?I?m sorry if I ramble a bit, speaking to strangers hasn?t always been my strong point. Actually, speaking at all isn?t one of my strong points. I?m a thinker, I don?t speak out loud unless I feel it is necessary or I?m very comfortable with the people I?m with. People think I?m shy because of this, my silence, and maybe they?re right. Why do I need to speak, though? There isn?t always something to say and silence doesn?t always need to be filled.?
She tucks her legs beneath her tiny form, curled up in the oversized chair. She looks lost in it, fragile, which almost makes sense for the displaced teen, ?I had a boyfriend before we came here. We went to university together and despite his rough appearance, he was very intelligent. Papa didn?t approve because he played in this band and wore his hair long. Not that it really mattered what Papa thought of him, I?ve always been independent of him that way. I?m mature, I can make correct decisions on my own with or without my father?s biased opinion.? Her voice rose towards the end there, as if she had touched upon a subject she was still defensive over even after her father?s death. She fell into the pensive state that was defining of Martyna D?Mourir according to herself.
It was minutes before she started to speak again, as if prompted by an unseen force, ?I don?t know if I can really explain to you what it was like back home before we came here. I can?t paint a picture with words, I was never into the literary arts. My focus was always on science and technology?like my father. I went to university early to study at my fathers urging, pouring my heart into learning. Ah, if only he knew that the university itself would be my undoing, as he would later call it. For where do revolutionary ideas fester better than in the hearts of the youth who pervade those sacred halls of learning?? A rare grin formed on her lips as her pointer finger pushed her glasses further up her nose. She didn?t need to wear them, technology had long ago done away the need for such accessories, but she was under the impression they off-set her green hair, making her look more intelligent whereas her choice of hair color usually left a negative impression with most.
?Their words tickled my ears and stirred my heart more than books ever could. I loved learning, but I formed a passion for the want of Democracy. My skills that I had acquired through my studies were applied in the aid of passive resistance groups,? there was some satisfaction in the small smile she wore, a private glee at using skills meant to better society to help bring the social order to ruin. ?I?m pretty good at spying, snooping, and hearing things not meant for me. I helped provide evidence to support ideals, pointing a finger at that corrupt organization that we dared to call a government.?
Righteous anger soon turns flat, ?Of course, it got ugly when I started dating Lemar. Papa was right not to trust him, but for all the wrong reasons. I liked Lamar because he was passionate about everything: his studies, his music, and the revolution. That last got me into some serious trouble. Even got me kicked out of university, in the end. Not like it really mattered by that point. Why bother going to class when half your professors are absent- either in jail or killed. The same goes for the students, of course. Those who weren?t in jail or dead had fled the city already.? She fell silent again, a frown replacing that satisfied smile of moments ago as she thought of those left behind.
When she spoke up again, her voice was softer than before, eyes downcast and focused on the air before her, ?We obviously fled too, but to a different time and place.?
She tucks her legs beneath her tiny form, curled up in the oversized chair. She looks lost in it, fragile, which almost makes sense for the displaced teen, ?I had a boyfriend before we came here. We went to university together and despite his rough appearance, he was very intelligent. Papa didn?t approve because he played in this band and wore his hair long. Not that it really mattered what Papa thought of him, I?ve always been independent of him that way. I?m mature, I can make correct decisions on my own with or without my father?s biased opinion.? Her voice rose towards the end there, as if she had touched upon a subject she was still defensive over even after her father?s death. She fell into the pensive state that was defining of Martyna D?Mourir according to herself.
It was minutes before she started to speak again, as if prompted by an unseen force, ?I don?t know if I can really explain to you what it was like back home before we came here. I can?t paint a picture with words, I was never into the literary arts. My focus was always on science and technology?like my father. I went to university early to study at my fathers urging, pouring my heart into learning. Ah, if only he knew that the university itself would be my undoing, as he would later call it. For where do revolutionary ideas fester better than in the hearts of the youth who pervade those sacred halls of learning?? A rare grin formed on her lips as her pointer finger pushed her glasses further up her nose. She didn?t need to wear them, technology had long ago done away the need for such accessories, but she was under the impression they off-set her green hair, making her look more intelligent whereas her choice of hair color usually left a negative impression with most.
?Their words tickled my ears and stirred my heart more than books ever could. I loved learning, but I formed a passion for the want of Democracy. My skills that I had acquired through my studies were applied in the aid of passive resistance groups,? there was some satisfaction in the small smile she wore, a private glee at using skills meant to better society to help bring the social order to ruin. ?I?m pretty good at spying, snooping, and hearing things not meant for me. I helped provide evidence to support ideals, pointing a finger at that corrupt organization that we dared to call a government.?
Righteous anger soon turns flat, ?Of course, it got ugly when I started dating Lemar. Papa was right not to trust him, but for all the wrong reasons. I liked Lamar because he was passionate about everything: his studies, his music, and the revolution. That last got me into some serious trouble. Even got me kicked out of university, in the end. Not like it really mattered by that point. Why bother going to class when half your professors are absent- either in jail or killed. The same goes for the students, of course. Those who weren?t in jail or dead had fled the city already.? She fell silent again, a frown replacing that satisfied smile of moments ago as she thought of those left behind.
When she spoke up again, her voice was softer than before, eyes downcast and focused on the air before her, ?We obviously fled too, but to a different time and place.?