DECEMBER DONNER ~~ DISTRICT 6 {DONE.}

DECEMBER DONNER

(( A P P E A R A N C E ))
The eyes. My eyes. Let’s start there. They’re a light grey-light blue colour, though it’s hard to place a name on their actual colour. It’s a surprise I wasn't called ‘Rain’ or ‘Stormy’ or something ridiculous like that when I was born. Though I guess naming a child after the month they were born in isn’t too far off of being on the ‘List of Worst Names’ either. Even though I never knew my parents, I imagine them as two people who cared about everything, and would have loved me with all their hearts if they had been able to stay around longer. I don't know what happened to them. I can't remember anything about them. My first memories came when i was 3, and by then I was living with two strangers.

My hair is a golden brown colour. It used to be blonde, when I was little, as I spent so much time out in the sunshine, enjoying the beautiful warm rays that radiated from the golden ball of light in the sky. But, as time went by, and I didn’t venture out into daylight as often, my hair gradually became darker, until it was a sandy colour. I quite miss my blonde hair, but it’s too risky to go out in daylight anymore. It seems I missed out on a lot of my childhood because of that. But what can you do? Nothing. Exactly.

You can also tell from my complexion that I don’t go into the sun much anymore, as I’m quite pale. Once upon a time I would have been a little tan – not much, just a little. And I guess if you look closely enough the tan is still visible in some places. But now my skin looks as white as snow. Strangely enough, my lips don’t look at all pale, but are instead a healthy light red-light pink colour. I guess it’s just another one of those strange things about me. I’m rarely smile, but when I do, I’ve been told it’s like witnessing an exotic flower coming into bloom.

Okay, so maybe not that perfect, but it’s nice that people notice that. You’d think that would be an incentive to continue smiling, right? Wrong. It’s impossibly hard to keep faking smiles. There’s no real purpose of a smile, only to hide what you’re feeling inside, basically. But everyone knows I’m not a talker, so it doesn’t even matter.

For a 13-year old, I’m quite short, and weigh about 36kgs, which isn’t much. I’ve never weighed a lot, or been tall, but I don’t mind. My height and weight help me to crawl into tiny places where nobody could possibly find me. I don’t know why everyone wishes they were tall; the only advantage I can see is that it makes you look older than you actually are, but I guess that’s a disadvantage, too. My hands and feet are small and dainty, with stubby fingernails due to my continuous biting of the nails. Even though I only have 8 nails to bite, after losing two fingers during my life so far, leaving two short stumps in their place. I don’t really think about it too much, but nobody notices anyway.

Nobody has a reason to notice.

(( P E R S O N A L I T Y))
I tend to keep to myself most of the time these days. I guess I wasn’t always like that though.

Actually, trying to remember, I used to be quite social. I’d always be outside, playing with the other little girls, acting incredibly childish, not knowing any better. Up until I was about 5, I had a good life, good personality and good friends. Everything was great. I was the one who could always brighten up someone else’s day, the one who always made the rational decisions, never wanting to leap into anything unless it had been well thought out. The one who sat back and waited for others to speak first before jumping in and having my say.

Well, not anymore.

After my 6th birthday, I became a whole different person. I wasn’t positive, or dependent on others. I didn’t care about what other people had to say.. I’d changed into a completely different person, one who hid away from the harsh realities that we had to face, becoming more and more trapped inside of myself with each passing day. I tend to keep to myself quite a lot, and I rarely talk to other people, unless I know them very well beforehand. I guess I feel quite insecure about myself, and that makes me feel like an outsider most of the time. After living on the streets for most of my life, and having to look after myself, it’s difficult to learn to trust someone, when you’re so worried that they might just come along and shoot you down.

I’m quite a forgiving girl; it doesn’t seem right to not forgive someone for a little mistake that they made. My heart is hardened from the hard years of torture, but I’m still just like a little girl. I don’t go moping around everywhere, but instead try to keep going, even when it feels like it’s useless. Most people see me, and immediately think of me as a little angel, never wanting to hurt anyone, or do any harm whatsoever.

How I wish it was that simple.

What people think is not always true. Just because I’m quiet and tend to be more of a silent mourner doesn’t mean that I’m vulnerable. Whenever I start to lost my grip on everything, I need to find a place straight away, to just cry. Sometimes I get angry and start yelling and throwing things, but nobody is ever there to witness it, so what they don’t see won’t hurt them. That side seems locked away most of the time, but if only it was locked away forever. It’s good that the others give me my privacy, but it must frustrate them so much, the fact that I keep most of my past a mystery, as well as everything else about me. I really do wish that I could be a little angel, but I know that’s never going to happen.

I guess one thing that never fails to disappoint me is my musical ability. I can sing and dance and I know how to play guitar as well. I learnt when I was younger, and I even had my own guitar, but I had to sell it to get more money to help survive. I don’t sing much anymore, but I do dance occasionally when I’m by myself, and what I would give to have that guitar back. Whenever I felt sad, or lonely, (which is most of the time anyway), this was a way that I could express myself without being judged, and also to help restore some of the lost energy. Music is one of the only things left that I care about, anymore. Without it, I’m lost.

(( H I S T O R Y ))
Nobody ever asks me about my past now. They know better than to even try finding out about it. I guess it kind of puts me on the outside with the others, and it’s not that I don’t trust them.

I just don’t trust myself.

I know that if they think if they leave me alone long enough, I’d have no choice but to tell them. Even though none of them mean harm, I trust June the most, and she knows the most about me too. June to me is alike a big sister. Or at least what I imagine a big sister would be like. Growing up as an only child for the first half of my life did have its advantages, but I was also quite lonely most of the time. Still, June gives me my space, but is still there for me whenever I need her.

I grew up living with two strangers, who I was forced to call "mother" and "father" until I was 6, but that comes later. We had a good life. We came from the better part of District 6, I guess you could say, but they were always so busy, that they often had to hire a babysitter to look after me as a young girl. It was really only going to be a matter of time before I would leave them permanently. Besides, it wasn’t like I never got to see them at all. I knew that they loved me; how could someone not love their own daughter? Love is a difficult thing to understand, and I’m still not sure about it, but the way that "mother" used to look at me couldn’t have been anything else but love. Whenever I was afraid, I would race to my "mother", and no matter what she was doing, she would always stop to bring me up onto her lap and sing softly to me. I guess that’s where I picked the singing up from. Dancing was just a natural thing.

But "father" had been the one who got me onto playing guitar.

As he came home from work one night, it was obvious that he was exhausted. He had red rings underneath his eyes, suggesting a long day at work, and not wanting to upset him I’d steered clear. But even in his worst moods, and even though he could never be able to accept me for who I really was, he still tried. As he came into my room, he sat down on my bed and asked me to come with him. As I silently followed him with "mother" trailing behind me like a zombie, not even able to speak I was so young, we walked out into the cool night air and he led me over to a tall tree. Propped up against the tree was the most magnificent thing I’d ever seen. I was vaguely aware of my "father" muttering the word “guitar” under his voice, so awe-struck I was. He took up the beautiful instrument and strummed the strings, causing a squeal of delight and a series of clapping from me. He wanted me to learn, it was clear in his eyes, and how could I have said no to my own "father", even when I couldn’t even talk anyway?

After that I couldn’t stop. At first I was quite bad at playing guitar, but by the time I was 4, I had my own guitar, and playing quickly overtook singing and dancing as my favourite things to do. "Father" did love me, but he always had better things to worry about. I looked up to him, but there was something about the way he regarded me that made me feel like I would never be good enough for him.

Then there was the time when I was 6, and I’d been so foolish. I never thought that my doings would cause me to leave my own home.

I was still so young and foolish and not exactly sure of what was going on in my life. But I’d wanted to do something to impress "father". So one day, I crept into the kitchen and took a knife. The tip was pointy and sparkling, and the silver blade intrigued me. But at the last moment, I chickened out. I couldn’t bring myself to chop off one of my fingers; what a stupid thing to do! As I quietly stood up on tiptoe, trying to slot the knife back into place, a disturbance in the hallway distracted me, and in that moment of lost concentration, the blade slipped and sliced off one of my fingers anyway. I cried out in pain, before passing out not too long afterwards. The next thing I could remember was "father" calling me a stupid little girl.

The next 2 days or so I’d slipped in and out of consciousness, but by the third day I was fully awake and reenergised. As I sat up in bed, my "parents" slipped in, quiet as ghosts. That was when I knew something was wrong. They broke the news quite quickly, and not even a single tear was shed, on either their behalf or mine. I was still in shock, as to how they could expect a 6 year old to survive on the streets, until they told me I was going to the community home. They’d let me take a few clothes, my stuffed teddy and my guitar, before sending me out of the house and shutting the door behind me.

And just like that, I was an orphan.

The 6 years I spent in the community home were a blur. It was hell. Everything was so different to what I had been used to. During the whole ordeal, I somehow managed to lose another finger, leaving one hand with three fingers and the other with five. I’m not sure if the missing finger was my own doing or someone else’s, but by then I was past caring. At first I tried to adjust, but it became too much, and I spent each day curled up in a little ball in my room. Occasionally I’d find the strength to get up and find a secret hiding place, and just sit there and cry. I played mu guitar a lot there, even though the other ids mocked and teased me for it. An orphan at 6, life was terrible. When I was 12, I’d run away.

It was the day of the reaping. Everyone had been huddled up into their little groups according to age and gender. The reaping went by as a blur, and as soon as it was over I’d bolted for the community home. I’d quickly gathered up the few possessions I had, and left without a word. I’d managed to get away before anyone noticed, and for the next 6 months I grew up on the streets, sleeping in abandoned buildings at night time. I’d been forced to sell my spare clothes, and eventually, my guitar. My only companion through the whole ordeal was my beloved teddy, and it just didn’t seem right to abandon him after going through so much together. The possessions I sold gave me a little money, but it was quickly spent, and lasted me a little less than a month.

It wasn’t until a few days after my 13th birthday that January had come and found me. I must have looked terrible, half dead, starving, and left with nothing but the clothes on my back. He’d offered protection, and the promise of a new life. It was too good to say no to. He’d extended his hand to me, and as I took it in my own 3-fingered one, I slowly stood up. I felt a new hope rising in my chest.

A new life. And I never looked back.

(( O T H E R ))

CODEWORD - odair

PART OF THE YEARLINGS PLOT