Pein [D5] ~FIN~

[kousei ♚]

Name: Pein Anemone
District: 5
Gender: Male
Age: 17
Occupation: N/A

[kousei ♚]

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PEIN

I very slowly pick up the photograph from it's wooden shelter.

We're all in the process of stabilising and growing up, even the earth itself.

I've told myself for years that I wouldn't touch this thing again, not while I live. I tut. More shattered glass, add the shards to the remnants of the promises I've shattered over the years. I sigh, devoid of any feeling I stare down at the pierce of paper clenched between my tight fists. It's actually a good quality picture, the only good quality picture; I don't know how we managed to get it but they somehow got it taken. A once in a lifetime opportunity, I know for a fact that the woman leapt at the opportunity. Nagging the older man to get it done and making sure they were all dressed appropriately for the occasion, even going as far as to slap the boy across the face when he said he was too scared to get his picture taken.

Box discarded on the desk, I take in the weak boy in the photograph, I know exactly how old he is. Eight years old and the shadow of innocence looming over him. Flanked by his two parents and clutching onto their hands like his life depended on it he's a disgrace. Father on his left, mother on his right he has it so easy it makes my stomach churn and my throat tighten. Envy- no, that's not possible. I could never be envious of that. Innocence, the ignorance and immaturity of it all makes me cringe.

The boy looks so much like his mother and oh so very close to me. Of course, there are the obvious differences. Our ages and their height for one. Eight and seventeen have always been miles apart, a whole lifetime for a lot of people in District Five. I remember it clearly, that boy stood at a simple four feet when he got measured at school the week before. I'm nowhere near that, standing at five foot ten when I got measured downstairs last week. He clearly looks more well-fed for a boy his age than I. My arms being like not-quite-thick-not-quite-skinny sticks at my side, I never could lift heavy objects. Forever the thinker.

Our hair sits in the middle of the scale of difference and similarities. Fire rests on both of our heads, but his is wild and long. Tumbling down to his chin and covering his cheeks, his hair is wild, despite his mother combing it before they left the house. He looks as if he has not seen a single hair brush in his life. Of course, I know that he was too immature and too innocent to know that his hair was unattractive, despite his mother showering his desk with hairbrushes. Everyday, when she would go into his room and tug at it, he would groan that it hurt, she would tell him to stop complaining and get it straight enough to send him to school. It always came back looking the same, sorry.

Fire rests on my head but it is nowhere near as wild as his, nor is it anywhere near as long. My orange hair is short, tangled in various places I at least use one of the brushes left at my desk twice a day. I suppose barely going outside in the humid air helps it with that, I suppose not doing any greasy, long, back-breaking work also helps with it not being greasy at all.

I know that boy spent too much time outside, that's why it was always dirty and muddy, unlike mine.

My facial is plain but my features sharp. Stormy blue eyes rest in my sockets, constantly narrowed, always observing, analysing, checking. They know you can never be too careful. Paranoia runs rampant in my brain, eyes never relaxed they check every corner, every window, every chair before I finally sit down and relax. Even now, I stared my box down, running my fingers through every carve, dent and inconsistency just to be sure before setting it down. Pointed nose going one to a dozen as I check for anything every time I enter a room.

That boy never would have done that, he trusted everything that smiled.

Standing tall as he can, his teeth proudly show themselves from behind his lips. His teeth wear a mask of white behind the flash, but it wasn't necessary, like me, the boy never could quite afford sweets that much. His face constantly broken by a grin or a laugh, his features were never quite smooth.

At the orphanage, people have never truly seen my face cracked by a smile. I just don't find them amusing, not like that boy would (laughing at every bad joke was thrown his way) I keep my straight face more than half the time. Even in private, there are few things that make me crack. Perhaps that's what makes it better when I do finally show the cracks of amusement in my face. The one person that's seen it the most is the girl with the paper. Anouk, her paper decorations surrounding her like a nest of birds in a nest I just have to smile.

Speaking of friends, I can count my friends on the tip of my fingers, unlike the boy in the picture who thought everyone that let him join in their games was a friend. Naive innocent, pain had never made him truly grow, never stabilised. But are we ever truly stabilised? I came to the conclusion of 'no' a long time ago. Eight years old I realised that the world would never truly be stabilised. The eight year old ginger in the picture never stood a chance.

If there's one thing I can admire about the painless, innocent boy it was his desire to dream. Red clouds always filled both of our consciences in our sleep, red clouds and a black sky. Ever since we were six years old we always dreamed of that black sky decorated by crimson clouds. A painless, innocent boy, he never quite knew what they meant, always brushed them aside as if nothing. Like me, he couldn't leave his dreams in the bedroom. Always had ambition, he was always telling his parents everything he would do when he grew up.

('I'm going to become the mayor; that's a promise!')

('I'm going to have the best handwriting in the whole wide world; that's a promise!')

('Someday, I'll make my own district, a district were kids don't die; that's a promise!')

('Peace, I'm going to make everyone stop fighting each other; that's a promise!')

Those dreams sound so familiar to me. That's a promise. I learned to stop using that phrase when I aged past eight years old, the mountain of shattered promises was too high, even I was cut too deep by my the shards of my own shattered promises. If only he did to, if only he learned like I did.They're a feather carried by the soft wind, constantly lowering but constantly fleeting, slipping between my sweaty hands. I can't remember the last time I had a true dream; not since I was eight years old. Of course, there are things I want to do. Move out of the orphanage, get a job, get a house, make everyone stop hurting. I want those things but I don't know if I can truly call them dreams, not any more at least.

There's always been that silent desire of mine to become a god. Perhaps that can be my dream to follow. I've always had that dream to dream, carry my dreams beyond the bedroom and tuck them in the corner of my brain.

Dreams fill that boy's mind, parents flank him both sides but I've always been isolated. Reach out to my sides, all I'll feel is empty air. It wasn't always like this, I swear it wasn't always like this. Hold my knees to my chest, rest my chin on my knees and I can see them like it was yesterday. Anemone hung above all three of us, proud family name. Crystal clear, I remember. House hung on that elevated hill. I remember what they gave me, but barely what they did. Dad, he must have been some kind of energy person, he always came home smelling of oil. Damned by my memory, I can't recall what my mother did.

Always a smart boy, even now I notice everything. Nothing slips past me, at least not like then. Perhaps that's why I've always managed to clasp good grades by the throat but never quite able to latch onto dreams I desire. Back then, for all my book smarts I still never noticed a damned thing.

Dreams of red clouds in a black came with eight years old. I never could decipher the meaning. Night came with age, and with night came the starving burglars. Bang! One parents gone, they dared to bite the bullet in the dark. Bang! Another body slumped to the floor and just like that I'm alone. Two lives for that extra bit of time, I charged out of the back door and into nothing, tears stuck to my cheeks and guilt hanging from my chest, I escaped that third bullet.

Nightmares of red clouds in a black sky accompanied by a silver bullet haunted me on the streets and in my dreams. I never could decipher the damn meaning of it all. The men in white found me within a month, guns, curses and all you would've thought they'd mistook me for the robber. "Don't shoot, please I'm so scared!" I squealed at the site of gun nozzles, too afraid to bite the bullet like my parents had. If I could've seen behind their helmets I can bet their faces would have dropped.

Forced to give my name (Pein), my age (eight years old) and where I live (I don't know) it wasn't long before I was put in the orphanage I would live now. A safe prison waited for me, I would carry pain with me all the way up those stone steps and through that double door. Red clouds and a black sky hung high above me, to this very day. I still could never decipher them, even in a new setting.

Before long, my (very few) unmolested possessions were recovered from that abandoned house and sent to me in the box. The moment I got into that safe prison I desired to wipe away the smears of the past. Scratching out my last name Amone on everything I had engraved my name onto. I was tired of hearing bullets.

Eight years old I made a real friend. Her paper constructs and ruined expression burned into my mind, I instantly knew that I cared. Ever since two gunshots pierced broke my naivety, she was the first to make me smile. Hints of innocence smeared away under the black, we had all too much in common. The manacles of our respective dead binding us together tighter than two children ever should have been, we instantly became friends.

Ten years old, I promised I would protect her, another promise to add to the pile.

The boy in the picture never promised to protect someone, he was always weak and painless. I've seen years come and go, I've seen orphans grow and leave. I've seen two parents bite the dusty bullet and I've ran from the same thing. He hasn't because he's painless.

Both share the same red clouds and black skies and neither of us could ever decipher it. Seventeen years old and I have interpretations but never meanings. One of the main reasons I can desire to become a god, I have their red eyes decorated in the black sky baring down on my skin. No one else can say the same thing. Once you're a god your words become law, no one can question what you say and you have the power to do what you want. Once you're a god you become strong, once you become a god you can truly say you've beaten the earth in stabilising and developing. That is what I dream.

The painless boy could never understand that. Lucky or disgusting? I've always shuddered at the innocence unbroken by bullet holes. Sitting on this bed, staring at the parents who have yet to feel the taste of the dusty silver bullet and the boy who could never quite understand pain, I manage a smile before letting the paper slip from my fingers and into that old box filled with possessions marked in permanent engraving by Pein Anemone. What an innocent hand.

He's a thing of the past now.

[Stare helped xD]

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[kousei ♚]

Finished ~

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

Accepted!