rowan dimova | d9 fin
Jul 8, 2017 19:29:39 GMT -5
Post by tick 12a / calla on Jul 8, 2017 19:29:39 GMT -5
r o w a n
female. d9. 18
Twins.
Carbon copies of one soul.
Virtually the same until we really weren't anymore.
Hazel's always been the good one. It's not fair, really. Bronze mirrored faces, the same hands clutching each other's in the dark and somehow she's still picked first.
The two of us in a rundown orphanage, quite the pair really, left behind by some faceless junkie. I held Hazel's hand as she cried and cried and cried. Braided her hair after nightmares and hummed a lullaby that neither of us knew the words to. Bird-bone limbs and cold feet jabbing each other in the tiny bed, she made me into a restless sleeper. Memories of hiding under the bedsheets at night and dreaming of something better, telling each other that we'd run as soon as we hit eighteen.
( We didn't end up running very far.)
Jam sandwiches for the fifth day in a row, sticky hands tying each other's shoe laces, Hazel always told me that she wanted her dark hair shorter. I pretended not to notice how badly she wanted to look different from me. Paintbrush splatters of freckles and eyes too big for our faces, I could wrap my fingers around her wrist so I gave her my lunch more often than not. I still cared, after all.
She was always the quiet one, didn't say much around strangers because I was always there to do the talking. Bold and brash, I was like the sun, once. But everything in my life still seemed to orbit around her.
Stomping on little boy's feet in the schoolyard when they pulled Hazel's hair, probably mistaking her for me. Spitting on their foreheads and dumping the little pots of finger paints onto their heads. Hazel would always cover everything up. No one ever suspected her. Collecting cigarette butts scattered on the street with quick hands, holding them to my mouth and playing pretend, I traded them for little buttons for Hazel to sew onto her bag.
She lied for me when I put a rat into of the older kid's shoes. I gave her a little blue button that sparkled in the sunlight.
Partners in crime, her and I. The only thing the other had, it was going to be Rowan and Hazel Dimova against the world.
Hazel was the first to grow up and leave me behind. She rats me out for sneaking a bottle of whisky when we're fifteen, says she did it for my benefit. I'm lying in bed, blaring angry music through the little tin radio, and she knocks on the bedroom door, light taps against the wood, saying that she needs to concentrate because she's trying to study or some shit. She makes me feel guilty when I tell her to fuck off and I learn to sulk in silence.
I'm older by three minutes, or so I've been told, and those must have been the fucking best three minutes of my life.
No impossible expectations or comparisons.
No wondering how am I going to be a disappointment today?
No why can't you be more like your sister?
I wish I could hate her.
Eighteen years later and I still don't have a clue how.
A wanted ad crosses our path and suddenly there's five of us. Crammed into the top floor of a building with ugly peeling wallpaper and a shitty yellow couch that someone always seems to be passed out on. We're all runaways and outcasts, personalities that are too different to really mesh together. Not exactly friends, but I don't think any of us could care less about that. Rent is cheaper with more hands in the pot and we don't have to worry about eviction while we're all blowing our money on other things.
Caught in a bad scene, we're living in the moment, pretending not to see the ones lying face down, already two steps ahead of us. It's a downward spiral disguised as rebellion. The whole crew is fucked.
There's a set of house rules written out and stuck to the fridge, written in Hazel's dumb loopy handwriting that I used to be jealous of. I tried to take it down once and got a paper cut.
We've all broken them at least once, anyways.
Sometimes one of guys, Will usually, follows me up to the roof. Up the rickety stairs and through the creaking hatch, sitting side by side on the concrete ledge when the air is just a little bit too cold for everyone else. We split our earnings, 40-60 because it's always my idea and he apparently doesn't like to argue, spending it on shitty cigarettes and cheap liquor. He doesn't ask where I get the money, he doesn't tell me how he came by his.
He's one of the easier ones to get along with.
I've learnt how to live off of smoke clogged lungs, pretending that it's filling something wholesome in my chest. Lipstick smudged against jawlines like a calling card, masked over flowery perfume and 3 o'clock shadows. Bird wings fluttering in our rib cages, pain and loneliness numbing over the course of the evening. Hiding in the plaster of some club with pink stained lips and red rimmed eyes, taking whatever's being given out. Some people will pay good money just for something good to watch.
Cloaked in dark colours and leather, a jacket left behind by some jackass who thought he'd get the opportunity to come back for it. Long unwashed hair and slept in makeup, the smell and itch of the club never seems to leave my skin. It makes me bite away my nails and tear the skin around them. Shattered glass in the dark, I wake up with bandaged hands but they still seem to shake. Hazel says nothing and holds my hair back when I can't move the next morning.
We share a room, Hazel and I, just like when we were kids. It's different now, territory split down the middle with a line we can't bring ourselves to cross. Finding the door unlocked late at night when I'm stumbling in blooms a small flower of hope in my chest. Nothing waits for me inside but a cold bed and a sister with too much faith in redemption.
She's not the one supposed to be taking care of us. Growing up I was meant to be the responsible one, the older sister that protected her. Regret tastes like burning cigarettes, rock salt and tequila on my tongue, but there's nothing I can do about it anymore. There are no useful skills at my disposal except being tall enough to reach the liquor cabinet, pretty enough to get into clubs and quick enough to get out half alive. Nothing to my name but a beat up jacket, the odd pack of cigarettes and a sister who could do a lot better for herself.
I thought that it would be the two of us against the world, but I guess the world has a vendetta against us.
Perfect little Hazel and her poor fuck up of a twin.
A twin she couldn't save.
Carbon copies of one soul.
Virtually the same until we really weren't anymore.
Hazel's always been the good one. It's not fair, really. Bronze mirrored faces, the same hands clutching each other's in the dark and somehow she's still picked first.
The two of us in a rundown orphanage, quite the pair really, left behind by some faceless junkie. I held Hazel's hand as she cried and cried and cried. Braided her hair after nightmares and hummed a lullaby that neither of us knew the words to. Bird-bone limbs and cold feet jabbing each other in the tiny bed, she made me into a restless sleeper. Memories of hiding under the bedsheets at night and dreaming of something better, telling each other that we'd run as soon as we hit eighteen.
( We didn't end up running very far.)
Jam sandwiches for the fifth day in a row, sticky hands tying each other's shoe laces, Hazel always told me that she wanted her dark hair shorter. I pretended not to notice how badly she wanted to look different from me. Paintbrush splatters of freckles and eyes too big for our faces, I could wrap my fingers around her wrist so I gave her my lunch more often than not. I still cared, after all.
She was always the quiet one, didn't say much around strangers because I was always there to do the talking. Bold and brash, I was like the sun, once. But everything in my life still seemed to orbit around her.
Stomping on little boy's feet in the schoolyard when they pulled Hazel's hair, probably mistaking her for me. Spitting on their foreheads and dumping the little pots of finger paints onto their heads. Hazel would always cover everything up. No one ever suspected her. Collecting cigarette butts scattered on the street with quick hands, holding them to my mouth and playing pretend, I traded them for little buttons for Hazel to sew onto her bag.
She lied for me when I put a rat into of the older kid's shoes. I gave her a little blue button that sparkled in the sunlight.
Partners in crime, her and I. The only thing the other had, it was going to be Rowan and Hazel Dimova against the world.
Hazel was the first to grow up and leave me behind. She rats me out for sneaking a bottle of whisky when we're fifteen, says she did it for my benefit. I'm lying in bed, blaring angry music through the little tin radio, and she knocks on the bedroom door, light taps against the wood, saying that she needs to concentrate because she's trying to study or some shit. She makes me feel guilty when I tell her to fuck off and I learn to sulk in silence.
I'm older by three minutes, or so I've been told, and those must have been the fucking best three minutes of my life.
No impossible expectations or comparisons.
No wondering how am I going to be a disappointment today?
No why can't you be more like your sister?
I wish I could hate her.
Eighteen years later and I still don't have a clue how.
A wanted ad crosses our path and suddenly there's five of us. Crammed into the top floor of a building with ugly peeling wallpaper and a shitty yellow couch that someone always seems to be passed out on. We're all runaways and outcasts, personalities that are too different to really mesh together. Not exactly friends, but I don't think any of us could care less about that. Rent is cheaper with more hands in the pot and we don't have to worry about eviction while we're all blowing our money on other things.
Caught in a bad scene, we're living in the moment, pretending not to see the ones lying face down, already two steps ahead of us. It's a downward spiral disguised as rebellion. The whole crew is fucked.
There's a set of house rules written out and stuck to the fridge, written in Hazel's dumb loopy handwriting that I used to be jealous of. I tried to take it down once and got a paper cut.
We've all broken them at least once, anyways.
Sometimes one of guys, Will usually, follows me up to the roof. Up the rickety stairs and through the creaking hatch, sitting side by side on the concrete ledge when the air is just a little bit too cold for everyone else. We split our earnings, 40-60 because it's always my idea and he apparently doesn't like to argue, spending it on shitty cigarettes and cheap liquor. He doesn't ask where I get the money, he doesn't tell me how he came by his.
He's one of the easier ones to get along with.
I've learnt how to live off of smoke clogged lungs, pretending that it's filling something wholesome in my chest. Lipstick smudged against jawlines like a calling card, masked over flowery perfume and 3 o'clock shadows. Bird wings fluttering in our rib cages, pain and loneliness numbing over the course of the evening. Hiding in the plaster of some club with pink stained lips and red rimmed eyes, taking whatever's being given out. Some people will pay good money just for something good to watch.
Cloaked in dark colours and leather, a jacket left behind by some jackass who thought he'd get the opportunity to come back for it. Long unwashed hair and slept in makeup, the smell and itch of the club never seems to leave my skin. It makes me bite away my nails and tear the skin around them. Shattered glass in the dark, I wake up with bandaged hands but they still seem to shake. Hazel says nothing and holds my hair back when I can't move the next morning.
We share a room, Hazel and I, just like when we were kids. It's different now, territory split down the middle with a line we can't bring ourselves to cross. Finding the door unlocked late at night when I'm stumbling in blooms a small flower of hope in my chest. Nothing waits for me inside but a cold bed and a sister with too much faith in redemption.
She's not the one supposed to be taking care of us. Growing up I was meant to be the responsible one, the older sister that protected her. Regret tastes like burning cigarettes, rock salt and tequila on my tongue, but there's nothing I can do about it anymore. There are no useful skills at my disposal except being tall enough to reach the liquor cabinet, pretty enough to get into clubs and quick enough to get out half alive. Nothing to my name but a beat up jacket, the odd pack of cigarettes and a sister who could do a lot better for herself.
I thought that it would be the two of us against the world, but I guess the world has a vendetta against us.
Perfect little Hazel and her poor fuck up of a twin.
A twin she couldn't save.
