the lines we toe: starcrossed lovers {birch v. blackmore}
Apr 12, 2014 23:51:29 GMT -5
Post by Dreams on Apr 12, 2014 23:51:29 GMT -5
S U M M E R B L A C K M O R E
district 2 | female | fifteen
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The head of Birch boy's arrow has imperfections. I like imperfections, and maybe it's because I don't know any better. Maybe it's because the only thing I've ever known is flaws. The flaws in me, the flaws in others, the flaws in this family, the flaws in this house. No, nothing is ever flawless, no matter how much we want to believe it. We will always be drowning in a sea of imperfections. And then there's the few of us who will swim.
I flinch as a hand rests on my shoulder. Only then do I realize how tense I was. "That's enough," Aragorn whispers, and the low hum of his voice tickles my ears. I nod and walk away, and I'm so glad he has rescued me. I have fun fresh out of letters and words and sentences. And even if I had any left, I wouldn't trust myself to speak. “Who the hell do you think you are, boy? Did your parents not teach you any manners? You are in my house, as my guest, and you wield a weapon. I suggest you put it down right now unless you want to lose those precious fingers of yours. I expected better f the Birch's. After all you are meant to be one of the more sophisticated families... But I guess thats not that case, right, boy...? Put. It. Down. Now.” I am startled as Aragorn's tone changes so violently, scolding the boy that seemed so willing to drive an arrow through a family member's head. I am left to remember that I am one of the few who Aragorn does not shout at on a regular basis. He's nice to me. I would even go as far as to say that he loves me. And I'm so happy, because for fifteen long years I thought I was alone in this murderous and sadistic family.
I find myself sitting on the chair and looking outside the window, ignoring the faint reflection of me and staring outside. I've given up. I have concluded that fire and water get along better than the Birches and Blackmores ever will. I tune in and out, listening in on conversations that are more like arguments. "Why don't we toss all of our weapons outside. It would benefit us all. You know, to avoid death and/or severe bleeding." Yes, why don't we? I glance to see a boy that cannot be older than me, the ghost of nervousness on his face with a thin veil of confidence. I want to tell him that people in here would still find ways to hurt each other. We have knives in the kitchen. And it would be simple enough to strangle someone. And we don't trust each other enough to know that we have put all our weapons outside.
I sit there, occasionally smoothing out the ruffles in my skirt. I don't know where to go, or what to do. I watch the moon in the sky, hanging alone in the dark abyss. The stars are covered by the overcast of clouds, but the moon still shines. It still stands. And I find myself wondering what it would be like to shine brighter than everyone else. To not have anyone pick on you. And I guess I am envious of the moon, except for the loneliness it must feel. Yes, loneliness is an odd feeling. It stays with you, holding your hand. And when you feel ready, so, so ready to let go, it dares you to leave. It dares you to live life without it. And you find yourself sucked into the cycle all over again.
I count every tick of the clock. I count every tock of the clock. 1, 2, 3, 4. I count the large intervals of the face, the 12, the 3, the 6, the 9. I count the small intervals, the 1, 2, 4, 5, 7, 8, 10, and 11. I count the intervals between the intervals between the intervals until it's so microscopic I can't tell how many there are. I count the trees and their 1, 2, 3 ,4, 5, too many arms that sway in the wind. I count the cracks in the window sill and the panes. I count the seconds and the minutes that pass by. I'm not exactly why. Maybe because loneliness is holding my hand beside me, grinning because I've fallen into it's trap.
A slam that makes me jump startles me from my own wandering mind.
"You all should be a shamed of yourselves. Every last one of you. We're here for a fucking dinner party not a knock out brawl. People died. Ares, Hannah, Beatrice, Cassius they died fighting, and here you all standing with your hands prepped for slaughter. You all are a bunch of fucking pigs. You all sicken me." I blink at the boy who says this, studying the rage in his features. I had almost not noticed him as I walked over here. Maybe it was because I was too caught up in the past. Or maybe I'm not as observant as previously thought. I return my attention back to the window.
"Such unfortunate language," I say quietly to the glass. He might hear me, he might not. I hope he doesn't. "Only those who cannot express themselves civilly rely on crude substitutions in vocabulary." I sigh. I might as well talk to this window all night, because I have decided that I am not entirely fond of the words that slip from human mouthes. They are words that mean so much, and are simply empty air. I wonder why the moon and the stars even present us their beauty; we're disappointments. I wonder why the sky gives us rain which gives us life, because we've destroyed it. We've screwed with everything. I'm so sorry for all that humanity's done, and all the things that can never be normal again.
I think self-pity is holding my other hand, and loneliness and it are plotting the end of me.
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