{Kestrel Stromstatt) -D10-

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hunger and the lights are off honey
trying to find my head
don't recall lying down in this black bed
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Kestrel Calumn Stromstatt.
Eighteen.
Female.
District Ten.

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cold toes on the cold floor
cold toes on the cold floor

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Pseudologia fantastica, mythomania, or pathological lying are three of several terms applied by psychiatrists to the behavior of habitual or compulsive lying.

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feeling up the walls to find a lightswitch
like a mime, surprised
what glows in the dark, a zipper's broken spine
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Kestrel Stromstatt is a quirky sort of beauty, with some features that could be considered beautiful by most standards, but with others that are certainly unconventional. She isn't particularly tall - only 5'6 - but her limbs are long and lanky, rather like the awkward, shaky legs of a newborn colt, and they give the illusion of the height she does not have. She has very slight curves; not altogether nonexistent, but certainly not prominent, either. From head to toe her skin is marred by freckles, a natural trait inherited from her parents, but most certainly accentuated by countless hours spent under the harsh rays of the District Ten sun.

Kestrel's small, almond-shaped face constantly sports a sun-kissed look, as if the brilliant orb in the sky has reached down a tendril of itself purely to caress her otherwise pale skin. A variety of freckles splash across her visage, as they do the rest of her body, though the highest concentration forms a sort of bridge from her defined cheekbones across the nose that is slightly large in comparison to the rest of her face. A pair of full, pink lips rests beneath it, concealing a set of teeth that are far from flawless - slightly crooked in many places - but, for the most part, kept religiously polished all the same.

Her eyes are a pale, olive green hue, an anomaly seeing as both of her parents have drab, unimpressive eyes of murky brown. Perhaps they are a trait inherited from one of the grandparents she never knew, the ones she was kept far away from as soon as her birth parents became aware of her less-than-ideal demeanor; she has no way of knowing. What is blatantly obvious, though, is that these eyes are big, far bigger than the size that would be proportional to her small face. They are huge and round, framed by thin eyebrows a few shades darker than her hair, and continuously give the illusion of surprise... and also innocence, something that has worked to her advantage more often than not.

Hair as long as hers is would take a lot of work to maintain and keep polished and healthy, and it comes as no surprise that Kestrel has long since decided she has no time for such things. Over the years as her dirty-blonde hair grew longer and longer she neglected it more and more until it became the rather stringy, often tangled mess it is today. Many of the strands finish in defined split-ends, like the forked tongues of rattlesnakes who are probably more honest than she because of her refusal to cut it, even just a healthy trim. She does brush it - once every few days or so, or when she finishes off a ride that leaves it more reminiscent of a lion's mane than an actual head of hair. Because sometimes, thought she doesn't like it, it's necessary to stay groomed.

Clothes have always been a bother to Kestrel; quite frankly, in her idea of a perfect world, everyone would walk around naked or in some non-intrusive garment such as a loincloth. As often as she can she wears nothing more than her leather cowgirl jacket or a pair of faded denim shorts or jeans. When the weather grows colder she takes to snatching some of the community home boys' - usually the Emberstatts' - shirts to wear, because in her opinion the looser articles were far more comfortable to wear than the tighter clothing deemed proper for females. When at one point, as a gift, Ma gave her a black t-shirt, Kestrel had decided it was far too boring and sewed a plethora of chicken-feathers to it to liven it up a bit. To this day, she still wears it; it is one of her favorite articles of clothing, although not in the way Ma had hoped it would be.



Kestrel has never had many friends, aside from her Stromstatt sisters who pretty much have to like her, and judging by her personality, this isn't particularly surprising. When one spends the majority of her time lying and fabricating stories, she tends to push away those people who might grow close to her. Perhaps it may have been easier for her to pick up a few acquaintances as a child, but in her youngest years her parents had isolated her from the rest of the world, for fear of what others might think if they realized what she was like. And all her efforts when growing up in the community home were futile as well. After all, who wants to be friends with a pathological liar?

Though she was never officially diagnosed - District Ten is not the place to have a mental illness, seeing as most of the doctors are more equipped to handle the sicknesses of livestock rather than their human caretakers - it was clear that there was something wrong in Kestrel's mind from an early age. She didn't lie because she felt she had to, or even because she truly wanted to. She just did. And these lies were not hallucinations, nor did she ever believe them to be true; she would be the first to admit, when interrogated, that these stories were fabrications. So why did she do it? A problem, plain and simple. A mental illness, one that could not be cured. Kestrel would be a pathological liar forever.

She is rather outgoing, though, mostly in that she enjoys being the center of attention. Early on in her time in the community home she realized that when she would make up a particularly interesting story about anything - that she had been born in the Capitol, maybe, or that Reggie had a secret that she wouldn't tell anyone - all the other kids would gather around and listen in awe, and she enjoyed that. One time she even convinced everyone that blood inside your body was blue, and picked up a knife and said she was going to cut someone open and prove it before Ma came dashing into the kitchen, screaming for her to "put that knife down, child!" Delighted in the attention, though, Kestrel was unfazed - she always was - so the lying continued, and to this day she harbors an unabashed craving for attention.

When it comes to school smarts, Kestrel is not the sharpest spur on the cowboy boot. When Elon would try and help teach the kids in the home, she would never pay attention, instead staring out the window and aching to be outside, or thinking about how she was so tired of sitting still and being quiet and that she would love to just scream. The knowledge went in one ear and out the other, but luckily there was no one to really care; Ma didn't, as long as she did her fair share of work around the home, which she usually did. None of the other kids did, because many of them weren't into the whole learning thing, either. What did it matter if she knew how to reason and multiply and write an essay, anyway? She had no future in any of those things. She had no choice but to stay right here, right in the northern community home.



For Lydia and Shepard Rhodes, a baby girl was an absolute dream. They were a young couple who owned a modest farm in District Ten, and were deeply in love and ready for a child to strengthen their relationship. Lydia, however, had fertility issues, so it took a solid year before they could conceive. Once they did, however, they couldn't have been happier, and eight months later - a month premature, but as long as she was healthy, who cared? - little Kestrel Rhodes was born, a blonde-haired, green-eyed blessing. Or so it seemed.

As an infant, nothing was out of the ordinary, save for the fact that she was a picky eater and occasionally had a night of fitful sleep. But as soon as she started learning to speak, the problems arose, most often characterized by the word "no." "Kessa, baby, did you knock over the bucket of milk in the barn?" "No." "Kes dear, did you drop all the eggs on the floor this morning?" "No." "Kestrel Rhodes, tell me the truth!" "No!"[/i] Kestrel had learned to lie before she could even speak fluent English, and her parents had absolutely no idea where the habit had arisen from. Were they doing something wrong? Was it them? Were all toddlers like this? Their pride and joy was quickly becoming an inexplicable burden, and neither was sure they were equipped to handle this sort of thing.

The final straw came shortly after Kestrel turned four. While Kestrel's mother kneaded dough in the kitchen, making bread for dinner that night, Kestrel had gone out with her father to the barn to feed the livestock. About ten minutes later Lydia heard the sound of the door opening and in a moment there was little Kestrel; she took a seat at the table in the kitchen and picked up a broken crayon to color nonchalantly on a napkin. Lydia raised an eyebrow. "You done, baby? Where's daddy?" she asked, wondering why she was back so quickly. "Horsies kicked him in the head, he bleeded." The four year old said this all as if she were merely remarking on the weather, and continued to color. "Daddy's dead." As she listened to her daughter's words Lydia's heart began to pound. "No... no!"[/i] she shrieked, leaving the dough lying forgotten on the counter as she flew outside and over to the barn, dreading what she'd find inside.

But Shepard Rhodes was, in fact, very much alive. He was sitting on the milking stool, whistling and holding a pail under the udders of Old Bessie, their oldest cow, as he milked her. He hadn't been paying attention to Kestrel, so he hadn't noticed when she left; he did, however, look up when his wife rushed into the barn, screaming. "Hey, darlin'. What's all the hubbub about?" The minute she saw him, alive and well, Lydia collapsed to the ground and began to cry. Perplexed, Shepard rushed to his wife's side to rub her back lovingly until she could find the words to explain what had happened. And Kestrel? She sat inside at the table, continuing to color.

A few days later, Lydia Rhodes plopped her screaming, thrashing daughter on the front steps of the northern community home. "She's too much! We can't do it anymore, we just can't!" she shouted to the home's caretaker over the sound of Kestrel's indignant wailing. The caretaker nodded solemnly and took hold of the little girl, stoically indifferent as she beat her small fists against her shoulders and continued to scream. "Goodbye, Kessa, baby. Remember mommy loves you." "I hate you!"[/i][/color] Tearfully Lydia turned on her heel and ran from the building, away from her daughter, her pride and joy. It was just too much.

Ironically, it didn't take long for Kestrel to establish herself as a characteristic part of the northern community home "family". She became known for the lies she told relentlessly, the ones that just automatically spilled out of her mouth and often got her into trouble, even when, though rarely, she was telling the truth. That's the problem with being a pathological liar; even when you really didn't do something, everyone thinks you're lying. Time and time again she was punished, but the lying always continued. "Kestrel, why did you hit Elon this afternoon? He didn't do anything to you." "Yes he did! He stole my special horseshoe and buried it in the dirt outside, and then when I went out to beg for it back he put his hands around my neck!" "Kes, you're lying." "Yeah, I know."[/i] She was given the last name Stromstatt shortly after she arrived, and as time past a handful of other girls were dubbed with the same name. Kestrel was relatively indifferent to her pseudo-sisters; sure, they were good company sometimes, but other times they were just annoying. What was the point of family, anyway? Her real one had left her. Why did she need another?

Because she had never really connected properly with people - apparently lying was frowned upon, who knew - Kestrel instead found a companion in Royal, the tan-colored horse she'd convinced Ma to buy for dirt cheap off of a rancher who'd been selling him as a foal because he was dissatisfied with his size and strength. But Kes kept him in the pasture out back and he grew up fast, and what he lacked in size and strength he made up for with speed. Kestrel took to riding him bareback across the rolling fields and hills of Ten, screaming and whooping and wearing very little clothes in general, much less proper riding attire. Those whose ranches she passed by frequently coined the term Indian-Girl for her, not exactly with friendly intentions, but Kestrel paid them no mind and continued on riding.

Though eighteen years old now, Kestrel still stays in the community home; where would she go, even if she wanted to leave? She wasn't stupid enough to think she could ever hold a job; she'd lie to her employer right off the bat, and when he realized she wasn't who she said she was or couldn't do what she said she could he'd fire her immediately. Who would want to hire some unwanted kid from a community home whose parents had left her in the dust because she was too much for them to handle? Who would want some girl who spent her leisure time riding around half-naked and screeching on the back of a horse? And who would possibly want a girl who couldn't even tell you the truth even if she really wanted to?








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