Aria Fowler, D7 Jan 22, 2011 17:54:10 GMT -5
Post by Die Flügel Der Freiheit on Jan 22, 2011 17:54:10 GMT -5
NOTICE. Aria's bio is going to be out of commission for a while while I revamp it. I think the poor girl deserves a better bio than the one I wrote like a week after I joined.[/color][/blockquote][/size]
Caught in the in between, a beautiful disaster.
The birth certificate in the drawer containing all the important family documents reads Aria Lynette Fowler, but she has always felt like the name doesn't fit her, that it is too beautiful and flowing and everything she is not. The date of birth reads October 30th, year of the 40th Hunger Games and the place of birth reads District Seven, but there are times when she feels ancient compared to her seventeen years, like she has been everywhere and seen everything and is simply too tired to care anymore.Every magazine tells her she's not good enough, the pictures that she sees make her cry.
For ages, she kept the mirror in her room covered with an old blanket, not wanting to be met with sights that would only serve to push her into further despair, but after her parents started to notice she pulled the fabric down, letting the reflective glass give her a too-clear glimpse into her own insecurities. She stands before it now, glancing halfheartedly at a girl that mimics her forlorn gaze.
The mirror-girl's figure is not what would be called classically feminine, a fact that makes her scowl as an overly judgmental gaze rakes over the too-sturdy bone structure. Everything about her is in excess. She is too tall at her five feet, nine inches of height, too heavy at her one hundred and fifty pounds of weight. While her waist dips in with a noticeable hourglass shape, the mirror-girl's form is too thick to be considered conventionally beautiful. Although most of her weight is lean muscle from working and her stomach is flat, toned from hours of diaphragmatic breathing required for her coloratura soprano voice to shine to its fullest extent, she is fat. That's what the Voice says, at least.
The angles of her face are too sharp for her taste, prominent cheekbones and a slightly pointed chin, her jaw rather square and over-defined. Her forehead is wide, often hidden behind the multi-toned gold waves that fall to just below her shoulder blades, contrasting with pale, freckled skin that never seems to tan. The mirror-girl's hair is messy at the moment, in its usual state of disarray after being set loose from its typical ponytail. While the wavy texture is often disheveled in appearance, it is always, always clean (she's always had this thing about hygiene and can't understand why anyone would ever let themselves go like that, because you have to work with what you've got, right?).
The mirror-girl's eyes meet hers with a cool surveillance, slightly close-set hazel orbs that can shift through a whole range of colors, greens, tawny golds, deep blues, all depending on what she's wearing and the mood she's in. There's always something brewing behind those eyes, her mother says, something mysterious. She doesn't understand the mystery. All she ever sees is a sort of deep-seated sadness that no one ever seems to be able to banish completely.
Full lips purse in speculation, a healthy carnation pink in color but usually a bit chapped. She knows that if she were to ever smile (she never smiles for real, there are only the tentative grins that she puts out there for her family's sake), she'd be rewarded with a set of teeth that are reasonably white and straight, although a face-first fall from the swing set as a child left her with an overbite and slightly prominent incisors. The subtle motion of her lips draws attention to a nose that she feels is already far too noticeable with its strong bridge and slightly overlarge size.
The mirror-girl's body, while not heavy-set, is very solidly built, shoulders broader than most girls and a ribcage that has been expanded as a result of years of singing. Her arms are fairly muscular, toned up from work, leading to hands that would be considered delicate if stubborn calluses didn't make an appearance along the heels of the palms and on spindly pianist's fingers. Then left bears a large pink starburst of a scar, the result from a horrible infection brought on by a brown recluse bite when she was five. Her nails have never been in good condition because of her habit of biting them down to ragged stubs, but they don't have dirt caked beneath them like the majority of her coworkers' do. Her waist and hips are perhaps the only things that give her a truly feminine appearance, the curve of them leading to long legs that have a tendency to make it hard to find pants that are the correct length. Although she cannot see the mirror-girl's feet right now, she knows that they are in the same condition as her hands, skin roughened by days spent jammed into work boots but otherwise clean and well cared-for.
Clothes have never been an object of great concern for her, and this fact is exemplified in the mirror-girl's simple attire of slightly worn out jeans and a simple tee shirt that hangs loosely from her frame (She can never wear tight clothes, because then they'll all look at her and she won't be able to stand it). Only very rarely will she don one of the extremely limited selection of dresses that hang in the closet behind her, preferring functionality and comfort to aesthetic pleasantries. Similarly, she has never been known to wear much makeup, only the occasional bit of concealer to hide the discolored circles beneath her eyes when the nightmares and the Voice won't let her sleep.
Giving the mirror-girl one last disappointed look, she turns away from the reflective surface, walking over to her bed and picking up a diary from her bedside table before curling up on the cushioned surface and opening the small volume. Out of her peripheral vision, she catches a glimpse of another sad-eyed blonde doing the same in an identical room. Sometimes she can't tell the difference between herself and her reflection, and it's terrifying.She never stays the same for long, assuming that she'll get it wrong.
Sometimes I don't know who I am, and it scares me, she writes, sliding the pen over the page with a purposeless air that shows that she's simply recording whatever flows through her mind. I always feel torn, like everyone's pulling me in a thousand different directions, and the little piece of me that they get will never be good enough. How can it be, when the entirety of me isn't good enough in the first place?
Mom and Dad say I'm too hard on myself, but am I really? she continues, pausing for a bit to look at her mirror-twin's eyes clouding over as she ponders the same question. I acknowledge that there are a few good things about me. I'm intelligent, at least compared to the ignorant boneheads I go to school with. I'm a talented musician, but who wants to listen to opera in this backwoods hell of a district? I guess I have the capacity to be caring, but it's so much easier for me to love animals because they're simple. They can't hurt you, at least not in the same ways that other people can.
She stops for a moment, pen hovering over the paper as she lapses into memories of years upon years of taunting. The other girls have always been relentless, her unconventional appearance and the obvious sensitivity about her body marking her as an easy target. All the baggy shirts and loose jeans in the world could never hide her weakness, and so after a while she had taken to a different defense mechanism.
People think they know me, but the me everyone else sees couldn't be further from who I really am, she continues haltingly, the neat cursive winding her thoughts into the diary's immortal pages. Stacks of older volumes sit in her closet, recordings of her daily life scribbled down for posterity since her tenth birthday, when she received the first little green notebook. I put up this front that makes everyone think I'm tough, that I don't care what they think, because over time it's made them back off a little. If I'm loud and abrasive and curse like a sailor, I suppose I actually might seem a little intimidating. But really, I just want to be left alone. If there was a world where I could be quiet and reserved like I want to be, then maybe I wouldn't have to feel like such an overbearing bitch all the time.She would change everything, everything. Just ask her.
History goes here.Trying to act so nonchalant, afraid to see that she's lost her direction.
Codeword goes here.She's just the way she is, but no one's told her that's okay.
The Voice: 858C73
Other: DD9955She swears there's no difference between the lies and compliments. It's all the same if everybody leaves her.
Aria is played by Clémence Poésy.
Theme song is Beautiful Disaster by Jon McLaughlin.