Delia Farkas (the female morphling from 6)
Color.
She was tired, but didn't want to close her eyes. They were itchy and puffy and drooping, but she needed to keep them open so she could see, so she could focus on what she was doing. Which was currently filling up a needle with the clear solvent she knew well.
Morphling was and had been Delia's closest friend for the past seventeen years, since that fateful first drop into her blood stream took away all of the bad memories and numbed the pain in her abused body long enough for the Capitol doctors to make her look presentable again.
She eyed her skinny arms, searching for a vein. The bright blue was easy to spot against the translucently pale skin, and soon enough the morphling was entering her bloodstream, bringing forth a sigh of release from her lips as the world melted away.
Colors began to show up, first, as they always did.
The gorgeous midnight blue that matched the sky at exactly 11:06 at night (Delia watched the sky every night to make sure). Followed by a sparkly gold that shimmered across the walls. Then the bright red of her little sister's hair, and the wonderful thing was that it didn't even hurt to think about Karli when she had her morphling in her. Didn't hurt to thinkk about the blood that day, that day, mixing with the lighter red of Karli's hair and the screaming and crying and the sad look on her mother's face that would never fully go away and and and
This was turning into a bad trip.
Bad morphling trips were terrifying. Well, not really terrifying per se, but very frightening. On a good trip, you'd think about all the good things and feel calm, but on a bad trip you'd think about all the bad things but still feel calm. No emotion would get through at all.
So you could think of the first time you killed someone (or the last time) and feel no remorse whatsoever. Or sorrow or anger or grief or apologetic or anything else other than calm.
And that was what frightened Delia. The incapability to feel. The thought that with every bad trip she took, the less human she was becoming.
It was obvious in her appearance, already. Her once vibrant red hair leeched of all color, leaving it as the limp pale-blonde, almost white color that was now joining the red and gold and blue to dance on the wall. Eyes never opening fully, afraid of what they might see if they viewed the world in full. Gaunt face, pale complexion, almost-emaciated looking body frame.
Like an animal. No other way to get around it.
Giggling, Delia rolled onto her side and practiced growling. But the sound that came out of her throat wasn't so much a growl as it was a rasping groan, which brought up the memory of a certain cat-like type of mutt that she had faced one time to many in That Month.
The appearance of the mutt hit her like a high-speed train, and Delia inhaled sharply as she remembered the claws soaked with blood, and the whiskers quivering against her cheek as it leaned in to bight her, and the bright, unforgettable green of its eyes...but she feels nothing.
Not the chill she's become accustomed to whenever thoughts associated with That Month managed to creep into her mind. Just a sudden desire to paint a picture of the mutt and a trill of dull excitement as the luminescent green starts to dance before her with the other colors.
Delia wanted to touch the colors so badly, wanted to dance along with them. She decided a while ago that when she dies she is going to come back as the color purple. Not a light, carefree lavender, but a deep, royal mauve.
That way she can be everywhere and nowhere all at once.
