China Montclair | District 13 [DONE]

Maybe I was once pretty.

When my eyes didn't witness death taking place right before them. When my ears weren't petrified with the cries of my family. When my skin wasn't pale from months without daylight. When my hair wasn't tangled in sweat from a sleep's nightmare. When my body didn't reveal my rib cage and shoulder blades. When my arms and legs weren't trampled on from the oppression of The Capitol's heavy burden.

Maybe I was once pretty.

But they feed me lies anyway.

Don't call me pretty. Don't create the illusion that the skeleton that stands before you is equal to a human. I am alive. But I might as well be dead. I am china - exquisitely and carefully painted by mortal flesh. Beautiful, rare, desired. But then I fall, shattering into pieces that will never be put back together. What am I then? I am a million different fragments of a puzzle with no answer. I am a girl with purple bags hanging under brown eyes - no lack of sleep going to help avoid my nightmares. I am a girl with stringy brown hair - a painful reminder that they'll never be blown by the comforting wind again. I am a girl with skin as pale as the moon - although I sometimes can't even remember how the moon looks like. I am a girl with a tall stature - no height going to help me escape from being buried alive. I am empty. I am hollow. I am China Montclair.

Welcome guest. Welcome prisoner. Welcome to District Thirteen.

Late.

I am always late.

I think of this bitterly as I scurry down the corridors of District Thirteen - it's many hallways transforming more into a labyrinth than a home as the days wear on. Here, life is simply strict - and strictly simple. I follow the schedule stamped onto my skin accordingly. Eat, school, eat, training. Funny how they forgot to add live on the schedule. Here there is no time for being a child. Here there is no room left for imagination. Here I am just as oppressed as I was above ground - and sometimes maybe even worse.

But, right now, there is no time for my repulsive thoughts as a District Thirteen citizen. Reminding myself, I am late.

I enter the cafeteria that is already bustling with the rest of Thirteen's pale ghosts citizens. I receive disapproving looks at my arrival, and return blank stares. I'm good at this - I'm good at ignoring the judgement and hatred people throw at me on a daily basis. Sometimes, I wonder if their schedules tell them to break China at 9 AM. I fill my bowl with my allowed and forced ration of porridge, and it's still warm. It's heat radiates from the plain porcelain bowl to my yearning fingers, reminding me of the days I sat under the summer sun with my hands buried in warm soil.

My seat is at a table full of other citizens my age. Voices hush and ultimately cease to exist as I sit down, but it's no surprise. I take small spoonfuls of my porridge while I stare into it, my eyes seemingly lost in thought. I am aware of their gazes, glaring down at me with as much angst and wrath a human being could ever possess. They don't leave though, because they can't. But, I know for a fact, they would if they could. I am the ungrateful one. I am the one who doesn't appreciate the bountiful routine life that Thirteen offers me. To them, I am not China Montclair. I am the animal, the loner, the outcast.

Suddenly, my porridge tastes bitter and strange on my tongue, and I'm scared that if I take another spoonful, it'll all just heave up and out - giving everyone another reason to hate me. I rise and throw away my breakfast, and return to my seat with my eyes staring straight into my lap. My fingers fiddle as if they're nervous, and I pretend to watch them carefully as everyone's glares burn a hole through my exterior. I am ungrateful. But I don't look up. I don't even care. I am good at this. I am good at not caring.

The clattering of a metallic device ringing throughout the cafeteria dismisses Thirteen's population to the next event on their schedule. The people at my table immediately rise and maneuver their way through the thick throngs of citizens. It is so synchronized and precise that it could almost appear choreographed - a sick dance representing a never ending routine, an infinite chain.

I shudder. I don't want to move, I don't want to continue. I want to rebel, I want all of District Thirteen to know that I'd rather be an Avox than a clone. But, my body refuses to listen to my brain and betrays me - I rise from the table as well and head for the exit. I lock eyes with my mother in a sea of people as I approach the opening. Her blue eyes are glossy and she looks at me without emotion or recognition, and I wonder if she even sees me. She is becoming like them. She is becoming a robot. My father is stolen from The Capitol, and now my mother is stolen from District Thirteen. I am losing my grip on her, and, not only that, I'm losing my grip on reality.

District Five.

Peace, tranquility, solace, home.

Home? No. My home is here now - no matter how hard I refuse to believe it. My home, my District Five - is gone.

I don't remember much about District Five - but the things that I do remember are the things that matter the most, and are also the things that make me want to crush District Thirteen under the heel of my boot.

We weren't rich, we were far from it. But our good name was known for breeding the best of horses, and because of that, we were well respected throughout most of District Five. I had my own horse, she was the foal born with slick black fur and random white grey spots. My dad let me keep it because he said the spots wouldn't attract good customers. It wasn't really until now did I truly realize the freedom I beheld while riding on her sturdy back. Now, how foreign it would be to feel the Sun on my back and taste the crisp atmosphere of galloping through the fields. It's hard to do almost anything now without being watched under strict surveillance.

I don't remember much. Some days more than others. What I do remember pierces my soul, and shoots a pang into my already fragile heart. Our small home, my noble steed, the way the Sunlight filtered through green leaves, how any tree - if I climbed high enough - could make me feel like I was soaring over all of Panem. Worst of all, I remember how I was able to capture it all through a sharpened pencil and a blank sheet of paper. I see my home everyday, these pathetic sketches transforming into make shift windows - as if finally giving me a glimpse of the outside world. But District Thirteen is strictly black and white, and my sketches are no exception. Without the provided colors, the memories gradually fade every passing day. Still, I sketch to remind myself - to convince myself - that District Thirteen is not home, not my home. The poor portraits drape the bleak walls of my dormitory like long curtains, but no sharpened pencil and blank sheet of paper can hide the reality that lives behind it. Still, I sketch. This was my home.

I was young back then, only my first year of The Reaping - not even shy of thirteen years yet. I had an older brother - both of us were inclined to my father. I still hear him, I still hear his strong voice reciting fairy tales by heart while a warm fire crackles beside him. I still hear him.

Some nights, him and my brother would sneak off into the woods and not return until the first crack of day replaces the dark night. This started as one night, then two, then weeks, then months, then every night. Every night they would sneak into the woods and not return until morning. What were they doing, Mom? I would always ask. Games, darling, just silly games.

And, by God, I believed her. Who else did I have to believe? What else did I have to hold onto? She was my last hope, my last tug always bringing me back to reality. Where is she now?

This day comes to me clearly, like how some remember their wedding day or child's birth - I will never forget this day.

It was my fault. My fault that they found him. When the men came knocking on my door and I answered it, and asked where my father and brother were, and I led them to the cots in which they slept peacefully from the previous night's journey - I led them to their grave. If I understood what was happening, that these men - these monsters - in these hideous white uniforms, if I just knew who they were. If I just understood, if I knew they were animals and not humans, but murderers. My dad, and my brother - my family could still be intact. They could have scrambled to their feet and collect just enough time to save themselves, and then. . . They'd still be here.

It's my fault. It's my fault that they're dead.

They weren't playing games - or, maybe they were. They were playing a game. A rebellious one, daring to oppose The Capitol by forming, equipping, and training a small army every night in the woods. Like a disgusting game of chess, where my father's sly moves seemed cunning enough to reach the desired goal, where the thought of democracy and freedom never seemed this close before - funny how quick one bullet can end a dream. Yes, they were playing games. But, they lost. Checkmate.

They killed my brother in his sleep - a single bullet awakening my father in a mere second. I don't remember much after that. I dropped to my knees, covering my ears from the loud noise that attacked my ear drums and killed my brother. My vision was foggy with tears, but I could just make out my brother's lifeless hand hanging from his bed, my father struggling with the peacekeepers who kept him restrained with tight handcuffs, my mom sobbing and desperately bargaining with the murderers to let her keep her husband. You took my only son, now let me have my only husband.

They brought him to the district square - where District Five slowly began to awaken to a living nightmare. There, my father - the initiator of a newly sparked rebellion - was shot dead along with the rest of the rebels. My blood froze in my veins as I watched him drop to the cold floor. He isn't dead. He can't be. But he was.

And we were next.

My mother and I fled District Five the next day - riding on one of the fastest horses we bred. We carried nothing but a small parcel of a loaf of bread and cheese. On the verge of death, we discovered District Thirteen. Welcome home, Montclairs. Welcome home, prisoners.

She promised we'd be back home soon. Back to District Five. That Thirteen would only be temporary. That everything would work out. Don't worry China, this isn't home. This is only for now.

Four years have passed, and where is my District Five now?

The thing is, this is anything but temporary.

This is my home - a large cage permanently chaining me to a life full of routine and discipline. A home of hell.

Welcome all. Welcome to my home, District Thirteen.

The history is so rushed, I apologize for that...

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