|| Full Name ||
October Ciara Sinnet
|| Nickname ||
Toby. This is most preferred.
|| Age ||
Fifteen
|| Gender ||
Female
|| From ||
Inside of the dome
|| Role ||
I’m not much of a survivor type, really. I like to explore, but outside of the dome freaks me out.
Personality:
I've always been a little different, even by my family’s standards. I don't see or hear quite like anyone else does - at least, as far as I know. I dance to the beat of a different drum, if you will. To me, the colors are the sounds. For instance, A flat is dark, mahogany-red, the color so much like the blood that stains the grounds outside of the dome, synonymous with the dying screams of countless humans. At the same time, A natural is the soft color of marshmallows floating on the surface of a steaming cup of hot cocoa, a delight to my warped senses. Synesthesia, the doctors called it. A perceptual condition of mixed senses. In many ways, my condition defines me. I wouldn't quite be October Sinnet, self-proclaimed Ice Queen, without it.
You've heard (heard, seen - it's all one and the same to me) the introduction and the chorus of my song, and now it's time for the bridge. The bridge of a song is used for contrast, and mine pulls that off swimmingly. While I appear to be made of soft tones and slow, lilting verses - just chock-full of A naturals - it doesn't define me, it's not me. In reality, I am about as colorless as can be, all dull hues and completely unextraordinary.
I suppose that puts me out of the socialite business - though I doubt people would mind, as my blunt and snappish attitude makes me less than savory. It's not really all my fault; my condition isn't so much a blessing as it is a curse. Some of the dome is a very bright, very loud place, and I am constantly plagued by excruciating migraines as a result of the assault on my senses. If your voice doesn't look nice, I don't want you to talk to me. That's just the way it is, and I have a tendency to tell it like it is. And in the Capitol, such a trait isn't really all that attractive. honesty has never really been my strong suit. I'm the one who plays at the edges of fact and fiction, blurring them together until I've invented a prettier kind of truth. It's not so much that I want to wrap reality up with a tidy little bow as it is an impulse to avoid the messy entanglements of human nature. There's something too sharp about a screaming voice and an ache too raw in a sob for me to cope with.
Only one thing makes me thank whatever higher power is up there for my condition, and that's music. Classical music, the kind made up of violins and cellos and clarinets and wondrous, beautiful pianos. I frequent the various concert halls around the Capitol - I sit on the back row, where the lights are the dimmest and there are less people to disturb me, and revel in the glorious colors that such performances induce. They're never too bright or too loud or too distracting, always soft and melodic and a treat to the senses. It's better than anything a cigarette could ever do for me, more relaxing than any spa and more desirable than any chic new dress in the mall. It's in these places that I am truly happy.
|| Likes ||
☑ Music
☑ White
☑ Cookies
☑ Being Warm
☑ Dreaming
|| Dislikes ||
☒ Any bright colors
☒ Plastic
☒ People
☒ Love
☒ Makeup
|| Strengths ||
+ Nimble
+ Good at climbing
+ I get attached after a while.
|| Weaknesses ||
- Untrusting usually
- Heavy weapons
- Screaming. It’s a horrible highlighter green.
Now for the outro.
The conclusion of my song, where all the pieces are tied together with a tidy little bow. My father has been a oil tycoon for as long as I can remember - a rather successful one at that - but he's never been one for keeping his mouth shut. Needless to say, I don't see much of him. But that's okay - I find the deep baritone of his voice and the thick, sickly-green that radiates from it murder to the eyes.
As for my mother, I see far too much of her. The epitome of homebody, she's the reason I tend to spend my free time as far away from the house as possible. While my father's chair at the dining room table remains cold and empty every night, the seats surrounding it are often filled by my mother's social circle, the endless chattering of women - and the painful bright yellow that comes with it - and the clinking of wine glasses a constant song that floods the high vaulted ceilings and wraps around the thick marble columns in the hallways of our little chateau. I was thirteen when I demanded that my bedroom walls be sound-proofed.
I was diagnosed with synesthesia when I was nine years old. My parents had always contributed my odd proclamations of "your voice looks funny" and "I don't like the noise pumpkin orange makes" simply as some of the cutesy sort of things children say in their early years. (As the case with most synesthetes, I thought I was normal, that everyone else saw and heard like I did because it was all I'd ever known. It wasn't until I was seven that I realized I was different. My English teacher liked to play music for us whenever we had a writing assignment during class, and one day the kid sitting next to me started complaining about how he couldn't write with the music being so loud. I told him that dark green was always loud, and he looked at me like I'd grown a second head. It sort of clicked then, and I didn't speak of the colors until I was nine and my math teacher told me that I needed to apply myself more, and I promptly told her that maybe I'd apply myself more if her voice didn't look like horse shit.
My parents took me to the doctor the next day, and that was when the term 'synesthesia' first met my ears. No one really knew what the think of it, as nobody else could possibly understand the things I saw and heard on a daily basis. For me, all it did was put a name to something I'd already known. However, that was when I decided to a little research on my "condition", a young nine year old girl flipping through the weathered pages of books in the libraries and clicking through files on my father's computer when he wasn't home.
I discovered a man named Ludwig van Beethoven, a famous and influential classical music composer from long before even the Dark Days. He was deaf, yet he claimed that he could see the music he composed, describing B minor as "black" and D major as "orange". He became my inspiration, and the reason I decided to try my hand at the old grand piano that had sat unplayed in the parlor since before I was even born. I remember the first time my tiny finger flitted over the weathered keys, the lovely dark magenta that flooded the room as I pressed down on the C minor key, the light, fluffy blue that B natural radiated. Beethoven opened for me a whole new world of rainbow symphonies, my fingers sounding out the most beautiful of colors. I quickly became a child prodigy, my condition giving me an aptitude for music that sparked the envy of many seasoned adult pianists. Music became my life, fingers spinning out endless piano recitals and entailing long days spent on the cushioned seat of a piano bench, painting the world the colors of October, a song that hasn't ended just quite yet.
|| Family ||
- Themus Sinnet
- Linia Sinnet
- [sister/brother needed]
|| Theme Song ||
F L A W S // bastille
You have always worn your flaws upon your sleeve
And I have always buried them deep beneath the ground
Dig them up; let's finish what we've started
Dig them up, so nothing's left unturned.
|| Sample Post ||
(This is from a Hunger Games roleplay on another site long ago. I hope It’s not too horrible)
Being alone is the worst part. I hadn't really thought about it when Arlie or Wess or Bethanie died, maybe not even because of Quint, but it's this haunting idea of how I might become the final remainder that is the most painful part of these Death Years. I named them like a subject in history class, because it feels more distant this way. The Dark Days; The Death Years. The way everyone I care about keeps disappearing from my life, as if I was never supposed to have their smiles in my memory to begin with, and I can't —
Zach tried to kill himself after Quint died. That's when I knew I'd be the last one left carrying all this awfulness within me, while everyone else steps into the Aether. Maybe they're happier now, not so burdened as those of us they've left behind, but the idea of crossing into the aftermath of life isn't so easy for me. Despite the horrors of what my life has become, I'm still afraid of things. I thought my fears might slowly disappear with their souls, because what is a person supposed to worry about when they have nothing left? I'm not so sure anymore, but I know one thing. Until the end, I will still have myself and maybe that's enough. These days it seems like it'll have to be.
I'm still supposed to have Zach though. The two of us and the remaining Libertines all have our place in Death's line and he's not supposed to cut ahead like that. I don't like hospitals any more than I enjoy trips to the morgue to confirm the faces of my bygone brothers and I could hate all of them for it if I didn't love them so goddamned much. Ghosts and all. Still, there's the inevitable and then there are the choices we make and if Jude wants to die, then cross my soul, he'll have to go through me first. Dragging his limp body into the emergency room, where they wired him up until he was at least half-mechanical and breathing against his will, this was clearly not what either of us wanted for him, but maybe we can call it a compromise.
When he took off after coming to, they had to sedate me to stop my screaming. Those doctors, they hauled me right up into my brother's abandoned hospital bed and knocked me out while Zach was surely running off to god-knows-where to try and kill himself again... or so I thought. Struggling against the descending haze, I nearly turned myself inside-out trying to fight the drugs off so I could chase after him. From the looks of things when I regained consciousness a few hours later, I'd nearly puked myself to death, but Zach wasn't around to know that.
