Belle Calloway ~~ District 11

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18 Years Old
Female
District 11

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Doing
Thinking
Talking
Listening[/i][/color]
Singing

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I could sit here and ramble on about how every single little detail about me for hours, but really, that would be quite unnecessary. Who needs to know how I view myself when you can see me through your own eyes? Who needs to know what kind of person I am when it’s your job to find out more about me? Who needs to know about my past, present and future when it's really none of your business? I’ll try to keep this as basic as I can.

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ℓιттℓє gιяℓ тєяяιƒιє∂
ѕнє'∂ ℓєανє нєя яσσм ιƒ σηℓу вяυιѕєѕ ωσυℓ∂ нєαℓ
α нσмє ιѕ ησ ρℓα¢є тσ нι∂є
нєя нєαят ιѕ вяєαкιηg ƒяσм тнє ραιη тнαт ѕнє ƒєєℓѕ

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(( A P P E A R A N C E ))

<sub>Upon first glance, it is quite easy to tell what my greatest attribute is: my hair. It is of a dark, rich, chocolately brown colour with slight waves here and there, reaching down past my shoulders. Of course, it does not take much to look after, as the dirt and sweat just turns the colour of my hair darker and darker each day, but it can be a nuisance when the long tips of my hair get tangled and knotted, making it almost impossible to manage my hair. My eyes are strangely coloured – one blue, one green – but you hardly notice them unless you look very closely. My eyes appear to be much too big for my face. They seem to just pop out of my face – and not in a good way, in the “oh, she has bug-eyes!” bad kind of way. But I don’t care. The largeness of my eyes seems to make my eyesight a little better than those of the other people living in District 11 with me. I also have a very small, but sweet mouth, although I hardly ever smile.

There’s not really much to smile about here. Especially when you always feel like you want to cry.

Moving on past my face, you’ll notice that I’m very slim and tall. Like most people in District 11, I don’t get anywhere near the amount of food that a 18-year-old girl would need to eat in order to stay healthy, hence the frail figure. But unlike most District 11 girls, I am freakishly tall. This can be quite a nuisance, especially when working in the fields. It is always an extra struggle to bend down and harvest the fields, taking me twice as long to work. It has also been a way to label me as “different” from other people. I absolutely hate being tall, but my mother always says that it’s a good thing, and in other parts of Panem – like the Capitol – being tall is considered a thing of beauty. But really, what are the chances that I will ever get out of District 11?

I can’t believe I’m talking about my height as if it’s a bad thing. So naïve. Height is hardly a flaw. I can give you a real flaw though.

Back up to my face. Yes, I said we had moved past that, but one exception won’t hurt. Look closely at my face…. You see nothing unusual, do you? That’s what they all say on first observation. But watch closely… As I slowly lift a long clump of wavy hair from the left side of my face, you can see it. The gaping hole in my ear. Yes, I’m deaf. Well, not completely deaf; just in one ear, thank goodness. To be honest, the details of how it happened are all a blur, but from time to time I can conjure up a faint scene that gives some – even if only small – indication of what may have happened.

But that comes later. Now with my biggest flaw out of the way, let’s continue.

Strangely, I have tiny, dainty hands and feet, which do NOT match with my tall figure. You see a young woman standing up, shoulders slumped slightly, and then you reach her hands. Her ugly, small hands, scratched with scars and blisters, do not belong with her body, nor in an agricultural field. If it wasn’t hard enough for me to work by having to bend down all the time and struggling, I’m also noticeably slower in work, as my dainty little hands cannot do as much work as the other people working out in the fields with me. Honestly, sometimes I feel like I was born in the wrong District. I’m quite useless – pathetic, really. I don’t belong anywhere; there’s nowhere I can call home.</sub>

єνєяу ∂αу'ѕ тнє ѕαмє
ѕнє ƒιgнтѕ тσ ƒιη∂ нєя ωαу
ѕнє нυятѕ, ѕнє вяєαкѕ, ѕнє нι∂єѕ, αη∂ тяιєѕ тσ ρяαу
ѕнє ωση∂єяѕ ωну, ∂σєѕ αηуσηє єνєя нєαя нєя
ωнєη ѕнє ¢яιєѕ

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(( P E R S O N A L I T Y))

<sub>I just wanna come right out and say it – I’m nice.

Actually, nice is too vague a word. A more appropriate word would be forgiving and helpful, which makes it incredibly hard for me to stay angry at someone for a long period of time. If people can set aside my height difference and the deafness of my left ear, I’m a generally nice person. When you work in the fields all day, doing nothing but harvesting and foraging food, you learn to make the best out of a bad situation. You also learn that you are in no way alone. The amount of people that you meet is crazy, and hearing some people’s stories can be heartbreaking. I’m a listener rather than a talker. I’ve always sat back and listened to other people, tried to help them where I could. I’m just so shy, but that’s okay. Most people here don’t say much, when they have so many other things in their life to worry about. People find me interesting, though I will never quite understand why. Once someone musters up the courage to come talk to the “strange” tall girl, they are usually quite surprised to find I’m very much like them, only nicer. But in no way am I just trying to earn myself brownie points with all this nice crap. I just wanted to get the good stuff out of the way.

Oh! I almost forgot. My "special skills." Well, actually, I don't have any special skills, unless you count making traps, getting other people into trouble and singing, which I don't. I'm the most un-atheltic person. Like, ever. I hate running, jumping, skipping - basically anything that involves too much physical activity, though I would like to try swimming. Unfortunately, the oppurtunity has never risen here in District 11 to swim, but one can always dream. Hmm, this is turning into more of a "what-special-skills-I-DON'T-have rant." Well, I guess I'm not a complete failure. I mean, I know how to attack people, and can hold up pretty well in a fight. I've been making weapons since I was old enough to start working, and I'm good with my hands. I can fight, whether it be unarmed or with a make shift weapon, such as a vine instead of a whip, or a tree branch instead of a sword. I've gotten into a few fights out here, when the heat gets to you on excruciatingly hot days, but nothing too serious. So yes, I'm a decent fighter, but anything and everything else - I don't stand a chance.

Now comes the bad.

I could just stand here and ramble off a list of things I hate about myself, things other people hate about me, but imagine how boring that would be. I know that I’m not ‘little miss perfect” – no one is perfect. When talking about things like personality, I like to look at them as if there arelayers. For example, behind my “nice” image is a completely different side of me. Nothing too dark and depressing, just a poor sad girl who has a strong need for action, and sometimes violence. I'm emotionally damaged, to be honest. There’s never really much action in District 11, so usually I spend my spare time making mischief and getting other people in trouble. Just for fun. I know, it’s horrible, but to be honest I would much prefer getting my hands on some weapons. When you work in District 11 every day, you tire of the same old stuff all the time. In no way am I a psychopath – well, I don’t think – but yes, I’ll admit, the thought of weapons intrigues me. Any type of action is better than none. Most of the time I just feel so sad and lonely, and the only way I can escape it – even for just a while – is by causing trouble. I’ve done it for ages, and I get away with it most of the time. Nobody knows about that layer of me though. I keep it well hidden beneath my other layers.

And yet another layer of my personality would be my independent side. I grew up learning to look after myself, so as time went on I became less dependent on other people. I find it hard to trust anyone but myself, and I don’t have friends that are close enough to me that makes me think I can trust them. Trust has always been a big issue with me. I like to help other people with stuff, but if they ever offer to help me with something it’s obvious what my answer is going to be 100% of the time. People view this as standoffish, but I just think of it as being protective. But to go along with my independence is my confidence. Of course, being confident is hardly a bad personality trait. But when you overdo it a lot of the time (like me :/) nobody views it as confidence anymore; more like cockiness. I mean, I don’t try and do it to annoy people on purpose, and in a way it’s funny how confident I am, considering I can be so shy. But what I’m really referring to when I talk about confidence is confidence in life. Whenever I’m being mischievous I just suddenly perk up, and my self-esteem boosts instantly. I think people just want me to put this confidence to better use, but what’s the point?

I have another layer, this one surprisingly nice. I love to sing. Singing is an escape for me, I can get in touch with myself more, and I love expressing myself in a totally different and unique way. Most people don't know that I enjoy singing, but as long as I know myself nothing else really matters. I sing softly to myself whereever I go - working out in the fields, when I'm lying in bed and just about to fall asleep, and even when I'm quietly going around doing my own things. I've only begun singing since I was 13. I'm not entirely sure how it started, but one day I felt so upset and angry and frustrated that instead of yelling, I began singing. It filled me with the weirdest sensation, but I liked it. It felt right, like it had always been a part of me, just trying to find its way out of me. Now I look back on it, and wonder how I survived for 12 years without singing. It's a part of me now, the soft, tender side of me that stays locked away, the side that, sadly, not many people get to see.

But the worst thing about me, the thing that makes people want to stay away, is that I have a bit of a problem.

The deepest, darkest layer to me, but it always manages to resurface, usually on a daily basis. I’m not sure what triggers it, but very often I have emotional, physical and mental breakdowns for no reason at all. People say I’m psycho, others think I’m crazy, but most just think I’m weird. They’re all right, in a sense, but it’s not something I can help. I’ve been like this ever since I can remember. My mother worries immensely – me and my sister are all she has, what would happen if she lost me? I don’t think she would cope, but then again, she’s barely coping now, with me daily breakdowns for no reason at all. Sometimes I just feel so trapped inside of me, trying to find a way out, but without much success. The worst thing is the unpredictability. Just like me, never knowing what I will do next, you never know when these breakdowns will strike. It’s hard admitting I have a problem, and my fiery nature goes very well with my strangeness, but unfortunately it always seems to get me into fights with my sister and mother. And I don’t like it. I only want what’s best for them, especially my little sister. I don’t want her to grow up like me – faking happiness on the outside, but really, being a monster on the inside. They don’t deserve it.</sub>

тσ∂αу ѕнє'ѕ тυяηιηg ѕιχтєєη
єνєяуσηє ѕιηgιηg, вυт ѕнє ¢αη'т ѕєєм тσ ѕмιℓє
тнєу ηєνєя gєт ραѕт αямѕ ℓєηgтн
нσω ¢συℓ∂ тнєу α¢т ℓιкє єνєяутнιηg ιѕ αℓяιgнт?

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(( H I S T O R Y ))

<sub>So many memories from the past. Even years on, they can still continue to haunt you. It always seems that you remember the bad memories, never the good ones. I’ll start with the worst. My father.

I can barely remember him, but I know he was evil. Mother always tells us what a horrible person he was. After my sister’s birth, he just… vanished. Packed up his belongings and left in search of a better life. Nobody knows what happened to him. Mother says he took off in the direction of District 12, but why would he bother? District 12 isn’t much better than District 11, and there’s nothing past there. Like I said, my father left when I was 7, so I didn’t really know him. He was always out working, while mother stayed at home and looked after me. Mother says he was a cruel, cold-hearted man who only cared about himself. She has said numerous times before that she didn’t even know why she married him, and the only good thing that came from their marriage was me and my sister. That always makes me smile. But I can’t help feeling like there is a big hole in my chest, a huge part of my childhood missing. Maybe that’s what caused me to grow up into a strange, lonely girl with problems.

But there’s more to my story than just my father.

These flashbacks. The things that make me weird. The things that people have labelled me by ever since I was little. I don’t really remember when or how they started, but I have a general idea. One of the only memories that keeps coming back to me almost every day. The memory that has been branded into my mind from seeing it so often. That must be how it all started.

It was when my father was still around. I’m sure of that much. I was 5, maybe 6. Not very old anyway. Father had left for work that morning, and me, being the irresponsible child that I was, decided to go with him. As I left the house for only the second time ever – the first being when I had mischievously left the house, wanting to explore the outside world – I noticed rows upon rows of people working in a gigantic field. I was still too young to know what they were even doing, and just assumed they were looking for food to eat. Of course, my momentary distraction caused me to lose sight of my father, which sent me into a panic mode. As I ran around the field frantically, I tripped over a stray vine. As I inspected it, I noticed that it was food. Eagerly, I bent down to pull the vine from the ground, and popped it in my mouth, dirt and grass and all. I was so hungry, what difference did a little dirt make?

I didn’t know it was against the law. Almost immediately, Peacekeepers were upon me. Dragging me away from the field, from my home, and all I could do was sob uncontrollably. There would have been 3 Peacekeepers all trying to detain me, but I struggled so much that an extra 2 had to come in and help. Time went by slowly, and I lost track of time, place, everything. But sooner or later I was back in my own house. My mum and dad were shocked, and the looks on their face reflected horror. Before they could do anything, the Peacekeepers grasped me firmly in their strong arms and started lashing out at me. I could hear my mother’s shrieks for the Peacekeepers to stop, whilst my father stood by, emotionless. The pain lasted forever. Attack after attack was launched at me, and all I can remember is my own screaming. I think I must have passed out, because when I regained my senses I was lying in my makeshift bed, bandages all over my body, bruises already beginning to blossom.

From that day on, the psychotic flashbacks and panic attacks haven’t stopped.

My mother reassures me that there was no way the experience could have triggered my crazy attacks. But I guess I’ve always known deep down that it was the real reason behind the memories. And it wouldn’t be the first time my own mother has lied to me. There was also the “ear incident,” as I often call it. The one where I became deaf. The amount of times I’ve asked mother how it happened would be so large that half of the people living in District 11 probably couldn’t even count that high. I’m not saying they’re dumb, I’ve just asked a lot of times. And each time, my mother has lied to me and told me I’ve been like that ever since I was born.

But I know the real reason.

I guess one good thing about my father was that he was always incredibly honest. The first time I asked him what happened, he didn’t hesitate in telling me. Of course, he could have been lying, but I don’t think he would have lied about something that serious, no matter how much we hated each other.</sub>[/sub]

<sub>”Dadda, how did I get deaf?”

”Listen closely Belle. Listen to every last word…”

You would have been, maybe 3? It wasn’t too long ago. Yes, 3. You had just begun to walk. Your mother was overjoyed, me... meh. Anyway, she thought it was a brilliant idea to get as many people that lived around us to come over and see you walking for the first time. She sent me out to go get people over, and your mother frantically started working to prepare as much food as she could. She had just put some boiling hot water on the counter, and had to leave the house for something; it was so unimportant that I can’t even remember what she left for. You must have been just walking around the house, not a care in the world, and must have slipped or something, accidentally bumping the counter. You have to understand we were very poor and could hardly afford a sturdy bench. As you bumped the counter, the boiling hot water crashed down, right on top of you. Luckily, you were lying on the right side of your body, so the water only hit the left side of your face. Most of it went straight into your ear, though, so that’s good. Sooner or later we raced in after hearing your screams, and you can imagine what it was like. Everyone was horrified; I guess nothing like that had ever happened before. Your mother fainted, which wasn’t really much help. But anyway, some random old lady raced out to get some Peacekeepers, and they were all in our house in no time. They did the first thing that came to mind – they cut off your ear. There was no way they could save it after the damage caused to it so far, so they cut it off, got a bandage and wrapped your head up until the bleeding stopped. Your mother never really forgave herself for what happened. She tries to forget it, but it’s not easy I guess, knowing you were responsible for something that terrible happening to your daughter.”

That memory has always stuck with me, one of the only times that I respected my father. So yes, as you can see, I have a twisted childhood But it gets better. Kind of.

As I grew up, I learnt to look after myself more and more. When my little sister came along, she didn’t have a father, and at the time my mother was burying herself in work to hide her anguish. So not only did I have to look after myself, but I took on the responsibility of my younger sister, Stella, as well. But I love her. She’s one of the only things that makes this life worthwhile. She spends more and more time with me every day, even though I have to work quite often. Our age difference doesn’t bother us – 8 years isn’t that much different, really – and it saddens me sometimes that soon she will be forced to work in the fields alongside me as well. I don’t want her to turn out like me – bitter, cold, independent, untrusting and irresponsible – nothing good can come from any of that. I want the best for her, as well as for my mother, who, thankfully, is gradually getting better. With me having to do most of the work, life is hard, especially when I’m working because of my height difference. But I won’t abandon my family, ever. Love is one of the only good emotions that I can relate to. Love for my family. Nothing means more to me than them, no matter how messed up we all are.

So maybe I’m not an entirely bad person after all.</sub>
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ѕнє'ѕ ρυℓℓιηg ∂σωη нєя ℓσηg ѕℓєєνєѕ
тσ ¢σνєя αℓℓ тнє мємσяιєѕ тнαт ѕ¢αяѕ ℓєανє
ѕнє ѕαуѕ, "мαувє мαкιηg мє вℓєє∂
ωιℓℓ вє тнє αηѕωєя тнαт ¢συℓ∂ ωαѕн тнє ѕℓαтє ¢ℓєαη"

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(( O T H E R ))

SONG - "When She Cries" by Britt Nicole

FACE CLAIM - Mila Kunis[/size][/blockquote][/justify]