Genevieve Vanessa Fairchild -- The Capitol

.// genevieve vanessa fairchild

Would you look at that lovely girl?
Yes, she's lovely, isn't she?
But ― but, she's breaking!
Oh, who cares?
She's still lovely

.// the story begins

The room was getting smaller by the minute. She didn't know whether it was her own tired eyes deceiving her, or the fact that ― you could tell by a squint and a little stretch of the neck ― that there was a steady influx flow of guests going in, through the large double doors. Everyone was going in. Her eyes were flitting around warily at opposite ends, bouncing from wall to wall. With every group of guests that walks in, the walls expand like a balloon. But she feels feels everyone (and everything) closing in around her. The room was getting larger by the minute, yet strangely squeezing her in a torturous manner. She was losing her mind with every minute she was living, breathing in this claustrophobia-causing air.

She was ― a thing to be expected once she is in a social setting where attempts to chummy up with her were perfectly acceptable to the eyes of everyone ― surrounded by a group of... acquaintances. She was taught ― in the clear words of her mom that forever resounded in her head ― to never let anyone get close to you. Close for photograph opportunities for the nosy citizens, maybe, but never close enough that they know what's hidden inside your head, what's behind that smile. But there's nothing hidden in this head of mine, and there's nothing behind this smile of mine. If there is, then it can only be a blank, shallow space that means nothing. Why? Because you took them all away.

[/s][/i]

A grim smile slowly forms on her lips, a subconscious action in result to her innermost thoughts ― because even my own thoughts are programmed: a smile to her remark, a polite response to what she said, a tiny laugh placed at the right moment and at the right time ― are safely tucked away from the rest of the world, away from their hungry, prying fingers, and draped by a thick, albeit invisible, curtain of sadness and despair. But judging by their exuberant laughter and twinkling eyes, (must have been from the newest physical alteration fad, or from the alcohol they consumed)[/color] they have no idea. Perhaps maybe they don't give a care of the well-being of the person, but only of the wild fire that will soon set on the local papers and their loquacious mouths, feeding the fire with their own papers. The thought of the social misfit that would soon occur, ignited just by one single faux pas, was terrifying. And so were the consequences. It's better that way. If they can't detect that, then my Mother can't.

She continues then on with the everlasting charade ― like a loop forever playing on a haunted broken record ― until her calm grip on the wine glass' stem turns tense. The goosebumps traveled fast, with each caress of eerie dread smothering her, and soon, her nonexistent body hair were all back and standing up. Her ears rang with every audible sound within the room ― the clinking of glass rims to a toast, each and every shrill sound of high-pitched laughter erupted from all corners, every posh heel click-clacking on the glitter-dusted floor ― every little sound was suddenly amplified to its umpteenth volume.

"Excuse me," The oiled words carelessly rolled off her tongue, and she gives a tiny wince. The ghost of stern hands gripping her arm comes to her, icy breath tingling her ear. "We speak with grace," But not this time.[/s] She did not even bother to wait for a reply this time. She moved as fast as she could with towering, flimsy heels, but with each and every step, the toothpick of a heel seem to dig in a little bit more into the floor ― like one thick, plush carpet; or quicksand. She stumbled, muttered a quick apology to an aging heiress to turned to look at her, and looked down. The floor was fine, it was its normal solid self. But it is not enough to catch me. But yet she could feel the ground deteriorating underneath her, the crumbs and remains of what was once the fancy flooring of the balloon ballroom giving way to a dark hole that threatened to swallow her. She kicked her leg up, and with her eye on the double doors, skidded towards it.

She didn't know what was going on, but the flow of guests were getting heavier. This room was expanding forever. It was getting thicker, and it was getting harder to push past through them. Immediately, she could feel her breath shortening, and it was then she felt it. It was a horrible feeling, knowing something you don't know and something you're unsure of, coming after you. She wasn't like some people, who fed off adrenaline running up their veins. She had too much excitement ― if that was even the right word. As far as her personal thoughts were concerned, there was nothing exciting, when thinking over the fact that the unknown might be after you.

And then she heard it. A shiver ran down her spine, and her pace slowed down to a sluggish state. Each desperate laborious attempt to inhale was impossible. The air seemed to be too thick now, and nothing can get in.

She can't get out.

Menacing whispers tickled her ear, and she tried to wave it away with a stubborn hand. It was frightening. Every scream and cry of help were stuffed down back to her throat, and although she tried to coax it out ― and release something just for the fast beating of her heart to slow down ― for so many times, it was a futile attempt. Her legs were growing weak, and she could feel gravity pulling her back, away from the doors. One step. One step. One step. One step. Her eyes bulged, because only one thing could possibly make her stop in a horrifying moment such as this. There was no way out. There was no solid evidence to test this theory of hers, because so far only she has tried to get out of this hellhole of a room, but it was clear now.

No one ever goes out.

She tried to make a quick turn and break a run to find another exit. It was only desperation fueling her now. There has got to be another way out. But her own elaborately-designed footwear refused to listen, and let her slip. Her fingers ― for some unfathomable reason ― let loose of the stem, and she heard the wine glass crash on the floor ― the splinters fell with numerous clinks on the floor, the wine's noisy splash. She never felt the fall's impact, the hardwood floor banging against her own fragile back, because she was falling. Continuously falling. She should be glad, because she was finally out. But there's nothing to be glad. Because the only thing living in this hole, aside from her, was the voice. And she knew who it was.

You're never going out.

She's had the same nightmare every night. It was obvious that by the way nighttime strikes, and slumber dawns upon her heavy-lead eyes, that even with drooping shoulders and dragged limbs ― she dreaded this.[/color] She knew what was awaiting her, luring her into that blasted bed. It was the damned dream once again, waiting for her with sickly sweet lullabies that would do no good to anyone. And even with this knowledge, she falls.

Once she has given up, Pandora's box unravels in a heart-racing speed, each and every fragment shattering to a million more, because a few shards are never enough.[/color] She doesn't move, although her mind screams a thousand profanities and desperate warnings to cover and hide.[/color] She stands there still, exposing the vulnerability of her body to the wreck in front of her. This is the control she has over her own self.[/color]

Miraculously, it never pierces her skin. The splinters and projectiles just fly around, whizzing in a speed unbelievable. There was nothing else inside her head except for the sound of the shards slicing through the air. Her mind twisted the vacant, hollow sound of inanimate objects drifting fast into a torturous sound, alternating and overlapping the haunting melody of a broken soul and the piercing shriek of maniacal laughter.

Stop ― stop it ―

But why, little child? Don't you like to play?

S-stop―

You'll be safe here...

The sugarsweet voice was a lullaby in disguise, and it was pulling her consciousness under lilac-scented blankets, wrapping her comfortably ― until it gets too tight.[/color]

This is how the nightmare begins.[/color]

[/color][/justify][/blockquote]

.// details

NAME -- [ Genevieve Vanessa Fairchild ]
NICKNAME -- [ Ginny¹ ]
AGE -- [ Twenty ]
GENDER -- [ Female ]
DISTRICT/AREA -- [ The Capitol ]

.// appearance

She's beautiful.

If anyone was given the chance ― not really a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity worth falling over your knees, since most gossip tabloids seem to have a thesaurus in hand whenever mentioning this starlight socialite ― to describe Genevieve with only one adjective, (and to that we will assume that there won't be any cries of disapproval ― such as the infamous 'it is not enough for such beauty!' Please chuck that hypocritical sentence down your throat before it lays even more eggs and―pardon me for the explicit language previously used ― and contain all innermost outbursts of the moment) it would be the most common one there is in the face of the dictionary: beautiful. Or gorgeous. Or perhaps even goddess, but we wouldn't want to risk our poor tongue, now wouldn't we?

[/color] risk the chance of Capitol-based Peacekeepers and plainclothesmen overhearing your too-kind words, and getting the risk of the dreadful interrogation (in that dreadful land far away, where the walls were stained of mud and sweat and is that blood? Where the minuscule rooms stank of rainwater and questionable liquids that you would prefer to not know of, where no tapestry lined the bare walls, let alone furniture to 'spazz up' the place, where they were stripped off of their clothing and had no rich food to eat, just crumbles of bread if you're lucky. Yes, my friends, that is the Capitol's equivalent of the most horrifying ghost story that sends even President Snow the bravest Capitolite checking their closets) for believing in the 'mythical nonsense' of the past, even though the flamboyant figures of the fashionable society just toss the word every so often.

"Oh, gorgeous, gorgeous eyes that girl's got. The blue is so deep, so rich, like the depths of the―oh what do you call that again? The Mariana Trench?"

"The Mariana Trench?"

"Yeah, even I don't know what that is―oh! Like the icy water of the 59th arena!"

"Yes, yes! And her nose! Such symmetry!"

"I wonder who did that for her..."

"Let us not forget her lips. They are petals plucked from the most sweetest rose found in the President's chamber!"

Except she was no temptress disguised as an angel, no lethal creature hiding among the flower fields. She was as helpless as a District citizen, merely placeholders for the viewers to amuse themselves on, to distract their gazes from what was really going on behind the curtain.

This single conversation overheard within the busy metropolitan streets of the city withholds enough proof that this lone socialite was a hologram of ten thousand feet in their eyes. Everything is tracked with careful eyes and a fast mouth to match ― no matter how tiny or insignificant her words spoken or actions done may seem. She was blown to extreme proportions, appearing larger in life.

That was Genevieve. Forever with a beam of blinding light shining down on her and effectively washing away who she really is, mundane features morphing into something she's far, very far away from. People see what they want to see. Traces of her own self disintegrating from clumps of personal identification into worthless little bits of dust trailing down her skin, passing by the cleverly disguised nips and tucks of a needle's job well done, another step towards insanity perfection. The countless hours of vigorous rubbing that swept away layers and layers of skin were all worth it in the end (do not fret, no Capitolite hands were harmed in the making of her smooth skin only a few Avoxes), especially once it gives the illusion that she has captured the gift of youth in between her closed, cupped hands, and now safely locked underneath the stretch of fair skin that covered her entire being, from the curve of her forehead until where it reaches the soles of her feet. It didn't shine right through her jewel set of eyes, dark sapphires selfish to hoard the glow all for themselves. You either have jewels or windows as eyes, and you sure can't go around parading the streets with rectangular holes in your eyes (although knowing the fickle mind of the oh-so-trendy Capitolites, who knows?). We all know jewels are much prettier, and much enjoyed by everyone else.

Part her flower-bud lips open, and her pearly whites compensate, albeit not as remarkable when everyone else could have a set of teeth nowadays. But her androgynous nose was an entirely different matter on its own, sitting perfectly like a prim and proper princess in the middle of her face. It is not sharp or delicate as it is strong, two sloping clean-cut lines of the mark of wondrous genes kicking in her DNA.

Skin with a youthful glow. Jewel eyes. Flower-bud lips. A princess nose, for the love of Ripred almighty. They are all nothing but fabricated words of phony pleasantries, words carved hollow of their own essence, and injected with the poisonous vile-tasting honey of whatever was truly false in this world of superfluous riches and superficiality. Yes, she was definitely blown out of proportions, too much that it was hilariously impossible. All of what she was that meets the eye were all the clever work of sly, nimble fingers from a cunning mind enough to rival a fox, weaving together the shredded pieces of who Genevieve Fairchild really was, twisting the threads together too tight that it was slowly breaking, but as long as it resembled what was perfection in their misguided eyes, it will be okay.

Because I'll get the last laugh.

She sat there with her limbs wrapped tightly around the lower half of her body, her arms frozen and taut in place and not risking a chance to get any closer to the bubble of protection that was enclosed around her. Her fretful mind was blank of an idea on how sensitive it might be, but to be skittish would do no good, and so any form of movement was out of the option. It was hard to be as still as a statue especially when she's long been used to being pulled from here to there and whisked to different people that she feel pieces of herself and left behind, but I can take it. All those years of self-perseverance has taught her that the feeling of accomplishment and seeing that proud smile on my Mother overcame the pain of straining her shoulders to be pulled back, of forcing her vertebrae column to be stick rod-straight. If you experience pain, you will be rewarded in the end, she said.

But the sharp sound of shards slicing the air, the murmurs of the ominous voice was already too much and filling her head with feral nonsense that she wondered whether the end would ever come. Salvation, it was all what she needed.

It takes her a moment for a disheartening thought to finally perch safely on the surface of her distraught mind, careful not to be subsided by the mad ripples her own agitated thoughts were causing. She was in her own mind, for Ripred's sake. Refuge took in no visible form in the land of hazy, make-believe worlds, where saccharine reveries contrasted their less-colorful neighbors of horror and torment. Refuge was nowhere, unless she could manage to save herself.

Wake up, her stubborn mind persisted, sending a voice so headstrong that it was powerful enough to drive her out of the cage that was her mind, out of the trap that was the whirlpool of raw, pure emotion grotesquely bending itself into something else, something different, something horrid enough to drive her jumping off a cliff and into the welcoming embrace of ―

And she does jump, her own freewill pushing her body down the ravine that went on and on, weak yet tenacious form tumbling and plummeting in vacant space, and eradicating herself in the end, turning into worthless morsels the black hole inhales...

Maybe she'll be free now.

...and sputters her back into reality.

Or maybe not.

Molecules rapidly build the silhouette of the girl we all love to keep in a box for our own amusement, and she sits so upright and rigid that Mother would be proud.

[/color] Her chest expands and shrinks (but no amount of air pumping in and out of her body could possibly hide the fact that skin were hugging her ribs so hard that they were outlined) in a hypersonic speed and she spew and choke herself with her own breath. A fast, anxious knock bangs on her bedroom door, and with the realization of liquid trickling own her dangling arm, she discovers that it wasn't her own retching sounds that alarmed whoever heard it, but the sound of the glass on her bedside table crashing down into a thousand splinters on the floor. This wasn't the first time she'd accidentally knocked off something off of her bedside table, and so she shouts permission for whoever it was to come in.

The finer details of her household maid comes into view, timidly holds the first-aid kit and the wet cloth she was carrying, as she walks towards Genevieve and her bed, the dim light chasing away the shadows from her features. Her nightgown wasn't anything special (for who was an Avox to receive something special?) and even her regular uniform was much more visually appealing than her nightclothes were. But no one ever takes a good look ― let alone a second glance ― at those slaves workers, not in a family were there were simply too much business matters to be debated upon, too much social partners to gossip about with, and too much events to show-off their celebrated daughter in.

The mute had no significant expression in her face, her lips forever pursed and sewed into an unbreakable contract with silence. She took one glance at Genevieve's bleeding arm, and started attending to it, her motions quick yet gentle, brisk and affable and careful not to touch her skin for more than two seconds. Genevieve's eyes looked haggard, gloomy under-eyes an indication of her otherworldly adventure (adventure? You dare call it an adventure when I was gasping for―) but the Avox wouldn't take notice of that, for her eyes to were not wandering around and only to what she was attending, mirroring Genevieve's. There was no tension whatsoever, they had been long used to the awkward moments of silence that begged for chirping crickets in the background, and it certainly wouldn't be saved by an equally awkward conversation about the weather.

The Avox stopped cleaning the wound, paused to mentally chastise herself for not bringing a band-aid, and preparing herself for the verbal scolding (and possibly a smack or two) that was sure to come, but Genevieve only removed her arm from her hands, and muttered, "It's okay. I'll deal with this in the morning." Having heard the final decision of her master, she moves on to the broken glass and proceeds to clean the mess.

Genevieve, however, decided that it was such a bore to continue on staring at the girl, and instinctively reached for the handheld mirror that was forever on the table beside her bed. The minute her fingertips made contact with the cold, gleaming silver of the mirror's handle and brought it to her, she wondered whether she was half-dreaming, whether the working part of her mind was still left behind in dreamworld, whether she really was completely retarded. It was the same thing with the shuddersome feeling that crawled underneath her skin as she slipped under the covers ― something she shouldn't be doing, but then she's never really had a choice her entire life.

She was half-sure that her hand was shaking when she brought the smooth, clear surface in front of her, and it was almost having to peer at her reflection ― the same product-dusted face forever immortalized in between the pages of newspapers and magazines, but it won't be long until the papers decay and back it goes to the earth ― among the tides of a moving body of water. And maybe mirrors really were waters frozen in place, trapped to ensure that the vain citizens of this city would never have a hair out of place, or to reflect whether shrinking the sizes of their nostrils would outbalance their flaring eyelashes. It is, after all, a hard, hard world out there.[/color] She was getting sold to that idea after every second that went and passed. Life giving waters, waters that held life, waters that held fishes and shellfishes and clams and crabs and seaweeds and moss ―

Moss.

Her eyes were green ― green as dead moss.

She swallowed a mouthful of air, shaky determination willing to conceal and extinguish the very root of her delirium. She hoped that it came in the form of a shovel, to bury those thoughts the Voice into the deepest pits of her mind, below mounds and mounds of dirt and clay and sand that it may not ―

The honey-tinted light beaming lazily from the bedside lamp brushed her skin, and as the sheen glittered in her cheek, winked at her. Hello, do you remember me?

Sand.



Oh, and if malicious cackles could speak prose... Genevieve tries her best to forget, she really does. But forgetting is hard feat, especially when it's right there in front of you.[/blockquote][/color][/justify][/blockquote]

.// history

Who she was is ― as much as we try to forget about what has happened and carelessly throw them over our shoulders with no care for the world, we can't ignore it. It doesn't get lost in the black pit heading nowhere, like we always think it would be. It's lost inside our bodies, trapped in between our skin and our bones. It has become a part of us ― haunts her every second of her day, and turns for the worse once the lights go off.

It was a darkened cave deep inside of her, the biting, howling wind blowing from each corner of the grotto deceitfully painting an ample area that it tricks you into thinking that you're free to do whatever you want, but you're not. Craggy tips and rugged surfaces scratch against your bare skin are you attempt to spin and spin and spin until you're out of control ― until come the time when I just lose it.

The world outside was a whole different perspective standing independently ― but soon we learn that everything, no matter how disparate the colors or such distinctive shapes we have, we all come from the same thing ― and the Capitol, with the brilliance of a thousand solar flares all at once and the bewitching twinkling sound ― screams in disguise ― that captivates our senses, is such a far cry from the debilitated crevasse that was her soul. Think again, little child.

Valeria Barthone knew the Capitol inside out, inside in and all the way around it. She is fortunate to be born among the lucky few ― the high-class elite who's got more than enough cash rolling in to support their lavish lifestyle. And she was well among them too, perfumed in the same haughty atmosphere that reeked the streets, bathed the same ignorant mentality that hard work was a distant land waiting to be discovered.

Oh, but she was so much more.

She held herself in a way that was different, the way she elongated her neck and her spine that assured her that she was a good inch taller than the rest of her peers. The way that she held herself together, never a thread pulled in both ends that it stretched beyond its capability. She was holding back, and it was ― or wasn't ― clear that beneath those bright eyes and small, poised smile, was a calculating brain and a voice that held so much more than words, voice that held knowledge that her friends would never understand.

Beneath all of the amenities and the fuss and the frills that came with the life of the specially privileged, Valeria was no one to be stupidly blinded by those. Call it a third eye among the dazed puppets under the President's hand, a lucky gift, you might say,

[/color] but she knew the clouded alley roads behind those magnificent buildings as well as the overexposed chic streets that held only the most up-to-date of all style shops that the wealthy frequented. With all of her concealed trips outside the backdoor of the Barthone household, she knew that there was a not-so-pleasant way of living, that there were actually some who did sleep with grumbling stomachs, some who had to furrow their stenciled eyebrows over whether to spend this month's meager paycheck over the latest skin hue or over meals with would feed them for two months.

Her tiny nose wrinkled in offending creases, but search the cavities and recesses of her heart and you'll find no pity, let alone a heart. If they were wise, they would have made wise decisions, she had said to herself. She vowed to never in her life make the wrong step, never to spiral down in a thousand rings below the level that she was in life, that she would never set foot in grime-filled apartments. It was practicality, frank and straightforward logic that seems to serve her better. After all, she was a growing girl. She would no longer need the dreamy helplessness her child's-play world of fluffy toys and princesses in distress. No, she reasoned. The prince doesn't have the same bank account as Daddy.

Where was her heart, you ask? Perhaps she wasn't born with one.

But no one would know, not even her parents. After all, she weren't theirs in the first place.

They were clever, as they were to manage to continuously replenish their undying need to be satisfied with material desires, which honestly wasn't a hard thing to begin with, with the information gained from being born to the built community of money-hungry palms (even within the supposed comfort found within the family home) and being sent to a respectable school with intelligent classmates to cheat off from, there was also the power of money, its awe-striking control over easily-swayed knowledgeable stockbrokers to plummet them into the even better good life. But perhaps not as clever enough to hide that briefcase of papers that held what would be an eye-opener for young, yet not necessarily poor, Valeria. Who knew that two desperate scientists from District Six were in dire need of money? Who knew that they even had the time to make a baby, when they were busy finding cures for a skin-coloring session gone wrong, er, cancer? And who knew that Valeria only costs ―

Enough.

Yes, no one knew. It was a tight hush-hush in between the Barthone couple and the two scientists and the few lawyers involved within the child-transfer session. Valeria had to squeeze her eyes shut to prevent her brain from bursting, or worse, from tears to rolling down her cheeks. Yes, it was certainly enough.

She didn't dare bring up the topic ― or anything related to it ― or confront her parents about it. The very least they could do was to reprimand their sneaky little daughter, and either way, it was a never-ending tunnel filled only the worst possible case scenarios. There was the prospect of sending her off the streets to fend off for her own existence, the prospect of sending her off to the local orphanage with would undoubtedly cause her to be forever scarred and forever a target for numerous bullying possibilities, and the prospect of sending her back to District Six. Oh, the horror.

Ever since then, every glance towards the masters' bedroom would be accompanied with a shudder, the events replaying once again inside her mind. It took a lot of effort to act completely sane and the act like nothing ever happened whenever either her father or her mother would give her a questioning look. But life has its own tricks up its sleeve, and she had never thought she could stoop any lower when she realized that she was scared of her own reflection. All that she had on her mind was that she was a District girl, a District girl through and through, in between the skin and inside her bones. A District girl parading around as Capitol blood, a fake.[/color] But it takes one look, and only one look for her to comprehend that no one else knew.

And if a life spent masquerading was something to proud of, Valeria would definitely milk it for something even more.[/color]

But the only thing that grew to be something more was the dark, gaping hole that increased in size with every second that she lived, taking shape of something that fluttered out of your olden biology elementary textbooks, and reclaiming its place in behind her lungs.

Valeria grew ― grew out of her childish fears, grew out of her paranoia, and grew to be a monster. A gold-digging monster, that is.

The Farchilds, unlike the Barthones, weren't of the inner circle of the elite. There were always the outlying ones, the ones had their minimum fair share of spotlight every now and then, but didn't have that something that managed to set their reputation afloat in the ocean of families swarming to grab the spotlight for their own. They were average, to say the least, equipped with the same thing as with every burgeoning family has ― the brains, the brawns, and the bucks.[/color] But Richard Farchild, a bachelor entrepreneur brimming with fresh new ideas that would definitely benefit the swelling economy of the Capitol. The business corporates saw it in him, and so did Valeria.

What happens next is a series of events that are painfully obvious, especially with the conniving mind of this beautiful villain. It was an innocent move altogether, after all, young men and women do need to settle down in sometime in the future, or somehow. But Valeria was no one foolish to leave it to the Fates. No. Valeria doesn't do that. Instead, she goes in for the kill.

And she goes on to further massacre the family name. She deemed her newly-acquired surname as 'too bland' and successfully convinced her enchanted husband to 'tweak a little thing.' It was no easy task, especially with a thousand offices to go to and papers to fake to pass on, but haven't we learned anything here? Haven't we learned the trick of the trade? Valeria used money. It is super effective!

But whatever controversies that had erupted like little firecrackers and little side-chats stirred were abruptly cut off with Valeria's blood-curdling silencing glare, and of course the ever-so-useful backhanded paper greens that miraculously ended up from their flowing account to their greedy hands. Power was obviously in their grasp now, and nothing was sweeter than the ability to change the hushed whispers from 'why did they change it? to 'have you heard of the Fairchilds?' Nevertheless, publicity was publicity, no matter what form and kind they came in or with, and the Fairchilds were sky-rocketed to the position they are now.

Manipulation of government records wasn't enough ― because when was it ever?[/color] Upon hearing the fortunate news that her womb was surprisingly sustainable despite seething lethality was bearing child, Valeria, contrary to traditional customs, didn't head straight for her closest relatives and friends to spread the good news. Instead, it was the phone she headed for, to call certain connections to call certain people.

A fatuous mother, that was what she was during her nine-moth period. Devoted to her little seed, yes. She never left the house without the proper baby apparatus and accessories that came with it ― even had prenatal pills that she religiously took every after meal.

Prenatal pills. Ha!

Little do they know that they were enhancing pills of some sort. No one knew where she got them ― let alone know she has them ― but a little Capitolite with little birdy wings heard it is possibly from the District of advanced chemical studies, but no one really knows. Absolutely no one, except Valeria, and she's not spilling. She was forever a worshiper of blue-eyed blondes classic beauty, and she just cannot take chances with her precious baby. Anything less was abominable, and they can only turn their contemptuous noses away from it. After all, Mommy was a Hitler-in-the-making family needs to look like each other, don't they? Daddy was the prized blonde executive, and Mommy was ― a modified blonde, that is.

Everything was going according to her plan. Perfectly according to her plan.

Until it just didn't.

No one expected the baby Fairchild to come out in a sickly almost-yellow shade. Some wondered whether it was Valeria's gallbladder accidentally pulled out, but neither the hysterical Valeria nor the horrified Richard could buy slap that inappropriate joke right off their tongue. What was this? Trying to console her irrepressible wife, he reasoned that it was the blasted radiation of the city that ― distorted their... daughter.[/color] Yes, radiation. It was radiation, all right. Good thinking, Richard ― radiation can turn your baby yellow. Too bad you were't too quick enough to catch those cursed pills before a shaking, agitated hand chucked them down the trash chute. Nope, it was radiation all right.

Still, the couple decided to stay strong. Payments were made to the necessary people to keep their unnecessary babbling mouths shut, and life went on. No one ever got to see the celebrated infant. She was kept under tight wraps to last for twelve years. despite numerous moments wherein her parents stop and think whether she would be better off anonymously dropped off at the local orphanage, or perhaps sent off to some District to li―does it sounds familiar, Valeria? But Valeria persisted, and her quick mouth managed to fabricate a perfectly logical reason to oppose her husband's suggestions. "She'll grow up to look like us one day, Richard. They'll figure it out." It seems as if she's forgetting an important little detail here but ― hush.

She was named Genevieve for reasons that Valeria liked that name, a fair decision within personal apprehensions but she had picked it for a rather peculiar reason. This child was terrible news upon delivery, but being the stubborn woman that she was, she was determined to bring forth something good to this devastating gift from her own body and her own actions, but we're no saints, so we'll ignore that fact.



Guinevere. Guinevere. Guinevere. Guinevere. Genevieve.[/i][/color]

Genevieve it is.

Their extended moment of bewilderment reached their peak points when ashen-skinned toddler Genevieve grew to have crimson tufts of hair which grew and grew and grew[/color] to be akin to a shrubbery with colors of a firetruck and a carrot mixed together. Her perpetually tired eyes drooped in sad spheres and had a dark green shade to it that only showed that it held no sign of life, except for the crystalline liquid that ran down to stain her pudgy cheeks. This just can't be their child.

Can you picture the appalled looks her own parents gave her every single day of her childhood? Can you picture the disgust that seems to inhabit their eyes whenever they look at her? How they wanted to much to get all of the disgust out of their mouths to this creature ― their own daughter ― in front of them? Life inside the household was bad enough, with tension taking place in between the space of parent and child instead of the heartwarming love that was supposed to be there. Even her own father and mother refused to acknowledge that she was theirs ― no affectionate words were spoken, only hollow ones. No hugs, no kisses, those were all foreign to Genevieve. None of those to go around. How much more would life be cruel once she step outside the boundaries of her home? How much more pitying and repulsed glances can she take?

"You will be better off here, Genevieve," Valeria declared. Richard nodded, the melancholy of his daughter's own tragic life at such an early age so heavy in his shoulders, the lines surrounding his mouth and a lot more plastered on his forehead a clear sign. Valeria, however, had a different look to her. Her pout and crinkled brows all suggested grief, but her eyes seem to become saucers of reflective glass for her soul. Whatever sorrow she felt for her daughter was simply an afterthought, because in her eyes, she was the one who was suffering for all of these sudden deplorable twist in the story. Regardless, when life gives me bad lemons, better make lemonade before they rot even more.[/color]

But Genevieve never got to taste whatever concoction Valeria was brewing and maybe that was a good thing. Life wasn't pleasurable for her in any way, and even cacophonous. Twelve years. Twelve years of confinement within the same four walls, the same old palace to go around. Twelve years of no other human interaction. It was enough to drive anyone to aberration ― and isn't she anymore proof of the dangers that alienation can do? But Mother and Father were always there for me, and it was okay. They made me okay, made me fine, and warned me about the dangers of the outside. I know one day I'll be able to see the world outside, but not today. Mother says it's not safe for a monster like me.

Maybe the single thing that held Genevieve's sanity at bay ― and further pushing it away after failing to scale that mountain of misunderstood motives that seems to forever be the bane of this family, but we'll get to that later ― was her younger sister, Selenia. Fortunately born with normal hues (a blonde, much to Valeria's gratified gasp)[/color], a prayer answered from her Richard's nervous pace, feet going back and forth that showed how much worried he was for his second child's normalcy as much as he was worried for his wife's survival during the labor process. And as for Valeria, an answer from her numerous glares up at the sky in no one in particular for giving her such a hard time ― she only wanted a perfect child, for crying out loud! Is that so much to ask?

No, Mother. I'm really sorry for how I ended up to be. I didn't mean it, at all― Please, do accept my drawings as a sign of repentance― I know you're disappointed with how I came out, but please don't take it out on my poor sister who will possibly come out like a―an awkwardly-colored ba― Oh, she's normal. Oh. Ohhhh. Normal... so that's what it looks like...

Time didn't prove to be a cure for the detestably-colored child ― who seemed to be the product that possesses the painting ingenuity of a fetus ― and instead grew worse than ever before. Once she had reached the age of ten, her undertones leaned towards the unhealthy side of the continuum. After all, what nutrients were there to be found in a house that blocked the sunshine and fresh air (the only thing that nurtured her were the rather peculiar lessons of etiquette her own mother taught her, and no matter how copious their humongous abode may be, it just wasn't tenantable for life, when avaricious hands were to take it for their own and maim it into something for theirs to take?)[/color], completely stocked with only the most heavily-endorsed and processed food found in the city? Au naturale wasn't a foreign concept within the family ― after all, it was what her mother preached ― but they were Capitolites and looks were the farthest they could get. With the languid shape that her bastard oh sweet, most precious daughter was in, Valeria took this in as a sign for reinvention. That was what she needed. We'll shed that offensive layer of skin and she'll be as good as new perfection.

The precious seconds ticking away may prove to be useless in this disconsolate phase, but there was technology (add in a sprinkle of wild ideas, technicolor pigments and aggrandized hair)[/color], forever giving city residents hope that was a chance for this insipid world to be colorful and eye-catching one again.

After a series of surgeries and private appointments with stylists that were not only an expert with their market trade, but willing to take in a little something something to ensure that this never did occur and that things work smoothly. Genevieve must have felt a thousand needles poking at her, but for that moment, anesthesia was her only? best friend, Mother assured that everything would be worth it in the end, that everything would be okay because then I would look beautiful, like how I would always be and how I was supposed to be in the first place.

― and viola! Here was the Genevieve you know, the perfect (to which Valeria discreetly grits her teeth to, seeing how those dark blue eyes just doesn't match her own bright ones, but once darkness touches you, it's not easy to wash it off as how easy it is to just plunge yourself into that sticky pool of wickedness), prim and proper girl that you seem to know, with her face forever plastered in those magazines and newspapers that you read, who never seems to get on the bad side of things, the one who seems to have everything poured in to her. Ripred bless this child, this beautiful child.

She embraced the world just as how warm they welcomed such a lovely girl within their arms. Forever with the wise words of her Mother repeating over and over again inside her head, she behaved properly, just like how Mother would expect her to be and always beaming with the proud look that she wore whenever Genevieve did something right ― which in honesty isn't a hard thing to do, especially with the thin line between right and wrong now unrecognizable and morphed into this single entity that was what Mother would want. Each charmed smile and pretty words that she received back only fueled her love for knowing that people actually accept her for who she is. What do you mean they only love me for what I look like now? I am naturally like this! Stop speaking such nonsense!

What a perfect life she lives, you say. So perfect, what more could she possibly ask for?

Freedom. It comes out in a puff of breath, the coils of self-transformed air releasing itself to the atmosphere where it belongs, another acerbic and ironic reminder of the simple things that will never be hers. Freedom from everything, freedom from the walls that hold me captive, freedom from the darkness that hugs me too tight and seeps into my pores, freedom from myself.

But you've sold yourself to the Devil, and you can't turn your back to it once you realize that this was what you wanted in the first place. She had exchanged herself ― her mind, her body, her soul, everything ―[/color] willingly yet unknowingly, greedily accepting the open space after years of being enclosed in the corral of a home, breathing in and out of their compliments like precious oxygen, and taking security within their loving strangle embrace. She only had refuge in mind when she ran wild in this new stretch of abandonment ― recklessly throwing off whatever care she had been dragging like a burden over her shoulders ― only she fell for a sham. It was already too late when she could feel the trap's teeth gnashing apart her skin and sinking in to her flesh. Think twice, they say. Only I never had a mind in the first place, covetous fingers only so quick to snatch what would've been useful to me, what would've been my guidelight in this foggy dreamscape.

The thick haze that clouded my vision must have ― have, seeing how this disastrous present is enough proof that I have gone mad ― gone too far into the empty space underneath the glossy flaxen hair, underneath the scalp and skin and the skull, because everything was a blur, or at least I tried to smash every detail together to cram it into something that wouldn't drive me further into insanity. All I knew was that the camera flashes were too bright, the gushes were too high-pitched, and the faces smiled too much that all that seems to stick to me were the wide grins that suddenly appeared out of the blanket of darkness that were supposed to be safe once I open my eyes in the middle of the night ― and even when I close them.

She chooses all the wrong moments to open eyes to. Choosing all of those times wherein they all just seem to take away a piece of her for themselves, a piece of her remaining soul bitten off piece by piece with every image that appears on those cursed papers and identity torn away from her hands with every piece of information that stretches a little bit too far from what it was supposed to be. Instead, those eyes mimicking the color of the dark sky dancing to a song of rumbling thunders and embellished with thin cracks of light remain wide open when circumstances are in states so much worse than before. Eyelids refusing to seal together when they should be, when the time for monsters crawl and run the streets once again comes, refusing to close when the sound of her mindbomb's too-loud ticking becomes to unbearable that it's attracting the rest of the night pests. And speaking of pests ―

She takes notes from the gloom on how it silently flows over to a place the light has abandoned and of course from the Voice that forever keeps to telling her what to do ― But you never protest. However that was not the case when her own stained hands desperately tried to submerge the body of her own blood sister, to drown her under the warm waters sloshing against the white insides of her tub. Selenia's voice persisted over the bubbles that tried to cut off the give-and-take cycle of her body and oxygen, the liquid that she accidentally gasped in not enough to weaken her grip. Artificially-tinted strands with cimmerian shades hung down heavily like a curtain over vision, and only with her flailing hand, her only hope in stopping whoever it was from ending her life. Hush, Selenia ― "I'm only doing this to help you," she whispered, trying to reciprocate the lullaby tone her dreams used. I'm only cutting off your sufferings, "you will thank me for this."

But all Genevieve met were water splatters that smelled of rose petals and the pungent smell of death's grasp successfully avoided. She never got to hear her little sister's sarcastic thanks that she could already hear oh-so-clearly inside of her. Instead, they moved to a rhythmic pattern on a thin layer of water that was threatening their balance, dodging lousy attempts at flying fists and in return, grasping at each others' wrists to prevent from slipping over the deadly surface of their battleground. Seeing that this was a futile attempt, Genevieve huffed out of the realm of action, leaving behind a fuming sibling, trailing improvised curse words.

The incident never reached Richard's and Valeria's ears and was instead silenced and immortalized over glares often passed on to each other, upper lips curling in disdain and subtle death threats that only remained as words barked at each other whenever no one was looking. But once outside, it was either the cold shoulder that was given off or plastic sibling affection that was so fake light beamed off of it. There certainly was a better relationship than the frayed, burned rope that was binding these two, but Genevieve couldn't ask for anything better because it was the only thing real ― so real that it came like a refreshing slap whenever she felt like she was drowning ― and holding her at bay.
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.// personality

Genevieve was nothing but conflicted, each and every breath that she takes only giving fuel for the mental and emotional struggle that she was experiencing every single day. But you would never understand how every word that you say was only making her grip on her frail thread go weaker and weaker, just like how you would never see the screaming demon deep inside of her, grabbing fistfuls of her hair and pulling at it so hard as if that would make the voices or the dark shadows scamper away and away and away from her mind and finally leave her alone in peace, because all of that is crammed wrapped nice and tightly with a sparkly ribbon to boot.

To remain equal and get even one step nearer perfection, a goal that was set in front of her that was never hers to choose and accept in the first place with her looks, she too acted in no boisterous way. Spine lengthened and straightened, head held high and proud and always keeping polite eye contact, hands always graceful and together. She had been offered a thousand times to be a model, but Mother refuses so. "My dear girl, models are only the most useless things. You're bound for better things ― you will not stoop low to become a cheap, lifeless doll." [color=Oh, but you have turned me into so much worse. She got her eyes on those little drinks that they serve at the parties as something of a life-saver, despite how ironic it was when it was the one purging her of what she eats. But anyway.

Perfection. That was all she ever aimed for and all she ever showed. But don't you know, perfection has no personality? And that was what Genevieve was, exactly. She was so manipulated and controlled that she wasn't herself anymore. Or is she?

She too, taking after her Mother, was holding back. It is not only by how she held by shoulders back, but something deeper. All that ever seems to be inside her mind is how her entire life was one lamentable tragedy, and how life was so terribly cruel to a poor little girl such as she, how it could trick her into falling into one of its traps. She was drowning and wallowing in her own tears, in her own self-pitying moans, so caught up in her own misery that all she could ever think about was herself and how she was living under such bitter irony. A little whining girl, that was all that she is.

But whenever she wasn't sobbing pathetically in the corner, mourning over herself, she lifted her eyes only to have silently make a snide remark about you. Yes, this girl is definitely not as angelic and definitely as pathetic as you think. After being thrust into things that she never wished of in the first place, Genevieve had slowly grown into it, like a little weed growing at the back of a thick bush of roses. Her mind had long been pawned off for a stubborn, dazed disposition that she was perfect no matter what. And she isn't particularly happy nor supportive about anyone who says otherwise, or at least she thinks they're implying. Basically, she's the bigger hypocrite. The Games have no effect on her, and only encourages her to nag even more reflect on her sorrowful life.

Her mind never snapped out of the trance that she enveloped herself in, but little did she know she had created a monster of her own at the back of her mind, a mini-Valeria, if you will.

You would wonder whether it would cause any offense to call the maid's nightgown a shapeless sack ― which Genevieve and her little ignorant mind was wondering, but she decided to keep her mouth shut. A very wise choice, considering how it was only rightful for anyone without a full grasp of who they were to repress any personal opinions to themselves, especially when the word 'personal' sounded to wrong among their faces, grip too slippery to fully grapple what could have been theirs.

But who said the Games were only limited within the boundaries of the Arena? Why, even the Capitol has their own version: politicians fight for control, stylists fight for attention (or was it also the regular citizens, with their obnoxious surgical alterations?), gamblers fight for their potentially-a-Victor tribute. Simply put, life is one pathetic show, and everyone's fighting over the pathetic spotlight. And in Genevieve's case, her own Mother was pushing her into the field and was the one who willingly pointed a spear at her heart whenever she made the wrong move.

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