( N A M E ) Seville Aveda Lyons
( N I C K N A M E S ) Sevvy
( A G E ) Sixteen
( G E N D E R ) Female
( D I S T R I C T / A R E A ) District Five



( A P P E A R A N C E )

I don't have a soul. Other people do, I see it in their faces when they laugh or cry or get so mad they turn red with some inner fire that makes me... nothing. I should be jealous, there's some part of me that really is, I swear, I swear, but I can't. It's not that I don't know how, but rather that I'm not even capable. I was born with a body, just like everyone else — I have a face with lips that are able to pout, smile, or frown. Only, my mouth doesn't move from my heart stirring it into action, but when my mind tells it to: That person said your sisters are freaks, Seville, that Lulah and Peregrine should have been killed at birth. Well then, it's time to look angry, isn't it? Narrow your eyes, bare your teeth, clench your fists, and make your voice so loud the rest of the world cowers. "I'll claw your mouth off before I'll let you say something like that about my sisters again, then we'll see who the freak is."

People learn to look a little scared of me, but not because I'm cruel or even because I'm so good at pretending I am. It's quite the opposite. Most of them see right through my act, realize that there's nothing there — I'm just going through the (e)motions. My porcelain skin is too smooth and my hair shines like deep mahogany plastic in the light; I'm a living doll. A pretty picture of perfection sitting with such lovely posture beside my conjoined and quirky siblings, at first glace it's easy to assume that I'm exactly what a daughter of the wealthy, prominent Lyons family should be, but I only look flawless. Inside I'm something terrifying. I'm utterly vacant.


( P E R S O N A L I T Y )

It's not that there's something missing inside me, it's that everything is missing inside me. I can see emotion all around me, my siblings are brimming over with it — Denali and Zion have more of it than they even know how to handle — and I just sit and observe, wondering what that must feel like. Then, when no one is watching, I try.

Standing in front of my bedroom mirror, I practice furrowing and arching my eyebrows, scowling and smiling, and attempt to figure out how other people do that thing where their eyes spark. My fingertips prod at all the various muscles in my face, as if pushing them just a little further might instill them with something genuine. I've done this ever since I was little and the other kids in school would tease me for being boring and unable to pull all the silly faces they could. Now, I can smirk on cue and laugh like I almost mean it, but not because the expressions mean anything to me. I only know that they're supposed to.

I'm a mimic. I watch; I learn; I repeat. In the end, however, I'm still something worse than detached. Everyone can tell there's something off about me, that not all the synapses in my brain are wired quite like they're meant to be, but Rio's the only one who understands exactly what's not quite right about me. Other people just suspect and give me the benefit of the doubt. My littlest sister, despite her ridiculous belief in the unreal, knows I'm fake and senses all my emotional disconnects. Her realization is the closest thing to fear I've ever felt.


( H I S T O R Y )

Yet, it's so difficult to care. Thoughts about Rio knows pick away at my mind in moments when nothing else is around to distract me, but not because it makes me upset for her to know my secret. I don't like her knowing, but I can't exactly say I dislike it either. It's always nothing, nothing, nothing. Days come and go and I just... wait — for something to come along that makes me happy, nervous, terrified. I can tell that Zion is jealous of me sometimes, that he'd trade away his night terrors for my endless calm, without hesitation. That goes both ways. I was always a well-behaved child, favored by our parents when my sibling's fits would start to wear them too thin, but that wasn't because I didn't want to act out.

If there's one thing I'd like to feel before I die, it's wanting. Not the kind that nags at me now, that numb curiosity that I could take or leave and never know which path I'd taken, but the kind that makes Peregrine grit her teeth as she sobs from the desire to have just one moment to herself, alone, for the first time in her life. Or the melancholy kind when Denali sets another deer antler on her bedroom shelf, another reminder of a creature she wishes she could bring back from the dead. Maybe that would be enough to move me. Desire, not just the supposed to kind I possess, could set something within me in motion.

There are days when it's hard to pull myself out of bed, hard to find enough motivation within me to go through the one, two, three, this, that, there motions of life. So I don't. I just stay still, locked in my room, starring at the ceiling for days and days and days. Time doesn't feel all that special when you can't feel yourself change with it. I can hear my family panicking on the other side of the door, worried that I might die of starvation or dehydration. Sooner or later I have to give in and drag myself back to "life" or I know they'll break down my pathetic barricade and haul me out themselves, but it's never because I care. It's never because I feel bad for upsetting them. It's never because I'm afraid of dying.

It's only because I'm supposed to.



( C O D E W O R D ) Odair
( F A C E C L A I M ) Flo... something. IDK. I'M STILL TRYING TO FIGURE OUT HER NAME. </3 IF YOU HAPPEN TO KNOW, PLEASE LET ME KNOW. D:

( C O M M E N T S / O T H E R )

one :: two :: three

The sister of Zion, Rio, Denali, Peregrine, and Tallulah Lyons. Also prolly some more Lyons, because I have ALL THE MUSE for this family.

( S P E A K I N G ) C2C2C2
( O T H E R ) 9AB0A3
( T E X T ) 919191
( T H I N K I N G ) 817171
( O T H E R S P E A K I N G ) 64646A