and we're built from fires {{ cait
Jun 23, 2014 20:37:11 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Jun 23, 2014 20:37:11 GMT -5
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Sometimes you wonder why you never left that clockwork of a district behind sooner, Esrooke's constant chiming and Aceline's quiet peeps (saying you missed not a single part of district numero three was a lie, Aceline was your twin, literally of the same heart lines beating against your wrists in a constant reminder that you were alive, very much alive) still mimicking each other somewhere in that head of your's, however faded and stained with time it must be, but it existed no matter how much longing attempted to suffocate them into the corners. And with every step in life beating like a drum, a perpetual clack, clack, clacking, hauting you no matter where you went, from the trail of home to the prints drawn into make shift quicksand, to the cave you took Hemington's crown from from and painted your namesake against the wall like territory (and it almost was, one match's life burned in the timezone of that cave, the burning kicking against humid air and you almost feel it again, the warm on your cheeks, except it's no longer warm like you remembered, because it was like the novels you drew on and on about into sand; endless universes crossing each other over on seams because simply existing was enough to get them by and you were okay to get by on that knowledge because both you and Esrooke crossed each other endless, and endless was something that seemed to never catch on in your family.)
Images caught on life forest fire except not how in a way to please you, memories and faces and voices and little locations you forgot to mark down onto your build-your-own-adventure map burning into each other, the quick of jumping from one knowledge to another smarting like fireworks against your eyes. Flashes of smashing the mute clock built just for the likes of your deaf ears against a tree gradienting into the time you wound up under a pier set in district four, the legs of boardwalks stretching so far over your head to where even when you jumped, your fingers caught nothing but damp air (of course, you weren't all sure if touching the under of the boardwalk was worth the hassle, but heck if you weren't tempted) and your legs caught with sand in between each pale digit because the shoes you kept all this time were lost somewhere along the line. It was true in a sense that home wasn't always the home you were given, since the endless nights of longing to return to the sea rose with the tides of your stomach churning as you felt homesick from the lack of saltwater creeping up your nostrils.
Besides four, the only other district your lingering questions managed to roll of into was ten, because it had seemed like everything you wanted once you left home; the air was rumored to be plagued in a sense of fresh that three didn't have, plus there would be cows and you never saw one before hand. Except the forest fire of the sun's own thoughts ran wild against the grass steps ahead of your own arrival and the only thing wallowing in the air was dry, because there was no way to fumble words into a coherent sentence that still managed to describe whatever it was accurately. It ran down your throat like the times your inevitable grace was spent slipping on drinks since choking was frequent; Esrooke always said it was, and it was, but having to think through everything singlehandedly was a bore, your brain ached to breathe in everything it could at once, to read all the words of Aceline's books as if you wrote them yourself.
But you was too simpleminded (their words, not his) to do so, that your attention span was cut in half by the scissors of whatever the word was, that you could never make sense of complex problems, that you never wanted to try to make sense of complex problems, that you were a complex problem. Cows, however, they didn't care or have to care, all they did was wallow away in fields and talk to each other like you and your sister had; their life was led so simplistically and you loved it, every second of it even with the sun scorching at your ankles and bit at your knees through the holes from skidding against rock pavements too much (the nice elderly couple taking care of you temporarily always promised you a new pair, but you always refused since they'd already given you one and each new rip and tear and hole and loose thread felt like a new story and you were tempted to steal the clothes, but you could never do that to them, they gave you food and clothes and cows to take care of and a bed, however rickety it was it was still something plus it smelled like the raw dough you always took from Esrooke while he cooked because it tasted better than the end product, always.)
With every fiber you collected in your being like the loose items shaking in the potato sack tugging against your skin, you wished to go back to ten even more so than three, or even four, the burn in the air felt like eating a blanket, but it beat out the smoke of three and the constant salt in four, everywhere in four, clawing at your stomach with every inhale and licking at your bruised shins like a rowdy puppy. Mementos from the two pulled at your heart strings in turn, stolen seashells and torn overalls taking up a good half of the available luggage room, but they were worth it to you.
Each step further into where ever you were now didn't remind you of four, or ten, or even that cave, with its echoes so loud you still felt it reverberating into your skin, but it felt like three; crowded with so many people that just walking one foot forward was like walking into another room. The ghost of a smile that plastered onto your face with memories of different homes died away in this chain of bodies and you were left with running off into an alleyway and back out; collapsing onto the sidewalk parallel to the pit of children that is a playground. Ear drums pounding with chants and laughter and cries and screaming, and you've never felt more lost.
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