we'll go under .| briar

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

BROOKE.

world is covered by our trails
scars we cover up with paint
watch them preach in sour lies
i would rather see the world
through the eyes of a child
{ through the eyes of a c h i l d

Maybe, she thinks to herself — maybe I'm cataclysmic. Maybe everything around me is destined to be destroyed. Maybe I'm cursed. Maybe, just maybe...

She stops thinking, a rush of wind and hair gliding across her cheeks. Finding a comfortable position among the gnarled branches of the tree in which she perches, she twists her torso as to better view the carnage sprawling out beyond her vision. She inhales a shaky breath, eyes closed and hands clutching harshly at the bark beneath her palms, and she scolds herself for her thoughts just prior. You don't blame yourself, she reminds herself inwardly. Don't blame yourself for any of it. Nor for this; not for that. It's the last thing she would have wanted.

The thought of her mother, equally so distant and so close, is all it takes to bring a smile to her chapped lips. She thinks of them all: her father and mother, and the two Libertine girls. All of them — everyone the Games ever took from her, all standing together with their arms linked. Four might be in ruins, but she survived; her family is in ruins, yet somehow, she's survived. Some nights, she can't help but to blame herself, or to feel guilty for all of it — like all disaster girls do, she's sure; and her sadness is justified, she knows, but... 

She dismisses her pain when she can, and she tries to bottle it up: because that's for the best, and if for whatever reason the world is truly fated to end in flames at her feet, then the least she can do is pretend — for the sake of those who will burn; to make their lives good and warm, even if only for just a moment. 

So, when she lowers her gaze and finally notices the girl sitting on her hill, it's not a territorial growl that escapes from her throat, but instead a small squeak — partnered with a grin that threatens to wage war against the sun. She takes one last glance at the broken buildings and all of the things that were lost to the sea, and she thinks one last sad thought  —

I'm sorry. If this was my fault, I am sorry.

— before making her way out of the tree, jumping down onto her feet with an explosion of fiery curls and limbs that twirl and try to catch their balance. She's bent over when she finally stops wobbling, blowing a red wave out of her face with flustered cheeks, and suddenly she can't stop laughing. Out of nowhere, the joy hits her, and she's amused by her clumsiness, and it's all so good; so gentle and so bright. 

She walks over to the girl, arms wrapped around herself and still chuckling, before she notices the sadness in the other's features. It's a kind of sadness that she is familiar with, but she dismisses it with a biting of her bottom lip. "Hey, I'm sorry. I'm not bothering you, am I? I just saw you, and you looked kinda lonely, and, um-... Well, listen, I'm Brooke. Please don't be sad. Okay? Please?"

Please, she urges within her head — and who is she talking to? Who exactly is she pleading to? Which disaster girl is she begging to let go of their pain: this girl, or herself?

{ She doesn't know the answer, but she fakes a smile anyway.

darker times will come and go
times you need to see her smile
and mothers' hearts are warm and mild
i would rather feel the world
through the skin of a child
{ through the skin of a c h i l d

[я𝑜𝓈𝑒]

ISOBEL KRIGEL ;

the clouds move over the pontiac skies
their silent thunder matches mine
i know this feeling from long ago
i wondered was it gone, but now i know

Darkness, ice, wraps its arms around me, thick, heavy, like ink from a pen. It is stained and glistening on my skin when I settle on the top of a hill overlooking the wreckage the tsunami had made of everything I knew, everything I called home.

Families torn apart by the seams, houses split in two, pieces of wood floating through floods of debris, cracked stone walls, murky, obsidian water- this is all the storm left behind, that and a trail of dead bodies. The Peacekeepers salvaged them from the waters and laid them out in lines on the ashy sand with thin wooden coffins at their feet.

Sometimes, in those late nights when the world is blue and I am gray, and my thoughts are embers and flame, I wish I had been among them. I know not what is worse- being destroyed or watching the destruction.

I have suffered the pain of the latter twice, laid to rest beneath the white agony filling my mind and spilling over my body. Fire and water have proven to be equals in the art of destruction.

Fire took my mother; water took my home.

I still have Arissa, but sometimes I fear that even she, like everything else, will be ripped away from me.

(But what is life if not pain?)

And as I am drowning in my thoughts, I do not notice the feverish pitter patter of feet growing louder and louder at my side, until a shrill voices pierces the air and splits my thoughts into fragments.

Perhaps it is a blessing that they were forced out of my head.

"Hey, I'm sorry. I'm not bothering you, am I? I just saw you, and you looked kinda lonely, and, um- . . . Well, listen, I'm Brooke. Please don't be sad. Okay? Please?"

(Not to worry- I'm used to be alone.)

I turn my head to face the girl, and I am met with a mane of red hair, like the scarlet sunsets on the beach, and round dark eyes that seem to shine, glisten, despite the overcast skies and lack of sun. Copper freckles are spattered across the soft planes of her face, one that tugs at a memory in the back of my head.

"I'm Brooke."

No. I know that name- I know that face.

(2.) River Destin - "And when you meet my daughter, I want you to look her in the eyes and tell her what her mother died for."

And I do. I look her in the eyes, bleeding blue into brown, and see nothing but a hollow ghost.

I know that name- I know that face.

A half-smile curls the side of my lip, but it does not touch my eyes. I cannot see my reflection, but I know, by the cavernous space in my chest, they are empty as voids, dark as storms.

"Brooke Destin-Libertine?" I inquire. Everyone knows the Libertines, but it is not that part of her name that catches my attention.

"Please don't be sad."

I wish I had a choice in that matter.

"Don't be sad? Being sad is one of my talents," I laugh, but it is a half-hearted, hollow sound.

so when she calls, don't send her my way
when it hurts, you'll know it's the right thing
michigan's in the rear view now
keep your hands where i could see 'em

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

 

The smile that graces the other girl's lips is a small and fragile thing, but seeing it is enough to cause Brooke's own grin to stretch to lengths that leave her cheeks burning. When the stranger finally speaks, guessing the redhead's full name without missing a beat, Brooke clasps her hands together with an excited and fascinated squeal.

"Yes! That's actually my name! You're such a good guesser — did my hair give it away?" She twirls a strand of it around her finger for good measure, oblivious to the fact that her expressions are being overly bubbly to the point of obnoxiousness — but if the rest of the world wishes to mope around and be sour, then Brooke's more than content with sharing her optimism with those that cannot force happiness. 

"Yours is way prettier than mine, though," she goes on, taking a seat beside the girl on the grassy slope of the hill. A leg dangles over the edge while the rest of her body twists so that she's looking into a pair of cold eyes. Boundaries have always been nonexistent to her, and with a giggle, she starts to run her fingers through her newfound friend's locks of brown hair.

"I know how to do this really nice braid — just stay still, and you'll see what I mean." Fingers start to weave a creation, pausing only after a few moments have already passed. "Oh, yeah! You're fine with me doing this, aren't you?" Already parted lips don't wait for an answer — "Wonderful!"

She goes on with her work, humming a tune as she focuses. But when her sensitive ears pick up on her friend stating that being sad is a talent of hers, Brooke gasps with an over-the-top inhale. "That's so terrible!" she shrieks in a voice that never struggles to be heard, even in the most casual of conversations.

"I'm sure that you have so many other skills that are better than being sad. Like, is that really even a talent? Me, myself, I've always been able to whistle, like, really freaking well, and, like, that's a legitimate talent — but being sad? Yikes!"

She brings a hand up to her mouth with a raspy breath after she speaks the words, eyes feigning a look of guilt and regret. "Oh, no! That was rude of me, wasn't it?" Her other hand makes its way to her face, both of them pressing against her cheeks in shock.

"I really didn't mean anything by it! You're more than welcome to be proud of that, just — I don't agree, I guess? And, like, that's totally fine! Because what I think of you doesn't override what you think of yourself, y'know? If you think being sad is great, then good for you!" She leans in, already shifting from being apologetic back to her normal and energetic self.

"But, just between you and I — life would be so much better if you'd just let yourself be happy." She winks with a mischievous crinkling of her nose, almost as if she's daring her new friend to feel something warm and joyous. "I promise you."

{ She throws her head back and laughs with a sound that is contagious and overbearing and bright

— and the thunder that looms in the distance has no chance of scaring her. }

"Do you have a name, by the way? Because you and I are gonna be best friends."

B R O O K E  ●  D E S T I N