up in smoke {elegant}

[[nyte]]

My days are spent avoiding responsibility. Sixteen years and then some yet I felt no obligation to grow up. Still knee deep in stolen relics and sins, unwilling- unable to change. Body bound by tight fabric, bow forced in dyed hair. A mirror image of the girl walking the same streets nearly two years ago, the only thing having changed was the length of slender legs carrying me. Who was I to know the hardships of an adult? I've worked for nothing my entire life, taking what I want with no regard to the others who may be inconvenienced  

Did that shopkeeper feed his family after I'd trashed his store? Was anyone ever blamed for my wrong doings?

Remorse is something I feel far too often. I've forced myself to be something unfeeling, or at least convinced myself that I am. Robotic in nature, repeating the same rebellions day after day, as if I had to meet some sick quota. Thinking just isn't necessary anymore. I can move through life without so much as a single conscious thought. I've become that uniform, that inhuman. It's as funny as it is cruel. Seeing as I've forced myself into such a numb state I no longer care for my own well being. The past few months my reckless activity has skyrocketed. Compelled by reckless compulsions and desperation.

Back pressed against plaster wall, shaking hands reach into leather pockets. Hopeless addiction. The long cylinder is positioned carefully between two fingers, a lighter brought to the very end. Hungry flame lap at the paper's end a steady stream of smoke embers glowing on the butt. My lungs craved the smoke, the delicious tang of burning paper and drug wrapped inside.

The cigarette is placed between heavily painted lips, toxins snaking their way into my lungs. There they stayed until I couldn't possibly take any more. A plume of fragrant smoke escaping me in one beautiful stream. It dances within the wind, intermingling with heavy pollution already cloaking District Three. Just doing my part in the destruction of an already destroyed plain. And that, I feel no remorse for.

It took me about ten minutes to finish off the smoke, crushing it beneath my heel as I traversed empty streets once more. I do regret being dependent on such things, regret picking up the habit as a stupid teenager thinking it'd give me some air of importance when I was convinced I had none. Alas I lacked the will to drop it, and the regards for my own life to fear what it would do to my body. So I march on.

The stores I pass do not interest me in the slightest. I've either been banned from their premises or the shiny trinkets within hold little to no value any longer. After all, my escapades have only escalated with age. Perhaps at fourteen I would have felt obligated to snatch the tacky snow globe displayed behind thick glass, the nickel chain bound to taint my skin an ungodly green strung like Ratmas lights along the counter. Worthless things for a worthless girl.

Yet my eyes find a shop they'd never given a second glance before. I had always been too busy, my mind skipping over such details it deemed unimportant. I'm flawed like that. Nonetheless I feel as though I'm drawn to it, like the sun pulls us to him, I'm helpless. Victim to my own impulsions and curiosities. What insignificant trinkets must be held here that I paid it no mind? I took pride in my knowledge of the streets of District Three. This was a challenge, a glitch in the system that I was honor bound to rectify. I'll be damned if my ego were to be beaten by such an insignificant building.

More angry than I should have been, I entered the store in a rush of bright fabrics and tousled hair. Eyes fell upon a boy behind the counter. And for a moment there was no emotion. Simply me, standing there awestruck at the sight of such a thing. Mouth agape and eyes traveling the length what I could see. He was, by all intents and purposes, a boy. Such as I was still a girl, despite the torture my mind has endured, the experiences and tragedies it had faced, I was still a child. Slips of paper still thrown into that bowl with my name embroidered upon it, each year a greater chance that I would be given the painful death I feared.

The first thought to enter my mind was that he'd been robbed. The fresh markings adorning his skin seemed to support such a notion, blacks and blues dancing across his flesh, open wounds marring what was an admittedly fair face. I wondered if i should run, get the fuck out of dodge because an assailant could be waiting around the corner. Until the foolish fantasies had worked their way out of my brain, I was just able to make out deeper wounds within his skin. Filled in with new flesh, but leaving a pattern across his skin like a morbid tattoo.

At a loss for words, I somehow find my mouth still moving. "What in the ever loving fuck happened to you?"

[gamemaker kelsier]

B A N G G U N

The shop didn't usually receive many customers of the teenage variety. Most often, they had Peacekeepers and older gentlemen in business suits who Gun had learned from a young age never to question when they asked to purchase a gun. Every now and then, they had the odd woman. Sometimes their eyes looked haunted and Gun would look at their eyes, sunken and hollow. He'd see his mother in them every single time to the point that it hurt and when they asked to purchase a gun he'd hand one over without question.

When this girl entered, he'd been picking at the skin around his finger nails in a rather intent way. They must have been the only bit of him that had never felt the hands of his father's anger. So he gave them his nervousness and it made him tear at the skin around his nail bed, tugging at the skin around the nails that had become worn from activity, peeling it back until he bled and it hurt to pull any further. He shed skin from there as if he were molting. As a result, the skin on the ends of his fingers were horrid looking things, tired from the abuse he had given them over the years.

Carefully, he laid his hands down flat to either side of the cash register, thoughts going to the gun underneath the counter as they did every single time a stranger entered the shop as well as how it flashed through his head every single time his father hit him. She stands there staring at him for long moments and he doesn't know how to react to this. Sometimes people notice his scars like that and they just stand there noticing, as if they can't even stop. They always want to know what happened to him, it was the question he heard most often, even before they asked for his name. After all, a name has never sounded so sweet as the hottest gossip.

However, Gun was old news.

Sometimes his father insisted on renewing their family's headlines by beating the shit out of him but that only happened when Gun's father had to look at him for more than two minutes at a time and Gun always made sure to stay as out of the way as possible. This morning he'd accidentally gone into the small kitchen two minutes earlier than he should have and he hadn't had to say anything before his father was calling him an 'ungrateful son of a bitch' and throwing his orange juice glass at his head. When he'd ducked, it had shattered against the wall and the glass had embedded itself into his skin. His father had been so mad that he'd made him pick up the glass with his fingers.

Sometimes he could make it a day or two without even seeing his father. Today had obviously not been one of those days.

When people entered the shop they never looked Gun directly in the eyes. They didn't like to because the emptiness there scared them and they knew that there was nothing they could do to help him because his father built and sold every gun in the district. They never entered the shop and stared at him so openly and then asked him what had happened to his face because they all knew what had happened to the Bang boy so many years ago and what happened to him every single day. They just didn't care, or they were just too afraid to notice it because everyone else knew it was important to stick to your own business if you wanted to survive. They certainly never said what she had just said.

For a moment, he was at a loss for words. He'd been in this situation only once before and his father had been there to answer the question, he hadn't had to worry about thinking up a lie then. Wildly, he tried to think. He didn't owe this stranger anything and if he didn't want to tell her anything he didn't have to. He didn't know if he had a plausible explanation for the fresh bruises and cuts that last night and this morning had left him with. He could say that he'd walked into a door but somehow that didn't seem like it would work.

She was pretty in an odd way. Her lips were red and big, they looked as if she'd smeared them in blood. The blood of innocents? They matched her hair that was pretty and made him think inexplicably of rusted pile of cogs that had sat in the corner of the workshop for six years now.

He let the silence drag on, hoping that if he just didn't say anything she would forget his question because sometimes if he just stayed still and didn't make himself noticeable that would work with his father and he'd just go away. However, if this girl actually wanted to make a purchase his father would kill him for losing a customer. He deferred to his training and decided to change the subject and get them back on track. "What can I do for you today, Miss?" he asked, voice soft, hands curled tightly out of sight into fists.

It looks ugly,
but it's clean
O h m o m m a ,
don't fuss over me

[[nyte]]

I expect a reaction, of course. My loud mouth and rather loud appearance usually warranted such. The silence that followed my statement was charged with electricity, and I sure as hell wasn't leaving until I got my answer. Certainly, I should have been afraid. I wasn't entirely stupid, and by now I'd had time to take in my surroundings. The machines concealed behind this glass were the ones I'd seen in the hands of Peacekeepers. Their screams had echoed about the district, and I couldn't help but cringe at the thought of one seeing one face to face. Was he a criminal? A peacekeeper? Thoughts raced through my mind at a mile a minute, each possibility becoming more dangerous and deadly. But when he finally breaks the silence, my eyes resting upon him instead of the monstrous tools, I feel nothing but curiosity and perhaps annoyance.
"What can I do for you today, Miss?"

Well that was fucking rude. My arms are like boards against my sides, mouth turned downward into what can only be described as a pout. Approaching the counter with as much care as I could manage, my head tilts to the side, gently, almost questioningly. My hip rests against the glass, mind racing furiously for some witty retort. I hadn't meant to be rude, though I don't think I much care if it came off that way. There was no way in hell I'd been the first one to ask. Had this worked the other times? Simply changing the subject and hoping they'd take the hint he didn't want to tell them. People were swayed so easily these days, too worried about wanting others to like them. I've had no such worries all my life, as everyone knew to steer clear of my family. A drowning, a fire, a murder, and Ripred knows what else happened to the likes of us. Scared I'd somehow pass off the disease I've been branded with since birth, I rarely got two words from anyone as soon as I introduced myself.

So fuck 'em. If this guy kicked me out what loss was it to me? He'd forget my name, my face, in a matter of days and continue living whatever life he had. At least I'll have had some fun. Some human interaction at last. Determined to milk the conversation for as long as I could, my next words are chosen with a bit more forethought. "Was it a fight?" That made no sense, however. The closer I got the more his brandings stood out. It wasn't a one time thing. Hell I doubted it was a two or three time thing either. I wasn't a stranger to getting the shit beat out of me, nor was I a stranger to beating the shit out of someone. There was so much sibling rivalry in my family that the day didn't seem complete without a punch or two being thrown.

But we always knew when to stop. 'Cause as much as we hate each other, blood is blood. It's wrong to spill your own, even if it happens to run through another.

A memory stirs in the back of my mind, something that'd stood out as it was finally not something about yours truly. Rushed whispers I'd heard passing through halls, that of a faceless figure and their father. How he'd shown up beaten and bruised and rumors had flown about how they'd made their way there. The District truly was a horrid place, and somewhere the truth was never kept under wraps. Honestly, I was less than sure it was him they spoke of, whether this was something completely unrelated. After all, he was hardly the first person I'd ever seen with a few bruises.

"Wait I've got it! You're that guy right?" A proud smile works its way onto my lips. I couldn't possibly offend him if it were a simple question. "That one the father beats or something?" I turn my back to him, body still using the glass casing as support. A mirror works its way out of my pocket, opening with a satisfying click as I reapply bright red paint. More out of nervous habit than need. The worse that could happen was that I'd be thrown out, right? Not like I could steal anything from here. My curiosity was quelled, my pride stitched back together. Honestly, there was no reason I should even remain here.

But I wanted to know if he was truly like me. An outsider and a reject. As hard as I try to convince myself I don't care, sometimes I just want to know I'm not the only one out there. Pushing buttons was my specialty, so much so that I often find that I'll do it without realizing. Blame my parents I guess, but people aren't really my thing. What reason does one have to be offended at an innocent question. I didn't care about what anyone says so why should he? Why should anyone?

Words are worthless.

[gamemaker kelsier]

B A N G G U N

The amount that this girl couldn't seem to take a hint was stupendously above average. She seems unfazed by his brush off, as if he never spoke at all. For his part, Gun is wondering where she gets off, getting annoyed for once in his short, miserable life. He'd like to be left alone in his uncomfortable life. It wasn't like he was asking for much else. He has a shit life, a shit father and a shit body, the last thing he needs is for some prissy pretty girl strolling in and stirring things up.

The best that could happen after answering questions like these is someone actually stepping in and putting a stop to his father.

The worst that could happen is his father beating him to death out of rage before anyone could actually do anything.

He's tried telling people before of course, he's stared so desperately at people, waiting for them to comment on his bruises, only to be disappointed when they averted their gaze away from his. The people that buy from this shop are often too desperate themselves to bother a dragon that's got a plaything already. They've seen what his father's fits can do already, they hardly want to call his wrath upon themselves as well.

For the District to live peacefully, Gun's role is to be the maniac's punching bag.

Everybody knows that, so this girl marching in and being so open is utterly terrifying. She obviously does not understand how life works. If she had half a brain she wouldn't be doing this to him. He glances upwards, at the floor above where his dad is probably breaking into his first six pack of beer for the day. If he could hear what was going on down here right now, Gun wouldn't even bother going upstairs later. He'd sleep outside.

To be so reckless with another person's life, it's horrible. He reasoned that maybe some people just don't understand these things, that they don't get that their actions have consequences. He doubted sorely that this girl really cared at all about what she was asking about. It was likely just hot gossip for her, something to bring back to the family. 'Guess who I met today....the freak with all the scars!' She probably didn't understand that this line of questioning would have repercussions, specifically if his father heard.

Her voice only seemed to get louder too.

Desperation gripped him and he jumped over the counter, using one hand to push himself up and over. He hadn't really touched anyone else physically before. Once he'd tried to fend his father off by pushing against his chest and that had ended up in broken fingers. Since his father wasn't the type to show any form of love, the last time he'd felt a loving touch must have been when his mother was still alive. Seeing as she had been dead for a hell of a long time now, it had been quite some time since he'd felt someone else's warmth.

When his fingers collapse like ancient buildings falling to rust over her lips it stills him in the smallest of ways. He feels her breath on his hands and it is warm and messy, so far and different from the cold that is in his regular isolation. It only makes him pause for a moment before he's leading her out of the shop, out the door. The bell jingles happily above their heads, so far and sweet from what the aura in that building actually is. So far from happiness it's laughable.

He lets go of her, pulling away to stand with his hands on his hips. He's something other than accepting for the first time in a while. He's alright with his dad laying into him for something that he's done but being beat because some girl with butterflies in her head is talking too loud isn't fair.

"Do you always ask such personal questions?" he asked, hands on hips.

It looks ugly,
but it's clean
O h m o m m a ,
don't fuss over me

[[nyte]]

I expected to be beaten, when he vaulted over the counter. Such a phenomenon wasn't a stranger to me; part of me knew I deserved it. So, I didn't intend to fight back, whatever he did. Even a heart as cold as mine understood when punishment was just. My fists clenched, eyes shut tightly as his hand shot forward, I instinctively jerked away when his palm snaked over my lips. Though I'd never admit it, fear held me tight even as I realized nothing more would happen. Death has never frightened me as much as suffering. The idea of white hot pain searing across my skin, so intense that I yearned to pass out, to die so as to not feel anymore, only to realize that it'd never come.

Was this what the boy felt?

The thought hit me harder than if he'd punched me, knocking the air clean out of my lungs. I find my breath coming in heavy gasps, heart thrashing wildly in my chest. A thousand emotions I'd never before felt washing over me in an instant. No, that's not true. Tsara, my little sister, I felt these things for her. When my siblings yelled at her, tore her down and forced her to be something she wasn't. She was too little, too weak to stand up for herself, and so I did. I gave her my clothes, when others refused to buy the proper kind, used my voice because she couldn't. I'd become so callous to others that such a thought never occurred to me. That someone other than her could suffer as well. Even a boy larger than I.

My hand finds his wrist, refusing to properly cooperate, to pull it away as I intended. Struggling wasn't the proper word, as I couldn't seem to do such a thing. It seemed all my hand could manage was to sit gently upon his forearm. Perhaps it was my own attempt at an apology; I was far too prideful to ever say such a thing out loud. Confusion left me shell-shocked, and for how long we stood there I couldn't tell. Only that it was far more intimate a moment than I'd ever shared with another. Affection and attachment were a foreign concept in my household, the only time I'd ever willingly embraced another was when protecting Tsara from flying china during a rather heated argument.

A frown pulled at the corners of my lips when the bell rang overhead. The room seemed to fill with cold air as the boy pulled away, hands resting on his hips. "Do you always ask such personal questions?" The frown deepens, arms crossing in front of my chest protectively.

"Only when I want to know the answer." I snap, not a hint of sarcasm or satire in my voice. The world was always black and white for me, mind games something useless and evil. What I did was always for an immediate satisfaction. The future was something to be dealt with when it was no longer such. I didn't believe a question should offend him, it wasn't putting him in danger right now.

Why couldn't I understand?

I held a sort of respect for him, he was a helluva lot better than I. We'd both grown up around violence, perhaps not the same kind or even close to the same degree, but we had nonetheless. While I'd turned to petty theft and addiction, he had only laid a hand on me to stop my incessant attitude. Even then, I hadn't been hurt, I stood in front of him without a wound while he stood exactly the opposite. "Can't you... can't you just fight back?" I'd learned my lesson, and with much difficulty, I'd lowered my voice to a whisper. It was foreign, uncomfortable, but I found myself wanting to leave his company less and less. This was new and interesting, something that wasn't filled with sin or desire, just innocent curiosity. "You shouldn't put up with it." My voice grew steadier, more certain, yet it did not increase in volume. "'Cause that's really fucking shitty."

It was most likely nothing the boy hadn't heard before. I couldn't have been the only one to notice the wounds on his flesh, the scars and the fresh. Believing that I was the only one to ever question him would be foolish... right? I think I'd lose whatever faith in this society I possessed, if that were the case.

"I'm Laze, by the way." Not Laissez and definitely not Fer. My hand shakes when I hold it out to him; heart having yet to stop pounding.

Sometimes I wonder how I could be so stupid.