FIN :: ONE :: JESSE TRIVITT

named

[/color]jessica eva trivitt[/size]
agedeighteen
locateddistrict one
presentedfemale
orientatedhomosexual
biography[/blockquote][/blockquote][/right]

"Get up, you lousy little shit." The dulcet tones of my step-mother's soft and gentle greeting lull me out of sleep. I was dreaming of my grandfather again, when he taught me to use the air rifle he kept behind his door, ruffling my dirty blonde hair, no matter how greasy it was, when I shot down my first bird. "I'll show you how to pluck it now," he told me, making my thick, teeth-marked lips widen into an eager grin.

[/i][/color] "And fix your bed. You're not a fucking animal." Ever since my father (though I prefer to call him 'tosser' behind his back) remarried the demanding quasi-Capitolite in place of my quiet, submissive mother, this is how it has been. The sour pitch of her voice, which is usually nagging me to be totally independent at home but which prevents me from having any friends at school, seems mismatched and awkward coming from between the plum coloured lips of the foul woman. I sit up, running both large, dry hands through self cropped strands of messy straw atop my head. It's a habit - one indicator of my severely obsessive personality - and I know it's what's making my hair so straggly and revolting but, frankly, I couldn't care less. My eyes - blue, like my mother's, though nowhere near as wide or innocent - adjust to the dappled dawn that throws an accusatory spotlight on the smashed bed frame to my right. How does she expect me to fix this? With band-aids and kisses? That may have worked when I was a little girl, still wearing pleated skirts (so much more useful for quick getaways than stride-restricting denim) and mum would spurn me softly for scraping my knees, hoping fearfully that I wouldn't try to ask her about her own bruises and the 'accidents' they were the result of. The time would come soon enough when I learnt myself just how serious my father's anger could get.

Fights with dad often develop into a case of physical blows, first and foremost because I am often confident enough to retort to his insults, and he is always close enough to the brink to be provoked. Usually, it's over something stupid. I don't do well in school, come home with a bad report, and his slurred speech drawls out from those stubbled, sagging lips and hits me in waves of alcohol-thick breathy words. "Yer lazy, stupid, disrespectful, and look at this - are you even trying?!" And then, like always, I wipe his spittle off my high cheekbone, blink slowly and try and suppress the rage that's bubbling inside me. Standing at almost six foot, I know I could easily overpower him. My legs are muscled from a decade and a half of running away from Peacekeepers, my arms and torso in good shape as well, but it's not worth fighting. To me, he is the representative of every man, which is why I could never love one. Even in District One, where there is a significantly generous amount of good genes, all I see in men and boys is what they'll turn into later in life. Fat toads, who don't understand how to care for their families.

My grandfather seemed to be the only exception to this rule, not that I can explain why. I hope that I'll turn out like he did, even with all my father's anger problems and my Grandmother's easily addictive personality, there must be some trait of his father's that I've inherited as well. When the boys at school picked on me for behaving like one of them, and the girls rejected me for the same reason, grandad was the only friend I had. Sure, at home, mother could make me smile or defend me when I did something wrong, but I knew that she had her own problems, and, as is still my nature, I was sensitive enough to not burden her with anymore. People always say I know nothing about them, that I shut them out but it's not true. They always closed themselves off from me, when I was ready to listen. But grandfather always had a slightly mischievous smile on his face, and was always ready to do whatever he thought could make me smile that day. My favourite was when we went fishing, down in the little stream behind the training center. We'd make up scenarios and funny stories to accompany the grunts and moans floating out to us from the pored concrete walls behind our back. We never caught anything, but that wasn't the point. Walking home together with a half empty can of bait and our ankles and toes squelching inside our shoes felt more rewarding than any catch we could have reeled in. Fishing brought us peace, an escape from my violent home and his empty one.

However, my grandfather always seemed peaceful, no matter what he was doing, and even though when I was young I never really saw the truth behind it, I soon found out. I had arrived at his house, eyes stinging from tears and arms feeling the same from three cigar burns still glowing on my forearms (marks I still bear to this day, just like my mother probably does) But all I found was a small fumigation tent and two small digging vehicles. I stumbled toward the tent, bright and jolly-looking despite its true purpose, and asked what was going on to the man in a suit, who was clearly in charge of what was going on here. That made him personally the culprit, the one man who had set his tiny mind on destroying an elderly man's home, and my constant relief source. He looked at me so patronisingly, and patted my head reluctantly because of my matted, sweaty hair that I no longer cared about anything he said, no matter how much I wanted to know it. Not caring, my approach to most of the troubles in my life now, still doesn't stop me from listening in. Knowledge is a sort of power, and though I don't crave it, I understand it's usefulness. "Morphling," he told me, dragging the word out like I was dumb as well as infantile, "this crazy bugger was addicted to it, and did all sorts of stupid things. It's a bad drug, princess, remember that for me- okay?" That crazy bugger is my granddad, I wanted to tell him, but my insolence was strictly reserved for my father. I learnt that my grandfather was a hoarder, a habit brought on my extensive Morphling use. He would keep everything from letters to old bones to coins to shells, and hide them in the house's basement. A couple had been walking up by this way and noticed a stink, and thought that whoever lived here was a rotting corpse. That's how bad it was. In fact, what they found on breaking down the trapdoor leading to the cellar was piles and piles of dead fish, covered with so many flies and maggots that the fish seemed to be breeding them themselves. They went to tell as many Peacekeepers as they could find, who they relayed those story to, just as my newly made enemy had just relayed it to me. In one horrific, almost unbelievable story, I had learnt both why my grandfather always had so much bait, and why we were always so unsuccessful in catching anything with it.

Overreaction, as much as I see it as just reaction, caused my health and attitude to spiral after that. What had been irritation before turned to hatred, and I found myself cursing my mother, who gave in so easily, as well as my wretched father and his repulsive second wife. The other kids at school made me lose my temper more than before, and disciplinary punishment was always close on hand from the teachers who hated me, too. As we all developed, so too did the insults I had to face. When I fought back, spitting and cursing, they called me monster, beast. When I held back my tears and threatened them, it was coward, worthless. But when the boy who asked for a kiss got no more than a nosebleed and two knees to the stomach, it was my sexuality they began to question. Suddenly, it wasn't me threatening them anymore, but death wishes and cusses so colourful that I was amazed that the teachers didn't begin to question what they were saying. But they turned a blind eye, as they always did, blaming it on my difficult background and poor influences rather than on the spiteful mess of my peers.[/i]

Soon enough, school became as hostile as my home, and I knew I had to find somewhere else to waste time. I was desperate for an escape, a way out that I couldn't find, and that frustrated me. I had always provoked my teachers and the Peacekeepers around the District, with several warnings already, and so spending all my empty time in a cell in the Detention Center seemed much more appealing than it was designed to. I started with smaller offences, setting off fire alarms, kicking over bins, smashing windows, but they soon learnt that no length of time in solitary confinement would break the anarchy I so embraced out of me. It was even worth my father's half-arsed remarks when I got home, the jibes at my failure and the smacks across my already-battered face, to have those opportunities to be alone in Detention.[/i] My behaviour was, instead, noted and ignored, as they hoped I would just get bored of rebelling and move on like the other young offenders. Resilient as ever, I just increased the severity of my crimes. Destroying property, armed violence, even dabbling in dealing illegal substances for a short time, before that became too dangerous. I realised the trick to is was not to seem smart, just hot-tempered. That way they treated every crime as a separate event, and no more serious punishment entailed. My plan was simply to pretend I didn't have a plan, an ironic notion which I enjoyed almost as much as getting caught and sent to my solitary escape.

So who am I now? A criminal and an anarchist, but so much more. Everything I do has reason, from my choice of clothing - loose pants and a tshirt, good for giving the authorities a chase - to my hostility to other people. I do things because I jab to, because I need to, not because I enjoy them. I haven't seen my mother in so long that I would have forgotten what she looks like, if it weren't for the fact that she looks like me. She could have been aggressive if her personality was different, with the right skeleton for a fighter. Small-chested and sturdy, she and I weren't meant to get hurt or obey, but be independent. Fighters.

And yet, as my stepmother tells at me again to pick up the pace and get downstairs, I realise that I am more like her than I first thought. I contemplate too much, impulsively and regretfully. I say I'm a furious force, but all I really want is a little peace.[/size][/blockquote][/blockquote][/justify]

other
face claimagyness deyn
palettethe pied piper
songhere we go again - paramore
plotthe breakfast club
codewordodair