numbers; speakers [ day 5 ]
Apr 11, 2017 14:06:22 GMT -5
Post by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] on Apr 11, 2017 14:06:22 GMT -5
WYLLA LYSANDER
Riv leans on me but I am not a domino—I don't fall.
I help her hobble past the devastation and through to the broken light. The mansion was home to all kinds of treachery; part of me feels like the walls have ears and eyes and see our every move and hear our every whisper with a hope of finding an ounce of fear.
Of course, it doesn't succeed because most of us have learnt to filter the weakness out and replace it with strength. Some people seem to have a habit of faking that, though; I think that the big girl, Fallon is only making herself seem big in order to protect her friend. I suppose that it is admirable, I don't think I'd put my life on the line for a broken person.
Do I know any broken people?
I glance left before my eyes shift to the right; I suppose that Riv is broken. Maybe that is just what death does to people; it makes them lose themselves in the thoughts and feelings of carrying out murder. But my mother always told me that no two people are the same, everybody is different, which assures me that perhaps I'd cope just fine.
I burnt myself and I survive. I think I would cope well with killing. Well, I think, I'd have to.
My footsteps cause the floor to creak as we move through the rooms of the mansion. The walls are decorated with all sorts of portraits and images which could be the foundations for all kinds of stories. One of the portraits holds a person who looks like they've seen a ghost. I shouldn't be surprised though, I think I've seen some too.
So we fall beyond the mansion's defences, removing ourselves from memories from five days ago and five minutes ago which remind us that we are never really safe. We come together, again, togetherness is the only serenity in this place in some ways. I need to remember that not everything in this arena is real; the bubble will pop in a few days and then I'll be back in the real, real world.
No more fantasies, no more illusions, or death, or hunger and thirst, and no more sea creatures which at as stars in the sky.
I need to remember that not everything is this arena is real, but I know that we are real. The other rejects were real too.
I sigh, but I told myself that I'd never tie my ties to tight because they are made to be undone. Just like shoelaces; you tie them just tight enough to keep your shoes on, but you tie them just loose enough to undo them again. I tied my ties tight enough to never forget.
That's good, I think, remembering keeps people grounded.
The ground we stand on is laced with thorns and petals. They aren't in a storm anymore, they aren't looping and turning and caught in a cyclone. They are peaceful, sweet, pretty. My grandmother used to put roses in the front window to let people know that she was in.
I hadn't seen a rose since she died before I came into this arena.
The weight of my stuff—that's all it is, really—stuff, drags me down onto the grass and I feel like a chucky pig that has been placed on its back and can't roll over. I lie on the bed of grass, staring up at the sea-sky-thing with wide eyes.
The day has barely begun, which means that we've got time. And that in itself is rare, but what makes this moment even more special is the fact that we have time to kill.
We aren't killing people anymore.
I can think of a million and one things to do—pulling up grass and making small houses for insects comes to mind. Plucking blades and weaving them together into stick men also sounds fun, but both Lucas and Riv are here.
I don't think they like the things I do.
"Well," I say, lying back in the shape of a star. "Now what?"
I help her hobble past the devastation and through to the broken light. The mansion was home to all kinds of treachery; part of me feels like the walls have ears and eyes and see our every move and hear our every whisper with a hope of finding an ounce of fear.
Of course, it doesn't succeed because most of us have learnt to filter the weakness out and replace it with strength. Some people seem to have a habit of faking that, though; I think that the big girl, Fallon is only making herself seem big in order to protect her friend. I suppose that it is admirable, I don't think I'd put my life on the line for a broken person.
Do I know any broken people?
I glance left before my eyes shift to the right; I suppose that Riv is broken. Maybe that is just what death does to people; it makes them lose themselves in the thoughts and feelings of carrying out murder. But my mother always told me that no two people are the same, everybody is different, which assures me that perhaps I'd cope just fine.
I burnt myself and I survive. I think I would cope well with killing. Well, I think, I'd have to.
My footsteps cause the floor to creak as we move through the rooms of the mansion. The walls are decorated with all sorts of portraits and images which could be the foundations for all kinds of stories. One of the portraits holds a person who looks like they've seen a ghost. I shouldn't be surprised though, I think I've seen some too.
So we fall beyond the mansion's defences, removing ourselves from memories from five days ago and five minutes ago which remind us that we are never really safe. We come together, again, togetherness is the only serenity in this place in some ways. I need to remember that not everything in this arena is real; the bubble will pop in a few days and then I'll be back in the real, real world.
No more fantasies, no more illusions, or death, or hunger and thirst, and no more sea creatures which at as stars in the sky.
I need to remember that not everything is this arena is real, but I know that we are real. The other rejects were real too.
I sigh, but I told myself that I'd never tie my ties to tight because they are made to be undone. Just like shoelaces; you tie them just tight enough to keep your shoes on, but you tie them just loose enough to undo them again. I tied my ties tight enough to never forget.
That's good, I think, remembering keeps people grounded.
The ground we stand on is laced with thorns and petals. They aren't in a storm anymore, they aren't looping and turning and caught in a cyclone. They are peaceful, sweet, pretty. My grandmother used to put roses in the front window to let people know that she was in.
I hadn't seen a rose since she died before I came into this arena.
The weight of my stuff—that's all it is, really—stuff, drags me down onto the grass and I feel like a chucky pig that has been placed on its back and can't roll over. I lie on the bed of grass, staring up at the sea-sky-thing with wide eyes.
The day has barely begun, which means that we've got time. And that in itself is rare, but what makes this moment even more special is the fact that we have time to kill.
We aren't killing people anymore.
I can think of a million and one things to do—pulling up grass and making small houses for insects comes to mind. Plucking blades and weaving them together into stick men also sounds fun, but both Lucas and Riv are here.
I don't think they like the things I do.
"Well," I say, lying back in the shape of a star. "Now what?"