I wasn’t proud- no I was not proud to be this person, this one who results to violence- But I was more disappointed in them, they had lead me to become that person, they had pushed me too far. In all honest, they were the reason why I was a harsh, cold as stone man of mystery.

I pull the blade back to my side and let the muscles in my shoulders relax, a light smile plastered to my pale chapped lips. I turn to place the blade back on the bench before I wander over to where a few benches sat at uneven intervals. A water fountain sat near and I quickly sashay over to it, my mouth begging for the sweet taste of liquid to flood it and leave it satisfied. I quickly close in on the water fountain, my hand pressing the button that would release the lovely clear water from the tube and into my mouth. Water fills my mouth and I almost sigh as I gulp greedily at the tube, my chapped lips soon turning a light shiny pink as I lick away the remainder of the splashes that had landed on them.

I barely take in the world around me as I find a quiet corners where the gentle shadows of darkness ate me up, keeping me hidden from the prying eyes of those around me.


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Template credits to Zoe <3

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[Dreams]

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[atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: white; border: ededed solid 0px; width: 490px; padding: 5 5 5 5px; border-radius: 0px 0px 20px 0px;] if i could do it all over again go back to where all of this began would everything be different? or would i do it all again? My mind has been places. It's been to where I've ruled kingdoms and I've sailed the seas. It's where I escape to get away from this cold reality known as life. Sometimes, it has it's moments. But most of the time it's either rage inducing, painful, or a bore. ( none of which i take certain fondness to ) I've had memories there unlike any I've had here. No Capitol, no bloodthirsty family, no nothing. Just me living dreams that will never happen. Sometimes I tell myself not to go there again, because it's too tantalizing. Can you do it when you're dead? Can you stay there forever? Can climb mountains and stay there the whole day? Can you find wings and teach yourself to fly? Can you dance across the stars? Can you live in the clouds? Can you be human? Can I actually be me for once? No one to judge me, no one to tell me no. My eyes finally open. I was awake. Or was I? I don't know. I was thinking, so I must have been. I groan heavily and crawl out of the satiny bedspread. They were lacy and white, a little girly, but I suppose I'm the only girl who's slightly feminine here. I slip on a simple black outfit. It's what I always wear to training. I don't want to be noticed much for what I do. Staying in the shadows, being the shadows, it works for me. I sigh and look into the mirror. My hair is frizzy and I feel to tired to go through it. I sigh and put it in a simple ponytail, and, for the first time in a long time, take a glance at myself. My trademark green eyes and the few strands that are too short to make it into the hairband. My face is framed by darkness, making it look quite gaunt. I stand up and walk away, not having any opinion on what the mirror projects for me. ( i think? ) My soft footsteps glide across the hall. The air seems musty and still, undisturbed and I can see dust particles near the windows, which are flooding the room with light. I can come to two conclusions. No one is up ( hard to believe ) or everyone's at training ( much more likely ). I might as well go too, since there is nothing to do. My imagination is starting to fail me, it's starting to slip away. The colors are faded and the people translucent. The images I see in my head are disappearing. I don't want them to go, but all good things must come to an end. It's the truth. Nothing good can stay forever. And, more importantly, nothing bad can either. Nothing can stay forever, I don't think. I skip breakfast. I don't need it, I don't want it. I just slip on the dark leather boots and white jacket and I'm out. As soon as the door swings open, a wave of frigidness washes over me. It isn't the pleasantest feeling in the world and I find on the way to the center that I'm clutching my arms and my teeth are chattering. But, I've had worse. And it didn't kill me, so I'm perfectly fine. I grasp the door handle with my lacy fingers and pull, feeling a rush of warm air embrace me like a hug. But then again, I don't think I've had many hugs. It's been quite a while. ( honestly, i've been desperate for some affection for quite some time ) I enter slowly. My footsteps are light and silent, no one even turns to look. Jests and jeers are being thrown around, competitive remarks and a couple angry shouts echo around the room. Hey, it sounds like our house but a little less intense. When I'm in, I ponder whether to go to swords or knives. Swords are always filled, like every single time I've been here. Mostly boys who have too much muscle to look decent and too much pride to be decent ( wow, the resemblance to the blackmores is uncanny ). I stride over to the long distance booths instead of trying to wrestle my way into getting one of the swords. I hold the knife in my hand, getting a feel of the handle and the blade shape. I get ready and I throw. Right in the shoulder of the practice target. ( just a little rusty, that's all ) I throw again, getting closer and closer to the heart every time. Then, spot on. ( see i told you ) I leave the station and make my way through the center to the obstacle course. It wasn't busy, no. It never was. Weapons, weapons, weapons, that's all anyone has ever cared about here. Except for me, of course. I have some compassion still left in my heart. I was named Summer for a reason, I suppose. The platforms rise and fall quickly, eager to trip me up and knock me off. Bars and pads are placed everywhere, poking in and out. They challenge me, they tell me I can't. I smirk. Try me. Then I leap forward and begin the climb across the devilish course. Nothing stops me, no. My fingers grip the bars above and my feet leap off the ground. My wiry frame twists and bends into flips and handstands. The last platform, the last stage. I misjudge it, I fly too far. My foot skims the padding and I hear a sickening crack as it does. ( oh no oh no oh no ) At least I'm left footed. As I land, it aches so much and I gasp with pain. I dare to take a glance down at it. No blood, no bruises. But there is something wrong. It definitely is not in the position it should be. It's twisted to the side, disgusting enough I want to puke. It takes a while to register in my mind. I dislocated it. ( crap ) As soon as I acknowledge it, searing pain flashes through my body straight on cue. I sit down and rock back in forth. ( don't cry, don't be weak ) My face is molded into a pained grimace. No one notices, except for some of the sword boys ( that's what i'm calling them from now on ) who merely glance over and then point and laugh. I would've carved a pretty little design on their faces if the circumstances were more fortunate.

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[k!ah]

ARAGORN BLACKMORE

my word, is law.

The darkness swallows me up and I know that no one in this building would see me. I was nothing, nothing but a pair of prying eyes in the distance and I liked it- loved it. I loved the fact that I could observe but not be observed. It was something, a talent, that I appreciated, one that I indulged in. My eyes surf the people around me, I watch as children as young as 8 wield the weapon that would one day take the life of someone, wield a weapon that was capable of stealing away the lives of people who were in the wrong place and the wrong time. I knew this, I for one, was someone who had started wielding weapons from a young age, someone who took people’s lives away with nothing more than a smile thought of their death- me being the one to claim their life.

It only takes me a moment for my eyes to find her. She was small, smaller than the rest of my family. My eyes watch her, and I feel something within me begin to move. There was just something about her- about Summer- that got to me more than the others. Most of the time when I thought about my family I felt like gagging. I hated most of them. I hated the way they feed on the flesh of other human beings, or the way they drained the bodies of others, drinking in their blood as though it was their life line. It made me feel sick to the bone to open the fridge door where I would find someone’s stomach, or heart, that would be then be feed to the family ‘dog’. All of it was disgusting, and something that made me despise the people who shared my name.

Pushing away the thoughts of my family I bring back my focus to Summer. This room was full of weapons, full of blades and spikes and yet Summer Blackmore seems to pay little to no attention to the deadly weapons. It didn’t surprise me, Summer, for as long as I could remember, had been one of the few Blackmores who had not indulged in the random murder or torture of others. In some ways it made me feel as though she was not supposed to be part of this family- I felt as though she should be classed lower than the rest of the people who shared my name. But I couldn’t, I couldn’t do it. She- out of all of them- disgusted me the least. Maybe it was the fact that she had a heart that made her shine brighter than the rest.

She skimmed past the weapons her body beginning to weave in and around the obstacle course. Her body moved like fluid, as graceful as a flamingo- until she landed wrong, her whole body crashing to the floor. Suddenly I am on my feet, my body still concealed by the shadows. A look of sheer pains paints itself on the face of my sister and a frown slips onto my forehead. But I don’t move, I hold steady, my eyes searching Summer intently. Then she is on the floor, her body moving backwards and forwards, her face as pale as a ghost. My eyes leave hers for a moment as I hear gentle choking of laughter. I turn to see a few boys pointing and laughing and instantly my body is fuelled by a blinding anger.

I don’t even think as I move from the shadows and into the open where I stride over to the boys, my face as deadly as the face of a killer. “You guys finding something funny?” I ask quietly my voice deadly calm? “Huh?” I raise an eyebrow and the boys laughter dies instantly. He begins to shake his head frantically before running from view. I don’t turn around straight away, I wait, allowing my anger to simmer down slightly.

When I felt myself gaining control once again I turn to face the girl whose face was contorted in pain. My face softens- slightly- and I move to kneel down next to her. “Are you okay?”

[Dreams]

s u m m e r † blackmore

i'm b l e e d i n g out

so if the l a s t thing that i  d o

it's bring you d o w n

i'll bleed out for y o u

[

fifteen
female
district 2

Everything hurts. Breathing, moving. It forces black spots of pain into my vision, like nothing I've ever felt before. Worst of all, everyone is watching me, my face contorted and tight with pain, and my seething breaths I force through shut teeth. Every beating pulse seems to bring new waves of pain to my brain, and my head aches with every single feeling my nerves bring me. The laughter still rings in my ears, but muted and eerily distant. I feel like I may pass out. But I can't. Because if I do, I'll be weak. I cannot be weak. I hold my hands to the hem of my shirt so they will stop shaking. Or, stop the shaking as much as I can.

I look up at the ceiling, because it's the only thing I can do. My eyes, squeezed shut, open a little. I can see the rafters cartwheeling towards me, hurtling down at me as if to attack me. I close them again with a sharp squeak. Icy sweat trickles down my forehead, drawing lines of wetness as they roll down. After what seems like ages, though it was most likely just a minute or so, the pain subsides somewhat. But I don't dare look at my foot, because it will make me sick and serves a reminder of pain and weakness. I do not move it or try to move it, I do not do anything. Then it will spark up again, and it will bring fire tearing through me once more.

My eyes find their place in darting movement encased by shadows, but they're too dark for me to identify. I can only see a silhouette. But the form of him looks familiar, as well as the elegant strides and the way his shoulders lilt in a prideful way that could only mean a certain someone from the Blackmores. He takes hard steps towards the laughing boys, and I can only watch. I can't hear what he says, but I can hear the laughing abruptly cut and I can see them run off quickly soon after he approaches. My only guess is this is Aragorn, because he's the only Blackmore who might possibly defend me. The others would scold me for being so clumsy or for choosing the obstacle course over knives or a sword.

I can see him stand there for a second before making his way to me. As he get closer, his face is softened with only a ghost expression of rage. I'm not sure why he looks like this. I can't help but wonder if it were anyone else, would Aragorn care? He disapproves of the family ways as much as I do. I guess in a way we have made some alliance, having the same central dislike. But I've never seen him with that face on. Ever. He crouches down besides me, and soothing words I'd never expect to pass through his lips play across the air. "Are you okay?" They're soft like feathers. But, unfortunately, pride runs in this family.

My eyes skirt his a little before answering. "I'm fine." I mutter, hoping there wasn't too much venom in my voice. I am grateful for him to ask, but now isn't the time for him to start acting like a big brother for once. Well, I guess the Logan incident sort of counts, but that was too violent for my taste. I try to get up to show him, using my right leg to lift up most of my weight. But it only takes a few seconds for the pain in my foot to resurface again. My knees buckles from underneath me and I gasp again, collapsing into him. I start to cry. I said I wouldn't cry. I said I wouldn't be weak. But I am. No one can really see it. I have my face buried into his chest, and though my shoulders are heaving up and down and up and down and my breath is loud and raspy, the dampness only goes into the fabric of Aragorn's shirt. That is where my tears will live and where they will die, right over his heart. "It hurts, Aragorn. It really hurts." I whimper.