nala. who lives in the capitol.

n a m e :: Nala. Nala Cerce.
a g e :: i'm nineteen.
g e n d e r :: Female
d i s t r i c t :: The Capitol
l o o k s ::

I'm not much of a looker, actually.
I have this dark brown hair that I really hate because it doesn't grow fast enough and it is not silky and it never straightens. There is always a kink or a wave somewhere just to annoy me. To go along with that are my dark brown eyes. Muddy, I guess you could say. Some people with brown eyes look wise, or thoughtful, or beautiful. Not me. My eyes are flat, bland. Lifeless.
That's why I wear my sunglasses, all the time. I'd like to think they give me an air of mystery - that they keep people from looking at my eyes and then quickly averting their own, because they see something that they find...repellant.
People look at me a lot, actually. Like I mentioned before, it's definitely not because of my striking beauty or anything like that.
It's because I'm just so normal.
And I guess the lovely freaks here at the capitol can't understand that, let alone accept it.
You see, I stopped growing at around twelve years of age. That leaves me at 5'2. Although I've filled out quite a bit since then.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not fat. I'm just curvaceous, and a little plump. Which makes me pretty much obese in comparison to the little twigs strutting around the Capitol like they know who they are.
I could easily be skinny. I'm sure there are at least a dozen surgeries for fat removal, and they're not that pricey either. My mom even tried to schedule some for me.
But I won't let them.
Because my cellulite is my own. Not a boy's, not my mom's, and certainly not some surgeon's.
They can't take that away from me.
They can't.

p e r s o n a l i t y ::

What am I like?
An excellent question!
Well, I'd say I'm about the most pleasant person I've ever met, not that that's saying much. As you can tell, I'm a very upbeat, cheery, optimistic person. Certainly not sadistic or hateful or cynical. Never that.

Actually, to be perfectly serious, I'm not really very hateful towards people. Don't get me wrong; I don't like people. Heck, I probably don't like you.
But I use the word hate sparingly, because I could never hate someone as much as I hate myself.
And I guess if you know that, you know all you'll ever need to know about me.
More than I really want you to know about me, certainly.

h i s t o r y ::

I killed my father when I was four, and my mother abandoned me. Not physically.

And before you go either hating me or pitying me, whichever one you're doing right now, consider the details.

One winter morning, I went outside and picked a pretty flower. I put it in my daddy's hot cocoa and it sank. It sank and I guess it disintegrated into the cocoa and I guess it was poisonous.
Because he took a sip and collapsed into his chair. Dead.
It was a pretty big scandal; the authorities were almost as excited about it as the gossip columnists and our nosy neighbors.
They concluded it was a suicide.
Everyone thought my mother did it.
Since I wore gloves while picking the flower, there was no DNA evidence, though they did extensive tests.
My mother spent the next ten years patching together the scraps of her social reputation.
When her Capitol 'friends' had finally accepted her again, she turned around and discovered that she had a fourteen-year-old daughter who did not like her in the least. Who was pudgy. Who was stubborn. Who slit her wrists nightly.
Of course, my mother was horrified, not to mention scared out of her skin. How had this monster appeared when she wasn't looking?
I got over my initial teen angst, stopped cutting myself, and tried to act like a normal person, aside from how I was around my mom. I'd say 'frosty' is about 200 degrees warmer than our relationship.
My stubbornness was still going strong.
I wouldn't go to parties, wouldn't act like I cared about anything she told me or dragged me into, wouldn't let surgeons alter my body.
What a horrible daughter.
My mother and I never could want the same things.
Until I turned eighteen.
I had no future in the Capitol.
I couldn't leave the house, with nowhere to go. I couldn't get a job; what kind of employer wants a chubby person working for them?
Then my mother and I realized something.
We wanted to be rid of each other.
We both wanted to spring me from that hellhole. As soon as possible.
And we've been refining that plan for the last year.

Fingers crossed.

c o d e :: muttations
o t h e r ::

Suffice to say, I have big plans.