take me to neverland ❈ { wylla & riven }

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

WYLLA LYSANDER

Optimism seems difficult to uncover here. It is buried beneath a conundrum of mischief and murder, choices built on choices built on a drive to achieve. It's just the same as Three, I'm not sure why I expected it to be any different; everybody wants a slice of the Devil's pie no matter the consequences. 

They're giving up their humanity, and I don't understand it. What they don't know will kill them: it costs a fortune to sell your soul.

That's what Mum says, at least.

I don't think I could ever give up my humanity. Mum gave up hers, and, well, she's dead.

I squint through hardened eyes that promise to be my salvation. A couple weeks or so and everyone in here will be dead. Because even though there is going to be a victor, no one will stay whole. Pieces will be chiselled away until they are morphed and distorted, until the victor isn't really a victor anymore, just a star that managed to survive the fall. Burning bright, like a fire in the winter, but like all fires, they will go out.

Warm oranges and reds catch my attention; there is a girl painting her arm with colours of all sorts. I can't help but feel intrigued, my childish naivety snatching the reigns as they trot me over to stare in awe. The designs are intricate and complex, not like anything I've ever seen before. Here, art is being used as a means of survival—it's a shame I'm only good at drawing stick people with charcoal.

I can't help but be reminded of a happy past: hopscotch with stolen chalk, the sun turning my cheeks from white to pink, pink to red. Where sticks and stones wouldn't even dare to break your bones, and where names weren't relevant. Faces painted with the pigment from flowers turned me to a lily from a girl. I loved it.

I still love it.

My eyes shoot from colour to colour until eventually, my mind is swarmed with bees which all buzz the same tune.

I want my face painted.

And no, Mum, it's not a bad idea—I think I've found my optimism.

"Can you paint my face?" My two front teeth bite into my lip as I ask her. "I want to be a butterfly. Can you do it?" An unfeigned enthusiasm sweeps across my face; I'm buzzing like the bees, joining in with their song of excitement. I hope, hope, hope she says yes.

[solo]

Riven Fowley

I don't think I realized how much I missed painting. I suppose it's really only been a day or two since I left the District, but it wasn't until now that I realized I left my sketchpads there, along with all the hope that possibly exists in me. I didn't think about sketching, or painting for that matter. I prefer pencils to brushes. Leads to oils. When I left my family, I didn't have either.
And then my eyes landed on the table of paint and brushes.
Something lights in me, a tiny spark, a piece of some girl that I left behind when I left my family. My observant thoughts fade, and in this moment, I don't care about the others around me. They're just white noise.Blurs of black and white against the color of that table.
I must have faded out of the world for a moment, because when I'm alert again, there's a brush in my hand and a pallet of oranges and reds and yellows on the table. Of course, we won't have paint in the arena. But I miss it so much, oh I miss it, and I desperately need to paint something. If I were trying to physically survive,I'd paint something the color of bark or rocks or dirt. But it's not the physical I'm worried about right now. How am I going to survive psychologically?
My hands move without thinking, splashes of orange and red suddenly appearing against my pasty skin. It's an ugly combination, so I quickly cover the rest of my forearm with bright shades of autumn. Now that I think about it, perhaps I could blend in if the arena were a forest in the fall. But then I think again, and odds of that are unlikely. Either way I don't care. I just need to paint. To create. To form something out of nothing.
"Can you paint my face?"
I am no longer here. I have faded from the world, I'm a blank spot, a creature that is busy escaping this world and creating another. Streaks of crimson and sunflower yellow and deep daffodil orange close in on my vision.
"I want to be a butterfly." 
A butterfly...sometimes I want to be a butterfly too. Then perhaps I could spread my wings and fly away from this place. And then of course the next question is, what color would my wings be?
"Can you do it?"
Her words suddenly throw reality back in my face. I blink, my hand frozen, hovering over my arm. A spot of scarlet drips where it shouldn't be, marring my creation, and I look up. I blink. I don't know...wait, I do know her. If I were to stand, perhaps I'd be her height, but I'm even shorter when sitting and really only come up to her shoulder.
"A butterfly?" I repeat, trying to force myself back to the real world. It feels like there's a rope tied around me, pulling me back, begging me to stay. I put on a faint smile and the rope snaps. "Yeah, I think I could."
I motion for her to take a seat in the chair next to me, turning it slightly so we'll be facing each other. I realize I should be practicing some real camouflage, but the urge to paint is pulling me away from that. And I can't say no to a kid.
I push aside my pallet of reds and yellows, and glance at the array of pastels and oils in front of us. "Any particular color you like?" I return my gaze to her and again smile. Still a small one, barely turning up the corners of my lips. "I've never done this before, you know."

THROUGH ALL MY MAKE BELIEVE
THERE'S SOME REALITY

{Word Count: 612}

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

WYLLA LYSANDER

A moment of waiting patiently goes by. It's something I've grown used to—Mum says that slow and steady wins the race. Although, part of me is beginning to branch away from the concept. It only takes a second to realise that these people are training as if their life depends on it. Their life does depend on it; they're running to get in first place.

It matters now. Should I be paying more attention to the opportunities the Capitol poses me with whilst I have the chance?

"A butterfly?" The girl replies, and it goes hand in hand with the silent response of no in my mind. Of course, Mum is the opposition she has loved to become; she argues I should invest my time in something more effective. She's telling me to be the cause so I can see the effect.

I think that having a butterfly face is a worthwhile effect.

The girl, who appears to only be a few inches taller than me, gestures for me to sit opposite her. "Yeah, I think I could," she says, making my dream become a reality. My legs hang from the chair, my feet dangling in the void. Three more inches and my big toe would be able to touch the ground, three more inches and perhaps, I'd be just that little bit more brave.

The palette of warmth is quickly traded for an empty hand. "Any particular colour your like?" She says, adopting a softer tone and expression. "I've never done this before, you know."

"Paint the butterflies you feel in your stomach if you are nervous. I'm not bothered." I tell her, the corners of my mouth turning up. Satisfaction can be found in the simplest of things: a smile, a word, a phrase, a promise, open ears or a painted face. I don't underestimate the power of any of these things. Tiny things are far too often overlooked. These little things can become big things, and sometimes, I think that little things can change the world.

I am a little thing, but Mum says that changing the world is for the big girls who cry.

But why can't I change the world?

I seal the thought in a jar and save it for a rainy day.

"Although, my favourite colours are purple and black. Can you do a purple and black butterfly?" I smile, my eyes lighting up at the thought of my transformation.

[solo]

Riven Fowley

The girl sits down, and I begin to get a better look at her. I realize now that she's shorter than me. Her feet dangle in the air, soft brown hair tumbling around her small shoulders. Or perhaps it's blonde. I can't quite tell. She's got big, innocent eyes, and I can't help but think of some gentle rabbit or bird, about to be torn apart by a starving dog. A pack of starving dogs, to be more precise. Her face is young, childish, with big teeth visible behind her lips when she speaks. She's not smiling, but even so she's got round apple cheeks.
"Paint the butterflies you feel in your stomach if you are nervous. I'm not bothered."
And then she smiles, and I give a faint laugh. Butterflies in my stomach. Yes, I'm quite familiar with those, although I don't think I'll tell her that just yet. If they ever came out, there would be a swarm of them, all blinding yellow and pale blue and colors that jar sharply against each other. A perfect chaos.
Chaos. Noun. Complete disorder and confusion.
Perfect. Adjective. Absolute; complete.
"Although, my favourite colours are purple and black. Can you do a purple and black butterfly?"
She gives me another grin, and suddenly there's a tiny crack in my heart because I realize she's being entirely honest. Not analyzing, no facade, no calculating. Purple and black. Not the usual favourite colours of pink and blue, but something unique, something she has possibly thought out. Perhaps not, but what I know for sure is that she didn't think twice about her answer. She's a child, telling someone who is willing to paint her face what her favourite colours are.
"Hmm, I think those will look nice together." I say quietly, and I give a nod in response. For a second I shuffle around the objects on the table, and eventually find a clean pallet, which I cover with varying shades of purple, blue, green and black. An idea is already forming in my mind, something that will perhaps help my new friend. Of course, I will paint her the butterfly she wants. But it will be a special butterfly.
Carefully, methodically, I mix the paints together and come up with a rich, deep purple that I decide will be by base colour.
"Hold still." I instruct, and then I take one of the softest brushes I can find and start painting across her nose, cheeks and forehead. I'm careful to avoid her mouth and eyes, reaching out to brush her hair back if it gets in the way. It's true, I've never painted someone's face before. It's all new, trying to shade something on a 3-D surface. But I think I can do it.
"You're Wylla, right?" I say, hoping to start up a conversation, or at least some sort of small talk. I remember her name from the recap, mostly because she was so young compared to all the eighteen-year-old volunteers. "District Three, I think? I'm Riven. Riv, if you want."

THROUGH ALL MY MAKE BELIEVE
THERE'S SOME REALITY

{Word Count: 501}

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

WYLLA LYSANDER

"Hmm, I think those will look nice together." The girl says, a short nod following after she speaks. Her fingers hastily move to reorganise the spillage of things which lie on the table. She picks up a clean palette, mixing together various shades of purple and black.

Slowly, colour becomes radiance and radiance becomes life. "Hold still," she says, and Mum reminds me that I don't need to hold my breath in order to be still. Silence and loneliness until our pieces fall together and I feel the cold paint against my skin. The colours begin turning my cheeks from pink to purple and I can't help but smile.

It's a small smile, though—she told me to hold still.

"You're Wylla, right?" 

"That's me." 

"District Three, I think? I'm Riven. Riv, if you want." The name rings a bell. 

"And you're from Ten." I say to her, her own District. Riven Fowley is her name, I remember now. The Capitol is laced with technology that makes knowing everyone else's story almost impossible; there are televisions on every wall, both inside and outside.

They're on the third floor, they're in my room. It's quite amazing, really, although Mum says it is just their way of brainwashing us. She's probably right, but I don't care. The technology reads the pages of other children's books, their dreams and nightmares. It makes me feel less alone.

My eyes drift from my swinging toes back to the girl's face.

I imagine she's met the most recent victor and probably has much better odds than I. She's probably had her mind weaved with details of murder and strategy, logic and defensive intelligence. The three victors from Ten are giving her the armour she needs to survive, whereas I've got to make my own.

It doesn't matter, though—I'm knitting together a sweater of my courage to wear when the clock strikes. I'll own my tale and be the bravery I've always wanted to see in myself. Strong isn't the right word; strength is what the careers train for, strength is what the careers claim they have. 

You can't be strong when you are weak, but you can always be brave.

"What did they teach you, then? The victors."

I inhale a sharp breath, the air feeling brisk against the small hole my mouth makes. I don't want to sabotage her butterfly.

"Can you tell me? You don't have to."

I pause for a moment, before my words are freed from the restraints that my teeth provide.

"Are they nice? It's just, I've always wondered."

[solo]

Riven Fowley

I spot the corners of her mouth twitching upwards, smiling but trying not to because it might mess up the paint. My heart is confused, lost somewhere between affection and pity for this girl. She's so, so young. Even for a twelve-year-old.
"That's me. And you're from Ten."
My eyebrows lift ever so slightly, mildly surprised that she knows my district. With forty-some tributes in the games this year, even I find it difficult to remember all their names and where they're from. I can sort their information into all their seperate boxes, but the shelves of my brain start to get crammed, weighed down with unlabeled containers full of chaotic information. I am careful with this girl's box, tucking it away in a small corner where it won't be forgotten or confused with the other, messier boxes.
My thoughts are distracted for a moment by Wylla's eyes, which she now raises to meet mine. I'm careful to keep my hand steady, my gaze focused more on her nose at the moment than anything else. I try seeing past her, but it's difficult. Is she analyzing me? Sizing me up? I doubt it. She's been so innocent thus far, I'd be surprised if she were thinking about the games. But then again, perhaps she is just an excellent actor.
"What did they teach you then? The victors."
She takes in a quick breath, as if she's just asked me to reveal some deep dark secret, and she's worried I'll say no. Or maybe she's worried about my answer.
"Can you tell me? You don't have to."
She pauses, and I shake my head. I try to make my tone sound warm and open. "It's alright. Ask whatever you want."
"Are they nice? It's just, I've always wondered."
How interesting. She wonders about the other victors, the mentors of the tributes. While I''m looking at the other kids here, the ones I will be fighting in a few day's time, she is looking to their teachers, wondering what they will learn and how they will use it to their advantage. Then again, perhaps she is just curious. Who can tell with a child's mind?
"They're alright." I say thoughtfully, and start adding some blue and green shading, spots that will make the butterfly appear iridescent and, hopefully, powerful. Then maybe the piece of art will appear less childish before the other tributes.
I remember that I've been asked a question and should at least be trying to keep up the conversation. "Personally, I think they're all a little crazy." I glance at Wylla's eyes and give her a playful smile. My butterfly is beginning to take shape. "How about you?" I ask, and head tilts ever so slightly in curiosity. "Do you like your mentors?"

THROUGH ALL MY MAKE BELIEVE
THERE'S SOME REALITY

{Word Count: 453}

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

WYLLA LYSANDER

"It's alright." She says, her soft words cushion me. "Ask whatever you want. They're alright."

Her brush dips into the sky and ducks beneath the grass; Riven adds different specks to my face of the earth's colours. I can look down to my cheeks and see them beginning to transform into something beautiful. In some ways, she really is turning me into a butterfly.

I'm losing my cocoon and spreading my wings.  

"Personally, I think they're all a little crazy." Her eyes meet with my own, we trade each other a gentle smile. "How about you?" Her head leans over with her question. "Do you like your mentor?"

"He's okay." I say, thinking back to meeting him on the train. It wasn't the first time I'd seen Atticus Manor, though; his games happened just before I reached double digits. The atmosphere of Three was electric—we traded the blood in our veins for lightning. Mum didn't approve of his victory and said he was not a good role model for someone my age.

But she is the same woman who thinks that I style myself similarly to how Patricia Valfierno brands herself, and Mum is the same woman who isn't even alive.

"Atticus makes an effort, and I suppose that is what matters. Some victors don't even try."

I look left, I look right. My tone turns from sweet to sour, my tone stinging the air like a tormented wasp.

"Some victors want to kill us." My eyes dart around frantically. I'm scared that I'll turn around and find Cricket Antoinette stood behind me: her knowing eyes and mischievous smile casting a shadow onto my fearful face. I feel like I've just said the most unspeakable truth, the worst sentence to ever leave my lips, ever.

Mum says that I need to get a grip.

But I don't need to; I'm wearing my knitted sweater of courage and self-belief. I'm a butterfly and I'm not going to get caught in Cricket Antoinette's web.

"I don't think I should've said that. How is the butterfly coming along..?"

[solo]

Riven Fowley

"He's okay." Wylla's gaze grows distant, looking at me but not really looking at me. I give her time to think, and busy myself by cleaning my brush and dipping it into a spot of shiny black paint. My movements are now careful, steady, drawing a thin line of ebony from just between her eyes to below her lips. This will be my butterfly's body.
"Atticus makes an effort, and I suppose that is what matters. Some victors don't even try." she pauses, looking nervously back and forth. I get the sense she's about to say something that she doesn't want the others to hear. Who exactly are the others, though? The tributes? Her mentor? The Capitol? Any number of them could be watching and listening. "Some victors want to kill us."
I almost stop painting, but I force myself to stay steady, smooth black lines forming a shape around the smudges of deep purple and iridescent blue. I take a moment to glance at her eyes, and I catch the fear in them. She's worried someone heard. I would be too, if I had said something like that. But I don't rebuke her, I wait patiently, allowing her to think it through.
"I don't think I should've said that." she says suddenly, and I wonder: does she regret confiding in me, or saying it out loud where anyone could hear? "How is the butterfly coming along..?"
I don't answer immediately, and instead give a subtle look around the camouflage station. I don't see anyone else nearby, save for the trainer, who is watching the blades station with deep interest.
"It's almost done." My voice is low and soft, almost distracted. I keep my eyes intent on the black lines. I seem distant, but my full attention is on her words, my brain buzzing with all the possibilities of what I could say. Finally, I give a faint laugh. "Good thing no one comes around this station. No one can tell me to hurry up."
I pause for a split second and catch her eye, wondering if she understands the message beneath my lighthearted words: No one heard you but me.
I dip my brush in the black paint once more and work my way around the wings, forming the border and the intricate webbing inside. "So tell me," I start, silently grasping at topics, "What's District Three like?" My hand pauses, suddenly realizing this might not be a great question. My cheeks feel warm and I duck my head a little. "I mean, if you're okay talking about it."

THROUGH ALL MY MAKE BELIEVE
THERE'S SOME REALITY

{Word Count: 423}

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

WYLLA LYSANDER

It feels like I've turned her to stone.

Mum says that harsh words force people to become their own storms. They find peace in the rain and find their harmonies on the whistling wind; the cold comes and they freeze in their footsteps. Frozen in a moment that dares you to break it—it's more intimidating than an awkward silence that forces you to talk about the weather.

Mum says that she became a storm once, but she gave it all up when she had me. My front teeth bite into my bottom lip when the thought crosses my mind. Does that make me a thief?

No, I think to myself. If she didn't want to get pregnant and lose the identity she had created, she knew what precautions would need to be taken.

I've drifted off. Caught on a cloud and taken past nine, Riven's voice forces me to fall through the elements and crash into the now.

"It's almost done." She's deeper and softer once again. There's a level of understanding in her words which makes me feel like I am safe. Worries of the weeks to come fade into the mist and countless shouts from ghosts are burnt away by the sun. Riv laughs daintily, as if she is about to be broken.

I pray that she doesn't give up her humanity.

"Good thing no one comes around this station. No one can tell me to hurry up." The twinkle in her eyes reels me in, I giggle and all of a sudden, I feel that feeling again—I'm safe. The brush strokes against my cheeks are not war paint; they are a reminder of the childhood I've still got, the childhood that isn't going anywhere.

It's safe here, I can feel it.

"So tell me, what's District Three like?" Her head comes closer. "I mean, if you're okay talking about it."

"It's fine," I say. I don't have anything physical to remember it by, and I plan on cutting all emotional strings which tie me to its heart. "Three has the rich and the poor. I'm the poor."

I might be a child, but I grew out of lying long ago.

"People complain a lot, people worry a lot. Atticus winning gave people hope, but it was just a phase."

I exhale a shallow sigh. It's all gone now. They are going to expect the worst and not even bother trying to hope for the best.

"Three is to me as the moon is to the night."

Important, yes, but I've realised that I can't get attached to the things I've waved goodbye to. That's exactly why I'm forcing myself to leave it behind.

[solo]

Riven Fowley

I can see the fear in her eyes, the thought that someone might've heard her, the idea that I might be angry. It's almost a haunted look, ghosts fleeting back and forth behind innocent brown eyes. I recognize her ghosts, although just barely. They have visited me before. More often when I was younger. Not so much now, when my parents have taught me to keep them at bay, and I know better than to let them through the door in the first place.
My words reach her, and she falls back into the safety net of childhood. Her laughter frightens them off and her smile forces them to fade into the background of her thoughts. She is a child again, safe and unconcerned.
"It's fine." she says, and I can't quite read her tone. "Three has the rich and the poor. I'm the poor."
I nod in understanding. I think I know what she means. Ten is mostly made up of the poor, but we also have the middle class, and a few rich families that I could probably count on one hand. If you can even call them rich.
"People complain a lot, people worry a lot. Atticus winning gave people hope, but it was just a phase."
her statement is followed by a soft sigh. "Three is to me as the moon is to the night."
I wonder what exactly she means by that. Her home is a light in her dark? Or maybe she can still exist without it?
"Well, aren't you poetic." I muse quietly, somewhat to myself but still loud enough for her to hear. "Sounds a bit like Ten." I put the final touches on the thin lines that twist and turn across the butterfly's wings, pitch black against deep purple, a gorgeous mix that appears both beautiful and dangerous when you pull back from it. I can't help but think of the caterpillars I saw as a child, the bright yellow ones that I thought were amazing but Dad said were poisonous. He explained to me that the colors were a warning to predators. I can only hope that this is the effect I have given to Wylla. Beautiful and threatening, all at once.
I pull the brush away from her face, set it carefully on the table (which I've made a mess of), and lean back to look at my work. The corners of my lips pull up into a satisfied smile. "I think I'm done." I glance around and spot a small mirror on the table. My small hands move to pick it up, and I hold it in front of me so she can take a look. "You could sneak into a swarm of butterflies and they'd never notice." Perhaps she will be able to sneak into this pack of wolves and come out alive.

THROUGH ALL MY MAKE BELIEVE
THERE'S SOME REALITY

{Word Count: 469}

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

WYLLA LYSANDER

I'm forcing myself to leave it behind, because otherwise I'll get more ghosts. More ghosts means more voices; voices mean debate and it's worse enough with Mum in my head. When I get into that arena, they will be more of a hindrance than a help—a clouded mind is just that: clouded.

Bad decisions, bad consequences. They'd show me that good people can do bad things. They'd show me that I'm nothing more than the rest of them; just a monster.

I don't want to be a monster.

"Well, aren't you poetic." She says, to which I can only force a smile. "Sounds a bit like Ten." The left side of my lips perk up.

Riven takes the brush away, placing it on the table before taking a step back to look at my face. I can't see it, but I can sense it. The transformation is complete; I've gone from an ugly duckling to a swan, caterpillar to butterfly. This face is not war paint, though, it is a reminder of the childhood I've still got.

It is a reminder of the childhood I'm going to keep.

"I think I'm done." Her fingers crawl to a mirror. She takes it between her fingers, the mirror catching the grey light for a second, before she holds it up in front of me. For a second, I close my eyes. I take a breath in, pulling my lips between my teeth before fluttering my eyes open. "You could sneak into a swarm of butterflies and they'd never notice." 

My smile uncurls from within, my eyes floating between the various elements of the masterpiece she has created. The black with the purple—my favourite colours—and the tiny detailing on the wings which deepen the artwork. It feels real, beautiful.

It's pretty. I look pretty.

"Pretty," I say. "Really pretty."

"Thank you." My legs kick back and forth through the air that cuts me from the ground. I'm weightless, but I'm no longer an invisible, fading girl. I take to my feet, rising up to four feet and eight inches before smiling at Riven.

My wings have spread, and now, it is time to fly.

I try to take off, a smile smeared across my face. Pride surges, it's electric, but something binds me to this spot.

It's cold and heavy, but empty. I freeze.

Mum shouting at me, she's screaming and says that I'm becoming a monster. I can't shut her out; her words are like nails on a chalkboard and they are making my stomach churn. She's making me think bad things and these bad things are making me sick because bad things mean that someone is becoming a monster.

I told myself I wouldn't my humanity like she did.

She's trying to tell me that monsters are what fly, and now that I've spread my wings—she's making me the villain.

Why is she turning my self-sacrifice into something sinister?

I stare with wide eyes into a blank space but my mind is filled with fire. The optimism I'd found is broken. And all I have is ashes.

[solo]

Riven Fowley

She closes her eyes, sucks in a breath between pursed lips. Waiting, anticipating. Wanting to see but also wanting to savor the moment. I remember being like that. I remember when I was able to close my eyes and stop and make time stretch on ahead of me until it turned into forever. Not anymore. Now, the clock is ticking, a constant noise in the back of my mind that keeps reminding me: you're dead in a week. They'll never forgive you.
Her gaze flickers open, brown eyes peering at a mirror that contains my creation. She takes it in, every detail, eating it up but never raising a hand to touch it. Her mouth curls into an overjoyed smile. "Pretty. Really pretty." I can't help but smile in return. Her legs swing back and forth, causing shadows to dance on the floor beneath her, and then she hops to her feet. She's shorter than me, I realize, by perhaps three or four inches. Sometimes I wish I were taller. And then there are other times, like now, when I'm grateful that I don't tower over everyone else.
Her smile gives me hope as she looks up at me. "Thank you."
"Any time." I say in response, and I mean it. I will gladly spend the next three days of my life creating any number of animals on her face, creatures that pull me away from this place and take me to a meadow where I can run and play and be a child again. A place where I can forget how little time I have left.
Something's wrong. Wylla's smile is gone.
I focus in on her face, and realize she's staring somewhere in the distance, eyes wide. I can't quite read the emotion behind them. Fear? Worry? Anxiety? They all go hand in hand with each other, so really it could be any or all of the above.
"Wylla?" I take note of how the name rolls off my tongue. It's an odd one, but I can't complain, because mine isn't exactly that common either. I get mistaken for Raven all the time, although I despise the name. It's too normal for my taste. "Are you alright?" I try to make eye contact with her, concern rising inside me. I'm not sure what else to say, mostly because I can't read her expression. I just know that something is going on in her head.

THROUGH ALL MY MAKE BELIEVE
THERE'S SOME REALITY

{Word Count: 400}

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

WYLLA LYSANDER

"Any time." Riven says, and I nod my head in approval. She's honest; Mum says that honesty is the best policy, although, there have been countless examples where I have spun a web of lies and caught myself in my own trap. Thinking about it now, the web that a lie creates can catch anything: a bee to a butterfly.

Mum continues to call out that butterflies are monsters too, and I hate it, I hate it.

"Wylla? Are you alright?" 

Mum told me that honesty is the best policy, and if I was going to tell the truth to Riv, I'd tell her that there is a battle in my brain; I'd tell her about the numerous devils on my shoulder who taint the light to the dark, and I'd tell her about the backstabber of a Mother I have, who doesn't leave when I tell her to.

If I was honest, Riv would know that I'm part monster, part Wylla.

"Fine."

It's cold. I lie, spinning another trap of intricate false leads and reassurance. I'm beginning to think that Mum is right—maybe, I really am just a monster who doesn't deserve any kind of optimism.

No, I remind myself. Succumbing to the voices is the work of the devil's hands. They are wanting me to get in first place, but I'm determined to maintain my foundations of positivity before they are touched by the upside-down. I'm wearing my sweater of courage and self-belief after all, so can anything really pull me from this high?

I perk up into a smile. The same smile that I smiled when Riv said she'd turn me into a purple and black butterfly.

"I'm fine. Promise."

This time, it's the truth.

"Just hungry. I'm going to get some lunch."

[solo]

Riven Fowley

I catch a glimpse of something in her eyes, some inner battle, ghosts howling and wailing at each other. A haunted look beneath chocolate brown irises. She only takes a split second to respond, and during that moment, I almost think she's going to open up to me, about whatever it is.
"Fine." Not today.
Her words are sharp, oddly cold against the warm, childish ones she's been giving me for the past twenty minutes or so. My lips curl inwards and I bite down on them. The lie hurts slightly, but I guess I can't blame her. We did just meet.
Quite suddenly, her mouth pulls up into a smile, and I wonder at her ability to change moods so quickly. She's genuine, easily readable. She doesn't try to hide much. While I can sometimes find that boring, I also prefer it when I want to learn about a person faster. It's difficult when I need information and they're not giving it to me. I guess I can be alright with her lie. At least she didn't hide it very well.
"I'm fine." she says. "Promise. Just hungry. I'm going to get some lunch."
It's been a while since anyone promised me something. I've heard half-truths, dark lies, twisted words, but not always a promise. Something solid and binding. Something that hurts when it shatters. But I don't think Wylla is in the way of breaking promises.
I glance down at my arm, and realize my own piece is not quite finished. I look back up and smile. "Alright. I'll see you later then." I hope. I hope she comes back. I get an image of the wolves, wild eyes, frothing mouths, sharp teeth built for ripping and tearing. Animals that voluntarily came to the pack and are ready to kill each other as soon as they get the opportunity. Beasts who want to come out alive and will do anything to accomplish that.
I hope the wolves don't devour her.

THROUGH ALL MY MAKE BELIEVE
THERE'S SOME REALITY

{Word Count: 325}