count the flaws {python/jamarion}

We're only young
And naive still
We require certain skills
The mood it changes like the wind
Hard to control when it begins

I will read this book.

Usually there's some underlining motivation as to why people have to sit down and physically read. Maybe they're lazy, maybe they've forgotten to read a book for school and a paper is due on the last decade's worth of Victors the next day. Maybe they've just been putting it off, or can't stand the plot, but have promised somebody they will. I envy them all. Because whilst they sit there, unwilling to use the perfect set of eyes they have been granted to read text like it's second nature (and by 19 years of age, reading is supposed to be second nature, right?) I struggle to read the simplest of equations and sentences. So I've been branded with the word stupid across my forehead and shut out letters and numbers like I slam covers of books down in defeat, giving up in a huff of frustration. But today, I'm going to try again. I won't be beaten.

I can't even remember the last time I read aloud. Fearful embarrassment courses through me, turning my cheeks read and my voice shaky, every time I remember the hurtful sniggering that taunted me all the way through the first few years of school. But I showed them. My whole family looks down on the little houses of District Three from the Victor's Village - not in pity, but in thanks. Thankful for anybody who sponsored our brother to his brutal glory, for the support, for the (general) privacy that didn't come from flashing cameras and glitzy Capitol media workers just dying to get a glimpse at Klaus Goravich and the Quintuplets. Nothing that a good punch in the face wouldn't do, but I've been trying to be nice for Klaus' sake. Ripred knows what would happen if he was ever punished for our acting out. I already had my family ripped apart once by his absence, and we've just managed to piece it back together again - if not for Marina's outbreaks. I can't loose my four puzzle pieces now that the rest of us have slipped from the reaping's grasp.

It's an easy book - for reading ages 10-12. One I found rooting through boxes of stuff from when we were little. (Klaus' one, to be exact, but I'm sure he won't mind.) He never minds. At 11, Klaus was miles ahead of the rest of the class, and so was I - but only because I forced him to do my homework and squeezed answers out of him on tests. Now I find myself drowning in the regret of all those years ago, pretending, lying, just so I could be better than him. At first I thought I needed glasses, but after stealing Klaus', I found that they only made things worse. I've never been good at anything - except for perhaps painting, but even those skills come to a relative stop just below the 'good' level - and I wanted so desperately to be the best. Now, I'd give anything just to be average.

Reluctantly, I settle down in the empty living room with the book in my hands. The great thing about living in a household fit for 7 people is that although you'd never think you'd get space, everybody appreciates privacy. I would never had dreamed that I wouldn't have had to share a room with Marina when I was younger. Crammed in a tiny house, we learnt to fit together. I just wish my brain would do the same. Even with the openness of the garden, the rooms, and the luxury of it all, I'm still cautious as my fingers find the corners of the front cover and my voice breaks into sound, squinting at the letters.

"District Three's..."