Foster Ward - Finished - Updated
Dec 12, 2014 18:18:55 GMT -5
Post by flyss on Dec 12, 2014 18:18:55 GMT -5
Name: Foster Ward
Age: 16
Gender: Male
District/Area: District 5
Face Claim: Tyler Oakley
Appearance:
Who are you, young boy? A white haired fool with nothing to lose? Who are you, child of death? The boy with a dazzling smile who killed his mother at birth? Who are you, little man? A wretch who bears flawless skin and eyes that shine like the sun but do not function? Have you not taken into account your flaws with your highlights? You are a refined and gleeful soul, but for how long will that last? Can you not anticipate your future? Your triumphs? Your losses? What are you good for, brat? Remaining stationary like the sun, so bright and so young yet so far and so lonely? Tch. And we thought that you knew what you were doing.
You have a fine sense of respect- a true gentleman at heart- but once their backs are turned, you pounce like a tiger striking down an elk. Words of hatred and utterances of poison leave those rosy lips of yours. Knives that hurt the most aren't material, after all. You really would be so very peculiar; that was, if it weren't for your circumstantial happenstances. Your father never loved you nor did your mother for the small time she saw you. You brought with your life death and for that, you could never be forgiven.
Oh! Let the Gods place mercy on your existence! If only you weren't so taken on the idea that you were flawless. A long and glorious life could've been yours, save for the fact that you weren't what you thought. Some days you could tell your realities from your fictions but others- oh those sacred others- you even convinced yourself. Lying was a bad habit of yours after all.
It all could have been stopped if it weren't for that pesky little quirk. It became such a large part of your life and like all other bittersweet things, it brought horrid losses to follow. Who knew that while trying to swindle a young man, you would lose it all in just a matter of minutes?
The last words you were ever to speak were pathetic. Disgusting. Disappointing. Who knew how talented at speaking you could have become if you hadn't gotten yourself into such a predicament. The taste of your own blood would linger in your mouth for months, a constant reminder of what words could do and how powerful they were. You were a selective mute and despite your talent for speaking, you had learned how hard it was to control. Why would you even want that power? How hilarious it was to think that no more than a day ago you found it amusing to abuse your strength. But you know that Dorothy Alison said it best.
“Things come apart so easily when they have been held together with lies.”
Your father doesn't know why you're so quiet. Frankly, he doesn't care. He never will. In his eyes, you are nothing more to him than those beggars that you see on your way to school. How did you get yourself there, again? Oh yes, through something you can't control. You remember times that your textbooks tell of, where people were treated crudely because of their skin colour and where people hated each other because of their sex. You feel like one of them, except you killed your mother and you deserved to be hated. How could your father even stand you? You did kill the woman he loved, after all, whether you meant to or not.
Sometimes you wonder how you pass the days. Why don't you just kill yourself, or better yet, volunteer for the games. Wouldn't that make your father happy? You couldn't, though. No matter how close you got to your bliss, you couldn't force your father to experience even more loss. He might have despised you, he might have wished death upon you, but he didn't mean it. Oh, Foster dear, he didn't mean it.
But the fact was, you thought he did. You thought that he would jump at the opportunity to rid himself of you, so you took your chance and balanced out your losses and triumphs beforehand. You took some old twine from the supply shed at your school and hung it in your room. You were ready, and you were content. You were everything but quiet, and as the time came to kick that old wooden chair out from beneath you, the man that you did this for, the man that you thought you were helping stopped you. Sobs shook your body as you hid your face in his chest. He didn't want any of this, he couldn't want any of this.
And because of that, you said the first words you had uttered in a long time.
I'm sorry.
Codeword: Odair
Other: I surely hope that this was well enough. I personally like how I wrote it.
Age: 16
Gender: Male
District/Area: District 5
Face Claim: Tyler Oakley
Appearance:
Who are you, young boy? A white haired fool with nothing to lose? Who are you, child of death? The boy with a dazzling smile who killed his mother at birth? Who are you, little man? A wretch who bears flawless skin and eyes that shine like the sun but do not function? Have you not taken into account your flaws with your highlights? You are a refined and gleeful soul, but for how long will that last? Can you not anticipate your future? Your triumphs? Your losses? What are you good for, brat? Remaining stationary like the sun, so bright and so young yet so far and so lonely? Tch. And we thought that you knew what you were doing.
You have a fine sense of respect- a true gentleman at heart- but once their backs are turned, you pounce like a tiger striking down an elk. Words of hatred and utterances of poison leave those rosy lips of yours. Knives that hurt the most aren't material, after all. You really would be so very peculiar; that was, if it weren't for your circumstantial happenstances. Your father never loved you nor did your mother for the small time she saw you. You brought with your life death and for that, you could never be forgiven.
Oh! Let the Gods place mercy on your existence! If only you weren't so taken on the idea that you were flawless. A long and glorious life could've been yours, save for the fact that you weren't what you thought. Some days you could tell your realities from your fictions but others- oh those sacred others- you even convinced yourself. Lying was a bad habit of yours after all.
It all could have been stopped if it weren't for that pesky little quirk. It became such a large part of your life and like all other bittersweet things, it brought horrid losses to follow. Who knew that while trying to swindle a young man, you would lose it all in just a matter of minutes?
The last words you were ever to speak were pathetic. Disgusting. Disappointing. Who knew how talented at speaking you could have become if you hadn't gotten yourself into such a predicament. The taste of your own blood would linger in your mouth for months, a constant reminder of what words could do and how powerful they were. You were a selective mute and despite your talent for speaking, you had learned how hard it was to control. Why would you even want that power? How hilarious it was to think that no more than a day ago you found it amusing to abuse your strength. But you know that Dorothy Alison said it best.
“Things come apart so easily when they have been held together with lies.”
Your father doesn't know why you're so quiet. Frankly, he doesn't care. He never will. In his eyes, you are nothing more to him than those beggars that you see on your way to school. How did you get yourself there, again? Oh yes, through something you can't control. You remember times that your textbooks tell of, where people were treated crudely because of their skin colour and where people hated each other because of their sex. You feel like one of them, except you killed your mother and you deserved to be hated. How could your father even stand you? You did kill the woman he loved, after all, whether you meant to or not.
Sometimes you wonder how you pass the days. Why don't you just kill yourself, or better yet, volunteer for the games. Wouldn't that make your father happy? You couldn't, though. No matter how close you got to your bliss, you couldn't force your father to experience even more loss. He might have despised you, he might have wished death upon you, but he didn't mean it. Oh, Foster dear, he didn't mean it.
But the fact was, you thought he did. You thought that he would jump at the opportunity to rid himself of you, so you took your chance and balanced out your losses and triumphs beforehand. You took some old twine from the supply shed at your school and hung it in your room. You were ready, and you were content. You were everything but quiet, and as the time came to kick that old wooden chair out from beneath you, the man that you did this for, the man that you thought you were helping stopped you. Sobs shook your body as you hid your face in his chest. He didn't want any of this, he couldn't want any of this.
And because of that, you said the first words you had uttered in a long time.
I'm sorry.
Codeword: Odair
Other: I surely hope that this was well enough. I personally like how I wrote it.
