Nova Scotia [District One] FINISHED

You should know...

I've lived 18 years, but probably won't go much longer.
I was born on May 2.
I'm female, which means a lot more work for me in the looks department.
I'm a native of District One. Land of airheads and diamonds.

Apparently I'm supposed to describe myself.

What does the way I look have to do with anything? And why do I have to tell you, anyway? Geeze, are you blind or something? You should be able to, oh I don't know, look at me and know what I look like. Kind of the point of having eyes, in'it? Okay fine. Pushy.

We'll start from the top. I'm 5 feet, 8 inches tall. (That's 5'8, for those of you too stupid to read.)

My hair? Blonde. I always always wear it down. It usually ends up looking a bit windswept, but I like it that way. And you better too. There's a little bit of brown in there too, but it's not really that noticeable, just enough to keep my hair from being all one color. I have.. um, grey eyes, I think. Sometimes they look blue. I don't really know. I have better things to do than stare into my own eyes. And other people who spend a lot of time staring into my eyes aren't around long enough to tell me what color they are.

I mean uh... grey eyes. Yep.

My face is pretty much normal. I'm lucky enough to have clear skin. Pale, too, but I don't know if that's lucky. Most people don't think so. A lot of the stupid girls in my District think your entire value is in a tan. Bet they don't know that thousands of years ago, a tan meant you were so poor you had to work outside, deeming you a peasant and unworthy of beauty. Ahem. Anyway.

Mentioned my eyes already, haven't I? But not my eyebrows. Right then. Mom says I need to have my eyebrows waxed often, but it ends up being a complete waste of my time. They just grow back anyway. I don't even think they're that thick to begin with. Left unchecked though, they're a bit slanted, and they very nearly meet in the middle. The last person to tease me for it ended up in the hospital though, so I wouldn't if I were you.

My eyelashes and eyebrows are brown, even though my hair is blonde. My eyelashes are average length, maybe a bit longer. I wouldn't care so much, but batting them can draw so much attention that at times, I can't help it. I guess I like the attention. I know I'm supposed to anyway.

Oh screw it. I hate attention.

I have a small chest. But I don't care, because, again, I hate attention. I'm thin and muscular, the typical build of a District One Career Tribute in Training. My fingers are long and skinny. But I have toe thumbs. I hate them too.

People tell me I'm beautiful. What the hell does that even mean? For some reason, people find me more visually appealing than they find others. I don't see why. Past bathing, I don't focus much on hygiene if I can get away with it. It's my own quiet rebellion The beauty queens of this District make me sick. Of course hating them doesn't change the fact that I have to act as shallow as they are so I don't get screamed at by my mother.

But, despite all my loathing of attention and appearance, I love to dress up. Y'know, in actual dresses. My favorite color to wear is red. I love jewelry and accessories.

That's it. Can we move on now?

So you want to know what goes on in my head?

I guess we'll pick up where we left off. I don't like attention, but I get a lot of it. Every time I open my mouth I get attention. Because people from District One aren't supposed to have even the slightest bit of competence. We make shiny playthings for the Capitol and giggle at each other's awesomeness. People call me condescending sometimes. I wouldn't say that. It's just that everyone else is an idiot. Okay, maybe a little.

I'm still trying to discover myself. All I can do is think about the future; but when I do, there's nothing there. That's the problem.

I'm just so damn bored. I'm bored with life. I'm bored with trying to please my mom so I won't get yelled at or hit. It's not that I want to die per se. I'm just tired of living. But this year, my eighteenth, I'm going to volunteer for the Hunger Games.

Yeah, that kinda goes against my mantra of avoiding attention and keeping my head down. I don't recall that being any of your business. Well, I said I was bored, didn't I? I would never be bored in the Games. I wouldn't need to be close to anyone. I'd be the perfect candidate. I'm strong, fierce, brave, and not easily attached.

And whether I survive or not, I get away from my mom. We'll call that a win-win situation.

I've never considered myself a nice person, but I haven't thought of myself as a cruel one either. I'm just not a people person. The word for not feeling emotion towards people, that's apathy right? Well that's me. I just don't care. I want to get in the Games and have an adventure. Maybe make the finals and throw the Games, because living in the spotlight as a victor doesn't suit my idea of fun.

I don't know. That's me in a nutshell. Confused, rebellious apathetic, sarcastic, impatient, and reasonably intelligent.

I guess I should mention some of my talents now. General Career stuff, you know. I don't have a job, other than training. My favorite weapon is the spear. I just like them. I don't really have a reason.

Oh and I like to dance. It's just thrilling. But I hate when people watch me, so I don't get much use out of my talent. I don't dance for others though. I dance for me. Dancing is one thing they can never take from me. Maybe that's why I like fighting so much. In a way, it's like a dance.

I've always believed that my past defines my future

I don't have any firsthand information about my early life, so you'll just have to bear with me.

I'm told I was born on May 2, and I believe that's the kind of event my mom would remember. I don't even think my father, whoever he is, knows I exist. As the second child born to my mother, and the first born healthy, I was considered a miracle child. Not for long. I started talking young. Then my mom took the liberty of... teaching me that it wasn't appropriate for a young lady to talk as much as I did.

No, not like that. She didn't start abusing me that early. But whenever I talked too much she made me sit still while she put my hair in a formal updo. At the time, that punishment was almost too much to handle.

It wasn't until after the incident that I realized how lucky I had been. You see, I had a sister three years my senior. She was a beauty queen in training. She was mom's favorite child. But she was sick. A lot. And when I was five years old, my parents got permission to send her to the Capitol for treatment. Weeks and moths passes, with us waiting in suspense for news, or even better, for her return. She never came back. To this day I still don't know whether she died.

But when the perfect sister essentially died, something inside mom snapped. She was the same outside the home, but she started saying terrible things to me when nobody else could hear. The worst was the day she wished I had died. She didn't know I was listening.

That's when I knew things would never be the same. That's when I realized I couldn't count on people, and they shouldn't count on me either. I was only six years old, and I didn't understand. Being the rebellious child I was, every time she told me to die, I took measures to live. She rarely hit me, but I was yelled at and neglected a lot for a District One kid. Maybe it was all that extra effort in the past that has me losing interest in living now. Who cares? Mom's gotten better as I've gotten older, but I probably won't ever forgive her. I'll never trust her. Or anyone for that matter.

I don't know when I started being violent. I'm fine when people leave me alone, but when people get too close, I panic. And when I panic, I tend to attack. The doctors call it claustrophobia, but they can't explain why I lash out when it sets in. Maybe I'm just crazy. Maybe we're all crazy.

I started training when I was eleven years old. After that, my anger had deadly potential. That's when people started avoiding me, for the most part. Normally I wouldn't mind, but people have no sense of space. I'm sure if I ever met someone decent we could get along, if not fully trust them. But I never have.

Who knows? Maybe one day I will meet someone who respects my space and is worth my time. I doubt it though, because I'm volunteering for the Games this year. And I'm probably going to die.

And the worst part, or maybe the best part, is that I don't really care.

FC: Ashley Benson