through fire and flames {mylee VT}

[Knuckles]

Canvas Hope Sixteen | Male | District Eight

the broken clock is a comfort, it helps me sleep tonight
maybe it can stop tomorrow from stealing all my time
i am here still waiting though i still have my doubts
i am damaged at best, like you've already figured out

For the longest time life never made sense. Hopeful dreams crashed around with the cracks of every thunder and bolt of lightning, and yet I'm somehow still here living in a world smothered by tarnished realities. It's such a lonely street, but it's how I like it. Nobody around, and I can stop and stare as often as I want. Not many care, but maybe the pain of losing someone isn't there. It's just a feeling. A tingling in my hands and feet as I force myself forward.

Life is precious, and it's something I took for granted. Not once did the possibility of death linger before my eyes until life threw a brick at me slamming it hard against my face. A broken heart lingers inside barely beating. It hurts; however, as days go on the pain slowly goes away. Maybe it's just the loss of feelings in general. Not caring whether or not I live or die.

Sometimes it feels like the life is slipping from my hands. We finally won, but at the same time it's a bitter sweet victory. With the fame and fortune of having a victor wearing a crown comes with the broken reality of never seeing those I care for ever again. But I'm used to it. Lily and Paige. Both of them volunteered. Then Gentian and Eva.

One can become used to death right?

The pain goes away?

Maybe?

Or am I just playing pretend by living in a make believe world?

It's what I do the best according to mom. She wants me to smile, to carry myself with pride, but it's hard. Wearing a smile hurts, and I feel like it is just a burden.

But as I turn a corner into a more busy part of the district, I see her. At least I think it's her. Shouldn't be hard to miss her should it? What can I do though? Insult her on winning the hardest games of all? Mom would kill me if I tried, yet talking isn't what I do the best. It's not easy.

Taking a deep breath, I allow as much air as possible to fill my lungs, and with every exhale, I take a step forward. Stopping just a few feet away, I remember to smile - wearing a fake one is better than nothing.

Time stands still;

"Hello," A broken heart claws at my chest begging for an escape, "Miss Leviane, it's a pleasure."

Isn't it?

[googlefont="Irish Grover:400"]

[heather - d2 [mylee]]

I have been released from the grasp of forced introductions and as honest-to-god as they could be apologies. Neither former or latter are truly sincere in a mind of their own, but this is not consequence of ill intentions. This is simply the destruction of a home due to new laurels. Here I no longer can lay in front of broken glass and wooden bedframe and be at the closest thing to peace experienced.

They have shown me to a house that they expect me to call home; expect me to throw open the wooden door and take in the smell of new sheets and industrialism.

I have come to understand that they expect many things of me, few of which I can seem to give back to them.

But here I am of my own accord.

Passing busy street corners and sidewalks that for once, do not know my name. Head down and eyes averted even at the sound of it I keep walking, pace fast enough to almost be considered a run. Here, four doors down on the left is a shop that teems with people, but it does not overflow like its neighbors. And so I make another choice, pushing through the glass door and keeping my head to the wall to examine wares.

“Hello, Miss Leviane, it’s a pleasure.”

I think to not turn around and respond, but the voice is smaller than my own. When matched with his line of sight I am met with a sharp jaw and a boy shorter than myself, smile stretched across his face like he had just received the best news of a lifetime.

But I have never been, and now will never have the chance to be, the bearer of joyous news.

Adessia’s voice over my shoulder replays note after note about smiling, just at the corners, and so I force myself to do as such as I hold out my hand in his direction, “Likewise. I’m sorry, but I do not think I recognize you.”

When does the script become too monotonous for the actor?

S H E L B Y • L E V I A N E

[Knuckles]

Canvas Hope Sixteen | Male | District Eight

the broken clock is a comfort, it helps me sleep tonight
maybe it can stop tomorrow from stealing all my time
i am here still waiting though i still have my doubts
i am damaged at best, like you've already figured out

People run back and forth, footsteps echoing through the air, but what I notice the most are the smiles spreading across their face. Happiness doesn't exist anymore, it's lost, trapped within the depths of the unknown, and yet I stand here wearing a mask of happiness when in reality it doesn't come close to the broken heart lingering inside. It wasn't like this before, but it was stolen from me the moment the knife pierced Lily's eye. My family has all volunteered for this - not once has the escort drew the name. They wanted this, yet I can't even begin to understand why anyone would throw their life away. This girl, Shelby, volunteered for the games and won.

What makes her any different?

It's something I may never understand as hopeful dreams come crashing down in the blink of an eye. And here I am standing in the midst of the busy streets calling after the victor, but I don't know why, and for a minute I feel like she's going to ignore me and move on with her life - it's what I would've done. However, she proves me wrong as she turns. For the first time her eyes meet mine, and I can feel everything inside starting to break again.

My eyes lock on her hand, as she holds it out in front of her; "Likewise. I'm sorry, but I do not think I recognize you."

Nothing surprises me anymore. I'm just another forgotten face locked away in a crowd of people. Dancing in the midst of a fire hoping to change the way I look, and maybe learn something from it.

At first, I hesitate, but I remember this is all about making my family proud. It's about respecting mom. She raised me as a gentleman, not some slob who's rude and disrespectful. But what do I tell her? Do I tell her that I'm a Hope? That I have no hope left in the world?

Reaching out a hand, the smile slowly fades; "No need to be sorry ma'am; many don't know me." I try to chuckle like it's a joke, but in all reality it's the truth. Taking a deep breath, I allow all the air to fill my lungs, and as I exhale all hopeless realities flee too, "But, I'm Canvas -"

Does it even matter?

"Hope."

[googlefont="Irish Grover:400"]