Anastasia de Avila -- District One

ANASTASIA
DE AVILA



anastasia amberline de avila
eighteen
district one
amber heard
church of panem plot

           I. GENESIS.
              beginning

You wanted to be beautiful. Angelic, immaculate; like the marble statues of patron saints that decorate the halls of your home - or your church, but you never saw the difference in the two of them. Gargoyle stumps, iron knobs. All ancient.

All sacred.

She told you that you were sacred, too. Porcelain skin and fluttering lashes, lips blushing pink with naivete. Lithe limbs like the dead branches of skeleton trees in the drab December sky. A winter child, that's what you are. Born of frost and fireplace heat, luxurious in fur blankets to warm your newborn bones. The rest? They called out prayers to the frigid wind, to the God that never listened. The angels, however, protected you with their wings. You were sacred. That's what she told you. Hair spun of District gold and a living glass - from the curve of her neck to her ringing laugh; the stem of wineglasses and the sound of silver cutlery tapping against the rim in a dinner party.

You call her Mother.

She cradled you gently, like the next two to come, but you were firstborn; you received the glistening tears of fresh motherhood. Now it's lost in the overlapping wounded flesh healing itself again and again, scabs over scabs. Battle cuts and shadows that self-destruction bring make the perfect concoction - you.

But, for now, you are innocent.

You carry with you memories, worth more than the diamonds that glitter in your vanity table, and perhaps more than your own soul. (You believed yours to be slowly dissipating, like incense during holy blessings. It didn't matter - not to you.) They are filled with daisy crowns and humming instruments in the far back, the smell of freshly cut grass and the dirt stain on the hem of your white dresses, impish smiles and blushing cheeks. The damp soil in between the crevices of your toes, your hair plastered on your face with sweat from the high sun, golden strands glinting under the sunlight.

You carry them in your heart, but your heart has long since turned to stone.

           II. EXODUS.
              escape

Thou shalt not lie.

It is inscribed in the carvings littered all around you, among different other commandments: thou shalt have no other gods, honor thy father and mother. And by doing so, you have given your ankles and wrists to be tied to strings and left to live like marionettes with synchronized movements of social grace and etiquette. The very epitome of those angel figurines on your mother's desk. Dolls. Statues. Lifeless.

Savannah insists, with her corkscrew curls and devilish grin, and after a week you finally give in to a game of hide and seek. It was a great hassle to look around for hiding creatures in a house that could pass off as a labyrinth, but you agreed. You always felt like it, like it was your innate responsibility as the eldest, and you never hated something so much your entire life.

You wished you never played hide and seek, so you would have never saw the papers and the transactions and the frantic voices in hushed conversation, wished Father never found you out and said, "fifteen's old enough to know what goes on around here." You wished you never knew how the whole business works across Panem's upper Districts, wished you never got to meet the special clients and the taste of fallen snow.

You wished you never knew the irony of living beside a church.

           III. LEVITICUS.
              defilement

You are sacred, the golden daughter placed on the highest pedestal, marble skin to match your marble post. Your eyes, once the most brilliant diamonds, have faded to a sullen grey, but your gaze remains - steely, cutting, intense. A thick layer of white powder is the quick remedy to cover the shadows under your eyes, but nothing could hide how gaunt your cheeks have become, childhood innocence all shed away to reveal idealistic, angular features. You paint your lips bloodred; you smile (in that dangerously far-away yet knowing curve of your mouth) to reveal a smudge of red in your canine tooth.

But underneath all that, you are ancient with your growing cracks that run up your moss-covered walls.

They don't need to see that. Savannah is already showing, the artificial sweetness of her smiles too much that it drips down her chin, and Mara is so far away, far too much. Her gaze wanders too much for her own good and it sets you off to lock every door in your home. You want to protect her from knowing what goes on behind the rituals and religious practices they have scrubbed on her skin that she reeks of vulnerability and goodness. You no longer wanted to be beautiful.

You wanted to protect her.