ricky silva, district twelve | finished
Jan 18, 2017 2:42:06 GMT -5
Post by eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris on Jan 18, 2017 2:42:06 GMT -5
ricky silva
— eighteen —
— eighteen —
Your mother told you once that all children are fallen stars — it's their duty to live out a burnt existence, forever trying to claw their way back up to their birthplace in the sky. That's some pretty metaphorical fuckery and all, but it's still just pure shit. You've always known the truth. Kids from Twelve are just fractured bones wrapped up in paper skin, placed in origami houses and given matches to play with. 'C'mon, kid, distract yourself,' they urge with a nudge and a smile. 'Set yourself on fire and give us less mouths to feed.' You were born to die, licking the blood off of your chin and thinking rusted chains around your neck would look far more fetching than your great grandmother's pearls.They'd be easier to choke yourself with, in the least.
You want disease — you want scraped fingers and purple blots staining yellowed skin. If your chest is burning and your hands are shaking, you're alive. If your body is covered in bruises and you're riddled with flashes of pain, then it's still doing its job. Girls from the Seam never hope for much — a good meal every other week, or a man that can support them for the rest of their days. ( You'd sooner marry your own vomit. ) Your mother is the reincarnation of six generations of women, and it's your job to carry on her dream, but honestly? Fuck all of that shit. You weren't given a chance: a survival rate was branded onto your forehead before you had the chance to swing a punch. Let the wolves come for you and let the parasites rip open your core.— Damn, you wouldn't die even if they killed you.
You were thirteen and beating up a crying boy in an alleyway when they found you. They said your eyes were too wide for your face and that your lips sagged at a harsh angle, but you just laughed and kicked the tallest of the pair in the shin. 'What the fuck are you offerin' me? Do I gotta be purty to get the job done?' — and sometimes homes can be built in a day. They got you a torn satin dress and a pair of oversized combat boots, and then they forced you to sit down in a chair and you winced as your scalp was scalded with bleach. A fried wave of piss-burnt blonde found its way in front of your eyes, and fuck it — at least it was a conversation starter.
They brought you in as the first female fighter in the underground ring, a little girl with a good swing who only needed to play pretend as a rich little runaway with a troubled past — but then you downed the slack-jawed boy across from you in less than a minute, and you didn't stop wriggling his broken nose because, 'Hey! I swear I didn't hear you say that the match was over!' Maybe you sucked at playing the part you were given, but a fighter's only job is to fuck shit up, and you could do that with ease. A few months of, 'Do I have to fight a girl?' eventually became, 'Damn, Ricky! Teach me how you do that thing with your right hook!' — and it was everything to you.
You keep the boys safe in your hands, calloused as they are — and you've never claimed to be gentle or loving, and you spit on them and rough them up more than you care for them, but they're yours. The lot of them. Kids from Twelve don't know anything beyond being kicked when they're down, so it's only natural that they make careers out of it. It's a small moment of revenge, isn't it? Beating a bastard's face until his eye swells shut because, 'You messed with me on the wrong day, Billy!' Your mother raised you with a hopeful thought, and there are times where you look up to see the dead lights in the sky with a sigh of longing, but you know your place. You'll be here for the rest of your life — you don't want out, not like Click, and you'll never regret it, not like Nori. This is all you have. There's nothing left for you.
Fuck the stars, man. You don't need their warmth.— You've got gasoline skin and a lighter for a heart, anyway.
