Good ~E n o u g h~ {Mylee}

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Fire burns within me. It's my fuel, what keeps me going. Hungry flames sear through my body, leaving only determination in their wake. It consumes every part of me. I love it.

I've always been a passionate person. Everything I feel is amplified to the extreme. I find this helps me when training, my emotion fueling every single blow. My hand tightening on my club. It's like a part of me as I thrash and dodge. I never use strategy. Who needs form and order when emotion and passion is so much more powerful and raw.

Fury aids me today. I land blows on the training dummy my teeth grit so tight that pain runs up and down my jaw. This only fuels my fire. Sweat burns my eyes. I can barely see. I swing wildly not caring whether my blows actually hit or not.

Fucking

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Thuds fill the room. Rapid hits pepper the dummy.

BITCH[/color]

I scream. Rage and frustration escaping me in a single desperate cry. I throw the club against the wall, my back falling against another. I bury my head in my hands, sliding to the floor. I'm crying, wetness falling from my eyes, mixing with the sweat that lay on my cheeks. I try not to care. I don't want to. But how could I not? She's my mother for fucks sake. She drives father to drink and me to near madness.

And she sits there, wringing her hands and muttering. Fathers no better, drinking his life away. I hate them both for not being there for me. And it's only getting worse.

How can they not care? How can no one care?

I get up, leaving the club forgotten on the gym floor. I keep my head down, hiding the tears still falling from the tip of my slender nose. I just want to prove myself. To make up for everything they are and have made me. I just want to be good enough.

At least this day can't get any worse[/color]

I muse as I make my way through District One.[/center][/size]

[Deleted]

Lyla Stinson

I am nothing more than a girl. Nothing more than salt falling through a sieve, another particle falling into the pile of unimportance. I am buried by the people around me, choking on the brilliance of others, especially those I have chosen to surround myself with, family and friends, acquaintances filling in the cracks left behind. But no matter who I put around to cushion my fall into adulthood, I’m somehow always tumbling through, my back making contact with the concrete. However, that concrete differs from the blocks beneath my feet, leading me to a destination that is still unknown.

The buildings pass with a strange familiarity, every one having at least one memory tied to the walls beyond their doors. There’s a shop on my left, a bench on my right, and a place I stay far away from just paces away. I haven’t even realized where I’ve walked, but as the handle of the door stands within my reach, I do not know what to do. If you’d have seen me, it would appear as if a door was a strange and unknown object to me. I ran my fingers over the polished wood of the handle, the cracks and crevices signs of anger and rage that could only be handled by those of a stronger sort. I pulled on it gently, but no budge was to be found within the force of my weak frame. Moving my other hand to it as well, I put my weight into my heels and pulled harder, taking the small space of a gap I created to dart inside.

The clean tiles of the floor reflected my image clearly. I was nothing special to look at, and more than anything, I looked out of place. I don’t even think I’ve ever stepped inside here. No one seemed to be paying attention to me, and for that I was thankful. I didn’t belong here, and I really didn’t need anyone to tell me so.

[[nyte]]

Weak. Something I have been called since the day of my birth. So small. I could never make it. I would never survive the week let alone to the age of one. Well, I showed them. I showed them no matter how small you are, being alive is a choice. I fought for everything I have. Despite my mother's catatonia. Despite father ruining everything, here I am. I have showed them. I won't let anything defeat me. Not careless parents, or harsh words.

I am Saura Song, future victor.

I will not let anything get in the way of my glory. I will not give up.
I make my way back to the gym. Retracing the footsteps my delicate feet have made in the snow. I love the way it feels, crunching under my feet. It was almost peaceful. A break from the constant storm of emotion raging inside of me. I bend down, taking the white powder between my fingers. The delicate crystals break, releasing tiny pinpricks of water down long pale fingers. I smile, for the first time in a very long time. I feel almost renewed. I will not give up.

I won't.

I enter the training gym once again, prepared to resume a hard days training. Then I see the girl. She obviously doesn't belong. There is little to no tone in the girl's figure. Her clothes are thick and heavy, nothing you would wear while training. Even if she had just begun, I could not tell her age indefinitely, not a trainer was in sight.

"Excuse me." I try to keep the disdain for this girl, obviously not a career, therefore not worth my time out of my voice. I can almost tell that it is far too sweet, obviously fake. I've never been able to hide my emotions well, I guess today was not a day to start. "Are you lost?"

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[Deleted]

Lyla Stinson

The room is full of noises that flood my ears with an overwhelming sense of anxiety, a sense of fear that exists when a small girl enters a world that is not hers. I have overstepped the boundaries of my comfort zone, and I would like to only go home. The kids that surround me are full of hatred and uncontrollable rage, a pack of wild dogs only looking for their next kill. I am not like them, or am I? They’re all fighting for something, for someone, or for themselves. Haven’t I been fighting for myself since I was little? Since I was told that I would be just like my sister when I grew up? I had never wanted to be like her, not that she wasn’t wonderful, but she was not me. She was strong and independent, with will and ideas flowing out of her fingers at every touch. I didn’t possess that ability, and often I was shot down for it. My parents were never mean about it, always encouraging me to try harder or find something of my own. But fifteen years later and I am still searching, still stumbling around in the dark with no candle. I guess I’m angrier than I believed.

The voice of another brought me back to where I was, her voice a jagged piece of glass against the smoothness of the thoughts that flowed through my mind. “Excuse me, are you lost?” The question takes me by surprise, as I am usually able to sneak through anywhere unnoticed. But apparently, I am beginning to take on my own personality that is slowly emerging through the cracks of my hidden demeanor. I’m not sure how to deal with this situation or how to respond to as simple of a question as the one that’s been presented to me. My words portrayed the opposite of confidence, confusion and anxiety strung from syllable to syllable. “Not really—well, kind of. Where am I? I know where I am, but where exactly am I?” I wanted to grow up, but who could take me seriously when I stumbled over the simplest words?