fool me once -clover-

[[nyte]]

Jaguar Lyre//District One//Seventeen  Does - "Says" - Thinks - Hears  A deathly hand rests on my abdomen. Long, withered fingers tracing cold paths along the many hills and valleys that surround my naval.A restless night's sleep left my dark hair askew, spilling onto the dingy pillow on which my head lay. My eyes refuse to open, desperately clinging to what little sleep still remained before the sun's rays pierced their thin covering. One hand turns to many as their cold embrace increases. Nails of ice rake along my flanks leaving paths of intense coldness in their wake.  Despite their protest, my eyes fly open at this abuse. My eyes finding  an exposed stomach, small bumps having risen in a desperate attempt to save itself from the cold.  My hand, numb from a night under the weight of my skull, runs along my stomach.  Slowly regaining feeling while causing warmth to radiate through my frozen body. My head roll lazily to my left, fixing upon the white powder which had settles upon the sill of the open window.  I cannot  hold back the smile that dances across my chapped lips. The night prior I had thrown the window open, welcoming the cold's  harsh embrace. Welcoming it's sharpness and bitter stings. Winter had all but answered, awakening me with her lovely abuse.  For what I craved was nothing less that that. Nature, having no morals and not even the trace of a conscious, answers my please without hesitation or restraint.  Finally my  body, a slight ache radiating from nowhere in particular, has risen from it's resting position. My feet once again touch a floor that might have once been a shining polished oak. Now, dirt and grime give it nothing more than that of a pitch hue. No wood can be made out from the despair that has befallen it for so many long years.  (What an odd metaphor for my own life). As per usual, a few of my aunts and uncles are slumped against a wall on the far side of my bedroom. Needles and pipes lay in their slack hands, a gentle rumble sounding from somewhere deep within their swollen throats.  Fearing the wrath of awaking a sleeping lion, my feet traverse the room as quickly and quietly as I could. Undressing in front of my aunts and uncles is always disconcerting. As it is not blood that relates them to my parents, but the poison that courses through their veins. Grabbing a tattered quilt, I drape it around my shoulders. tuning my back to the growling lions as I dress.  Clothing soon  covers my bruised body. A loose shirt, a dark maroon in hue (my favorite as it so resembles the ruby liquid)  falls somewhere below my hips. Jeans (no other color than  just that) lay low on my hip bones.  Daring not make a sound  in front of the predators that  have taken up residence in my room, slow footsteps eventually lead me to the door.  Once out of that room the breath that I had been holding in my lungs escapes.  While a few aunts (and uncles as well)  lay haphazardly about the winding halls (so many people living in a small house would simply now do), the rumbles that leave their chests are less than a growl and more of a purr. Like that of the small cats I have seen wander about the streets. Too deep in their stupor to make it to a room, they did not concern me nearly as much as the lions that lay sleeping in my den.  Bare feet stick to the dirt as my steps grow faster, mirroring that of my heart. Perhaps my father would be in a bad mood (oh how I hope he is) . It had been so long since father had said I love you. I was beginning to grow worried that he had all but forgotten about me. I can almost see his clenched fist, big as the head of a the wild beasts stalking the boarders of the lower districts. I can feel it connect with my body, a statement far more  powerful than words could ever be.  (After all, aren't we taught that action speaks louder than words?).  Mother had been gone a long while now, locked away with uncles behind locked doors.  Though I never craved her words as much as that of my father's fist. I simply do not care for my mother as much as father.  As per usual, father sat in the bright yellow armchair. Rocking back and forth almost methodically.  One.  One  One  Two. One.  One one two.  It's hypnotic, my father's meticulous pattern. His eyes carry the mirrored glaze of my aunts and uncles. I know that the poison he so often shares with them has newly entered his veins. Entering a state of catatonia, I knew father would not love me today. And, fear striking within a young heart, i almost wonder if he ever will again.  I try to place this anxiety as far  as my mind will let it. I refuse to believe that my father will never again express his love for me. Better not to bother the leader of his pride right after a meal, I open the chipped door leading out of this prison. The air, not tainted by the smoke that hangs about the house like a storm, burns. It's far too fresh, too clean, like sip of water after chewing a mint.  Winter, once again, coming to my aid. It's delicate hands scraping againIst my face.  I love you.  It is only after my body has escaped my prison that my mind catches up. No doubt the poison clouds that always fog my vision during extended periods in the lion's den. And yet, when my mind tries to take control of my limbs, they refuse. No matter how I thrash  and struggle they refuse to stop tumbling beneath me.  I  A  M F A L L I N G