this is how it is [open =3]

OOC: A terribly long and introductory post of sorts. Anyone is welcome to reply =3

Every time I woke up, it was a quick shuffle to the mirror in my bathroom, a bathroom heavily decorated, a bathroom I was fairly sure no other person in the lower Districts were able to obtain. This house, I knew, was a large building of empty promises and emotions. Where my parents, the wonderful ex-Careers of District One, are its rulers, its inhabitants. Where my sister, the Golden Child, dwelled in her majestic domain, indifferent to everything but herself.

But even an amble to my bathroom to start the day was just a mere start to what seemed to be a well-planned out, "The Rest of My Life". Every morning it was this way. To the bathroom I went with a bed-head, some drool plastered across the corner of my mouth, and rumbled pajamas that were too fancily made even for the inhabitants of District One (despite the fact my sister, the Special Weaver unsurprisingly, made it herself). Then it was a shower, a quick change of clothes, and soon I was rejoining my reflection in front of the mirror, studying the gradual changes of my face. My eyes.

Green and blue. I was ugly, no doubt, not that anyone would say it. No, not an insult to a well-proper family like the Bartrones. We weren't feared, but we were respected. And we were supposedly sweethearts; we would never be bashed upon. We were simply too nice, too giving--nothing like what the Capitol's treasure citizens should be like. The people I'd pass on the streets might widen their own eyes at my appearance, but then they'd probably look away, refusing to face the truth. Acting like they hadn't noticed before shuffling off. They were, in a way, just like myself.

Now in front of the mirror again, I ran a hand through my auburn locks, wondering why my strangely out-of-proportion eyes couldn't be as charming as my hair. Surely I deserved it; I'd spent my whole entire life chasing after an impossible dream after all. I'd worked hard, worked to become the best Career in the history, worked to please my family and to surpass my sister. Then, I'd thrown all of that hard work away. Ironically, that was also when my eye shapes began to worsen. Was it karma? Was someone trying to tell me that I'd been stupid to have abandoned all of that work?

"It doesn't matter," I told my reflection firmly. The taller eye on my right, the wider eye on my left, hidden by strands of my supposedly envious banes. Those eyes made the rest of my face look like a complete monster. Worse than some of the miners of District Twelve. Worse than my own sad, sad ego. I put my hands on those eyes and backed out the door, feeling my way across the hallway with my toes. I'd done this millions of times. Appearances had always reminded me of the failure I would always be.

"And to the market I go," I muttered to myself, letting my hands fall back to their sides when I crept past the kitchen. The rest of my family was gathered there, surrounding the nice oak table with giant smiles, talking in their perfect voice, with their perfect words, with their perfect expressions. The perfection of this whole entire place was empty and scary. It was suffocating. But eating somewhere at the market, especially at the most imperfect place of the District, was the best remedy for this insanity. In short, I wanted to get out. So I slipped out the door, keeping my eyes trained only on the ground as I began to jog to the main center of the area. My family wouldn't miss me.

Sure enough, getting there only took about a few minutes despite the long distance. Then again, I'd always been a fast runner. Training as a Career even for a couple of years had ensured that. Now I at least put it to good use; being sent out to the Arena as a killer--now that wasn't something I wanted to do. Imperfection was everywhere at the Arena, sure, but imperfection with killing wasn't something even I wanted to experience. But a quick trip to the market--that was a whole different story altogether.

I paused near the most secluded stand of the area, keeping my gaze downcast, my banes blocking off the left eye. "The usual," I said dryly at the man behind the counter. He didn't speak--he never did--but he did recognize me. With a few scuffles, he had a small carton full of eggs and bread and handed it to me. Balanced on top of the carton was a glass of milk. I accepted the food gingerly and sniffed the top of the glass. Goat milk. Of course.

Picking a seat wasn't too hard either. I preferred sitting in the back, acting anti-social and strange. But what did it matter? No one here cared about me. No one would know who I was. And besides, every single table at the southern end of the market was empty, so sitting down on just one of them took about a few seconds. After that though, I picked up a slice of bread and stuffed a piece in my mouth, all the while watching a group of people near the northern end. This market was out in the open--just the way I liked it.