bellatrix mackenzie « capitol

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[bg=ffffff][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=width,600,true] THE BELLATRIX FILES

entry 122.
…uh, hello. I suppose I’m supposed to record my feelings and thoughts here over the years. This journal, or diary, or whatever the hell it is, has been passed down for generations, male and female ancestors alike. Most of the things in here are pretty boring to read, and there are a few pages left for me to write my thoughts. People compliment me on my writing skill, though I don’t really have much to say. I can’t carry on conversations at school… I’m only really eccentric and outgoing at home. People tend to call me names, of all kinds. There are rumors floating around too. They call me a tramp, an emo. I’m none of those things. Maybe when I die, they will find this journal and find how they hurt me.
I suppose I should start by talking about myself. As written at the top of the page, I’m Bellatrix. I tend to go by my middle name though, which is Tamsin. Sometimes people call me Trix, but never Bella. I live in the Capitol. I’m 18 years old, and my birthday is on January fourth. I have long, platinum blonde hair that falls in tangled ringlets. The tips are dyed fuchsia and neon green, and I have green eyes. What else can I possibly say about appearance? I'm five foot eleven, and I weigh one hundred thirty-five pounds. There is always new curlicue writing on my pale, skinny arms. My face is oval shaped, and my lips are thin and pink, almost always chapped. My shoulders are strong from the days I actually spend working; rehabilitating my parents seems like the only thing I do. My neck is long and slender, and people mock me with the name 'giraffe.' How am I supposed to know what that is? I also like wearing thick, vintage glasses.

I dabble in the musical arts sometimes. It’s sort of an emergency exit from a burning building, if you get what I mean. I can complain to the concrete wall of my bedroom, and nobody can criticize me or even care in the slightest. All I want is to be either invisible, or recognized as equal. I have an indefinite amount of time before I die, so here’s to never growing up.

Enough of my nonsensical babbling. Maybe I should back up a bit, and start from the beginning. This is all I know of my history, all my parents chose to tell me. If I knew the world was full of prejudiced people who gave out selective information, maybe I wouldn’t have just barely scraped by the third grade.


My mother was an eccentric dreamer, like me. She had been a part of the wrong crowd, the type of people who got as high as Peacekeepers and danced into their hangovers. She played in a rock band of a sort;

Untamable, the group that played heavy metal and threw together creative messes and played them in the capitol square. Of course we had no funds for real instruments, so they had to make a compromise. The band was very small of course, and they had no recognition. Very few people attended their concerts, and one of them was my dad. Of course they got drunk, hooked up behind an abandoned shed, and had me. The best story you’ve ever heard, am I right?
I was raised in a crazy environment. My mom was always involved in crime and moved around a lot to hide from her enemies. She changed her identity a lot. My father was a hard-working man, one who never seemed to leave the store he worked at to return to me. He didn’t want to be situated with me or my mother. Once one of Mom’s fellow band members announced he was getting a divorce, she jumped at the chance to tie the knot. So, I had a new father by the age of three. This is where my craziness started to appear.
My hair used to be brown, soft and wild. However, I was easily influenced by my parents and their ways. I started coloring my hair with chalk instead of drawing, and I went days without taking a bath. I engaged in behavior that most normal mothers would frown upon; but hey, let’s remember that I have people of the Untamable caring for me. As soon as it was determined that the chemicals wouldn’t hurt me, I dyed my hair blonde. I spent the first five years of school at home, absorbing as much knowledge as I could from my parents and others. It wasn’t a lot, and it wasn’t enough for third grade. I couldn’t remember my multiplication tables; I confused division with addition. A lot. I got suspended more times than I could count. I made quite a name for myself in school; not the rocker, wild child, but an emotional, plastic freak. I started feeling a bit more self-conscious, and the wall of confidence began to crumble, year by year. I had my heart broken and stomped on multiple times. I was accused of sleeping around with the partners of others; even the girls. I tried to drown my sorrows in alcohol like the rest, but even the smell made me sick. Drinking didn’t help me. At all.
I’m falling apart in more ways than one. One thing that I do find true though, is that smiling helps. It gives you hope, true or false. People may look at me and diagnose me as a sufferer of depression, with all the curlicue writing on my arms and the dark makeup. I don’t care. As people in the past would say on “social networks”; hashtag hope.
…what does that even mean? I’m so clueless. This is one of the reasons why people don’t talk to me. Not to mention I have ADD. Either what I say makes no sense or I repeat myself constantly. It’s really upsetting that I’m so… broken.
The purple ink on the page gradually fades, until all that is left are indentations on the lined paper. There are two pages left in the book, still unfilled. A sigh is expelled from young Tamsin’s mouth, as she stands up and leaves her desk. Her dirty tulle dress is torn and faded, and her slender arms swing as she walks. She stumbles a couple of times, rather klutzy moves on her part. Her snub nose crinkles as the foul stench of vomit reaches her nose. ”Aw, mom, again?” she moans, her thick accent seeming so foreign in this rural, broken atmosphere. Why did she even have an accent? She didn't immigrate here. She had gotten her "accent" from her mother, who talked to her in alcohol-induced slurs.
She walks out of the room, leaving years of histories and dreams behind her… And ready to deal with the next stage of her life, bit by bit.