Sadie Barton {D5/FIN}
Apr 6, 2014 20:37:28 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Apr 6, 2014 20:37:28 GMT -5
O H, W H E R E D I D T H E P A R T Y G O?
S A D I E B A R T O N
DISTRICT5 | SEVENTEEN | FEMALE
_______________________________________________________
S A D I E B A R T O N
DISTRICT5 | SEVENTEEN | FEMALE
_______________________________________________________
Tired eyes like dwindling stars in the night sky close as the room goes dark. It won’t be long before the sun graces the sky again, for it’s already early in the morning, somewhere around two or three. Her aching body shifts uncomfortably on the unfamiliar mattress, but other than the lingering stiffness that’s settled deep in her bones, she doesn’t seem to be bothered. It’s just another night, another bottle, and another person whose name she won’t remember in the morning. Not that it matters; not that it ever matters. It’s simply always a scramble to fling herself out of the bed and come to her senses, shaking off any uneasy feelings that might dare to cross her senses. She doesn’t need to be told how bad the situation is, because she knows. She’s been through it enough times to realize that hanging around only leads to questions, and more often than not, she doesn’t have the answers.
The first streams of light to enter the worn down room jolt her awake. The dull eyes that previously couldn’t follow the ceiling fan are now bright and vibrant, their color like the blue of the sky on a clear day. Her blonde hair is disheveled and tangled, pieces falling out of the ponytail she had so quickly put it into the night before. An attempt to get up results in remembrance of the aches she had encountered the night before, and it takes every ounce of will in her body to drag herself up. However, once the urgency of the situation catches her attention, her mind is on anything but the aches that pang her body. Questions begin to filter through her mind, sorting themselves into the categories of those she has answers to, and those she does not. She pauses to analyze the situation for a moment, her tall, lean frame outlined against the window. Her glance catches on the t-shirt draped over the bedframe, and she quickly takes it and slips it over her head, not bothering to ask whose it is.
The voices outside the only door to the room make her eyes widen in alarm, as that exit is no longer an option. Alarm turns to annoyance as she grumbles out a complaint, making her way back to the window. It takes her longer than it should to pry it open, but her trembling fingers prevent her from opening it efficiently. After what seems to be ages, the cool morning air is streaming in, and without a glance back, she slides out and down to the ground below. Her height has always been an issue when it comes to be sneaky, as 5’10 doesn’t tend to do anyone justice when it comes to subtlety. Her bare feet scrape against the ground, the thought of where her shoes were at the very back of her mind. There’s any urgency to her step, a purpose to her path. She just doesn’t know where it leads, yet.
She’s got a sort of air about her, not pretentious or showy, but definitely not overlooked. She draws attention in a way that is subtle, only showing the other pages of her book when she establishes a certain trust. Not that she ever really lets anyone read to the last page, for she’s quick to pull the book out from under the reader’s nose, leaving the end up to them, for that leaves an air of mystery about. Everyone makes up a different ending to her story, and that leaves everyone in a sense of confusion, and they go from questioning her life to her name, not able to really trust anything she’s said. She’s able to walk away from any conversation with a sense of security, a sense of being anonymous.
The attitude that she gives off is one that matches how she genuinely feels, secure. It’s not just a physical sense of security, but verbally as well. She doesn’t mind voicing whatever comes to her mind, no matter how many people she’s sure to offend. Her eyes glisten with a fire that is truthful, for that’s what she believe to fall from her lips. Of course, to be confident (as one might call it), you have to be comfortable with yourself, and that is one thing she has no problem with. Despite the remarks made under the breath of others, those that are both friends and strangers without a name, she is able to blow them off without a second thought. However, it wasn’t always like that. It used to be a stretch to walk past a group of people without crying. It was a never-ending uphill battle, one that she could never win. That was until she met the others she has come to call friends. Of course, friendships come with pros and cons, and the con of this was the ease with which she fell to the “occasional” drink. Little did anyone know that the term “occasional” is synonymous with “daily.”
No matter who you ask, the most often used term to describe Sadie is “stubborn.” Of course, less polite words have been used in its place, but the thought remains the same. It’s like a train being stuck on its tracks, a fish set on a stream. It’s unchangeable. It’s permanent. In the same way a boat powers through torrent waves, so does she over any problem that comes her way. She plows through it, set on a course that will most likely end with her own demise. People that don’t know her try to stop her, and those who know her get out of the way. They’ve learned that any attempts to put out the fire only fuel it more, causing flames to lick the sky ruby red, a color of passion and anger, hatred and desire.
She’s grown up asking questions from whomever she could get answers, because it didn’t matter to her if the answers were right or wrong. She just needed something—anything to get her past the barriers of “I don’t know.” Friends came and went, falling away from her desires to get whatever she pleased. They never could quite grasp her requests for stories, those that were true in every sense of the word. However, at as young of an age as they were, no one could tell true stories. Everything was a fairytale, beginning with “once upon a time” and ending with “happily ever after.” So these friends would talk amongst themselves, deciding upon what could pass as true without her realizing. She played along, willing herself to believe what they said, but never quite able to convince herself.
Past the age of twelve she stopped asking for those true stories, because she realized they had been sitting in front of her this entire time. She began to see the stories of horror and loss happened all the time, from those on a local scale to those that were televised. From adults to children, everyone was losing something. Everyone was looking for a fairy tale to take them from the reality that she had been looking for. The picture that she had painted for herself, the one that showed destruction and love in a way that was almost artistic, it existed. It was here, and it was now. However, no one else seemed to see the beauty in it, and time after time she would tilt her head in confusion as friends and family alike would tell her they just didn’t get it. They wrote her off as childish and immature, looking to a reality that would offer no comfort.
Now, at age seventeen, she’s found a few people who understand the way reality works. Or seems to work, for all it matters. She’s taken refuge in people who see the artistry in a flame, or the beauty in a sky painted red. It’s all just something worth taking a moment and staring at. She still spends nights in the strange homes of boys she doesn’t know the names of, still closing her eyes to the darkness of a room without familiarity. She still wakes up to sunlight and headaches and broken bottles on the floor, for that’s a sight that’s almost artistic as the red that streaks the sky, just in a different kind of way. She is still asking questions, only she’s found a few answers, but she’s always looking for more. More love, more stories, more nameless strangers and unnamed homes. She’s always looking for something.
The first streams of light to enter the worn down room jolt her awake. The dull eyes that previously couldn’t follow the ceiling fan are now bright and vibrant, their color like the blue of the sky on a clear day. Her blonde hair is disheveled and tangled, pieces falling out of the ponytail she had so quickly put it into the night before. An attempt to get up results in remembrance of the aches she had encountered the night before, and it takes every ounce of will in her body to drag herself up. However, once the urgency of the situation catches her attention, her mind is on anything but the aches that pang her body. Questions begin to filter through her mind, sorting themselves into the categories of those she has answers to, and those she does not. She pauses to analyze the situation for a moment, her tall, lean frame outlined against the window. Her glance catches on the t-shirt draped over the bedframe, and she quickly takes it and slips it over her head, not bothering to ask whose it is.
The voices outside the only door to the room make her eyes widen in alarm, as that exit is no longer an option. Alarm turns to annoyance as she grumbles out a complaint, making her way back to the window. It takes her longer than it should to pry it open, but her trembling fingers prevent her from opening it efficiently. After what seems to be ages, the cool morning air is streaming in, and without a glance back, she slides out and down to the ground below. Her height has always been an issue when it comes to be sneaky, as 5’10 doesn’t tend to do anyone justice when it comes to subtlety. Her bare feet scrape against the ground, the thought of where her shoes were at the very back of her mind. There’s any urgency to her step, a purpose to her path. She just doesn’t know where it leads, yet.
She’s got a sort of air about her, not pretentious or showy, but definitely not overlooked. She draws attention in a way that is subtle, only showing the other pages of her book when she establishes a certain trust. Not that she ever really lets anyone read to the last page, for she’s quick to pull the book out from under the reader’s nose, leaving the end up to them, for that leaves an air of mystery about. Everyone makes up a different ending to her story, and that leaves everyone in a sense of confusion, and they go from questioning her life to her name, not able to really trust anything she’s said. She’s able to walk away from any conversation with a sense of security, a sense of being anonymous.
The attitude that she gives off is one that matches how she genuinely feels, secure. It’s not just a physical sense of security, but verbally as well. She doesn’t mind voicing whatever comes to her mind, no matter how many people she’s sure to offend. Her eyes glisten with a fire that is truthful, for that’s what she believe to fall from her lips. Of course, to be confident (as one might call it), you have to be comfortable with yourself, and that is one thing she has no problem with. Despite the remarks made under the breath of others, those that are both friends and strangers without a name, she is able to blow them off without a second thought. However, it wasn’t always like that. It used to be a stretch to walk past a group of people without crying. It was a never-ending uphill battle, one that she could never win. That was until she met the others she has come to call friends. Of course, friendships come with pros and cons, and the con of this was the ease with which she fell to the “occasional” drink. Little did anyone know that the term “occasional” is synonymous with “daily.”
No matter who you ask, the most often used term to describe Sadie is “stubborn.” Of course, less polite words have been used in its place, but the thought remains the same. It’s like a train being stuck on its tracks, a fish set on a stream. It’s unchangeable. It’s permanent. In the same way a boat powers through torrent waves, so does she over any problem that comes her way. She plows through it, set on a course that will most likely end with her own demise. People that don’t know her try to stop her, and those who know her get out of the way. They’ve learned that any attempts to put out the fire only fuel it more, causing flames to lick the sky ruby red, a color of passion and anger, hatred and desire.
She’s grown up asking questions from whomever she could get answers, because it didn’t matter to her if the answers were right or wrong. She just needed something—anything to get her past the barriers of “I don’t know.” Friends came and went, falling away from her desires to get whatever she pleased. They never could quite grasp her requests for stories, those that were true in every sense of the word. However, at as young of an age as they were, no one could tell true stories. Everything was a fairytale, beginning with “once upon a time” and ending with “happily ever after.” So these friends would talk amongst themselves, deciding upon what could pass as true without her realizing. She played along, willing herself to believe what they said, but never quite able to convince herself.
Past the age of twelve she stopped asking for those true stories, because she realized they had been sitting in front of her this entire time. She began to see the stories of horror and loss happened all the time, from those on a local scale to those that were televised. From adults to children, everyone was losing something. Everyone was looking for a fairy tale to take them from the reality that she had been looking for. The picture that she had painted for herself, the one that showed destruction and love in a way that was almost artistic, it existed. It was here, and it was now. However, no one else seemed to see the beauty in it, and time after time she would tilt her head in confusion as friends and family alike would tell her they just didn’t get it. They wrote her off as childish and immature, looking to a reality that would offer no comfort.
Now, at age seventeen, she’s found a few people who understand the way reality works. Or seems to work, for all it matters. She’s taken refuge in people who see the artistry in a flame, or the beauty in a sky painted red. It’s all just something worth taking a moment and staring at. She still spends nights in the strange homes of boys she doesn’t know the names of, still closing her eyes to the darkness of a room without familiarity. She still wakes up to sunlight and headaches and broken bottles on the floor, for that’s a sight that’s almost artistic as the red that streaks the sky, just in a different kind of way. She is still asking questions, only she’s found a few answers, but she’s always looking for more. More love, more stories, more nameless strangers and unnamed homes. She’s always looking for something.
{o t h e r}
Sadie Barton
age: 17
district: 5
gender: female
face claim: Jordan van der Vyver
codeword: oDair
words: 497 + 472 + 447 = 1,416
Sadie Barton
age: 17
district: 5
gender: female
face claim: Jordan van der Vyver
codeword: oDair
words: 497 + 472 + 447 = 1,416
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