Caritta Marley || District 11 || Done

Generally, I don't like telling people about myself, but I suppose I'll have to make an exception in this case. Capitol's orders, you know? I think you'll want to know my name first. It's Caritta, Caritta Marley. I think from that you can tell that I am a girl. I'm eighteen years old, and I live with my family in District 11.

I've been told to talk about how I look. That shouldn't be too hard, as I love describing things. But myself? That's a different story. When you live in a place like District 11, you don't take a lot of time to look at yourself in the mirror. I mean, who has time to stop work and try washing their face? Most of us are dirty day-in and day-out. I suppose we're so used to it, we just don't think to wash. Of course, we do have a cold bath every now and then, but it's not like we take an hour in the morning to clean ourselves up and get dressed all proper-like. We just don't have a reason to look nice.

People say I'm pretty. Is that true? Compared to people in the upper Districts, I'm probably an ugly toad. Everybody here is so accustomed to seeing dirt and grime and mud, a normal-looking person would be like a goddess. My friends say I'm pretty, but they're just trying to be nice. Mum says I'm pretty, but she's my Mum. All Mums do that. Dad says I'm pretty, but he thinks all girls are pretty. 

So, am I really pretty? I think you can decide that for yourself.

I'm a little tall for my age, I think, maybe 5' 7", give or take a few inches. Like cleaning, people in District 11 don't have a reason to keep track of their height. Do I want to be shorter, or perhaps taller? No is my immediate answer. I'm satisfied with my height just the way it is. Who cares if they're tall enough to see over everyone's heads, or too short to see at all? And if you're just as tall as everyone else, good for you. If you complain to me about your height, shut up.

Mum says I have a heart-shaped face. When I look in the mirror, which isn't often, I see...my face. Nothing special about it. I think the only surprising thing is that I have very fair skin, at least compared to most people in District 11. You'd think that from days of working out in the sun, I'd have gotten a decent tan, but no, my skin just refuses to darken. I'm convinced it's impossible for me to get a sunburn.

My hair, I think I should mention, is blond. Dirty blond, if you want to be specific. Mum says that when I was young, I had thick, yellow cork-screw hair, but it's grown quite nicely since then. It naturally curls, but it's a little neater than when I was younger.

I think my face looks fairly young, but that's not a thing of beauty in District 11. We often compliment our elders, because it means they've survived much longer than the young 'uns. Wrinkles, frail bones, and gray hair are things people desire and wish they had. Of course, that doesn't mean the youth are considered ugly, but we certainly don't gain as much admiration.

I have a wide mouth, with pale pink lips. Do I use make up? Never. If getting clean is considered I waste of time, then words can't explain how much disrespect a person would receive if they put on make up. It's just considered a silly thing to do. I mean, why look pretty? It doesn't help with getting the work done, earning money, or caring for the family. Only people who have too much time on their hands use make up, and in District 11, we never seem to have enough time.

There's absolutely nothing to tell about my nose, so I'm skipping over that part. It's just a nose. so instead, I'll talk about my eyes. People say that eyes are the window to the soul. For some, this is true, but for others, like myself, you could not be more wrong. My eyes are dark, chocolatey brown, almost black. If I were in a dark room, you wouldn't be able to tell the difference between my iris and my pupil. Perhaps if I were somewhere else in Panem, brown eyes would be considered pretty, but where I lie, brown eyes are as common as dirt. Everyone has brown eyes, sometimes gray, and very rarely anything else.

So, am I really pretty? I'm not going to answer for you. I couldn't care less if I were pretty or not, so I honestly can't make a fair decision. You'll have to decide yourself, and I'm not helping.

Ever heard the phrase, 'Looks can be deceiving'? If you think I'm pretty, I guess these words apply to you. When you're raised in a family with seven brothers and sisters, it toughens you up a bit. I've had to care for whiny toddlers, break up fights, and keep the family going. People say District 11 is the poorest, and I can confirm that for you. We barely get any food, and many days go without dinner. What little food we have goes to the youngest, while the older ones go hungry and appear a lot skinnier.

We take tesserae. All but two of us are old enough to take it, and we take it every chance we get. The meager amount of food goes a short way in our family, which means we have to take as much of it as possible. We ignore the fact that we could be reaped. None of us are afraid. I am not afraid. If I were to be reaped, I wouldn't panic or cry like everyone else does. I've seen thirty-two kids enter the arena in my life time, and all of them died. Why not let me be the first to live? I'm survivor, I can take it. Of course, I don't want to be in the Games, but I wouldn't break down in tears if I were reaped.

I'm a lot tougher than most kids. I look a little frail, I suppose, but not many people can break me. I've fought before, and I haven't always won, but I've beaten a decent number of people in school. You know, the occasional fight with someone bullying my siblings, or a tussle with someone who insulted by family.

I have a short temper, I'll admit. You don't want to set me off, because I'll lose it, and you'll regret it. Perhaps I'm a little proud, seeing that I regret every fight I've lost, and sometimes brag about the ones I win. But you learn from your mistakes, right? I take every defeat as a lesson, find out what I did wrong, and make it right. I figure that the more mistakes I make, the more knowledge I'll have, and the better I'll become.

You probably should know that I lobe music. Some might call me a singer/songwriter, but I'd call myself an artist. Music isn't a job or a past-time, it's a work of art. Watching my hand move the pen, forming little dots and lines and squiggles, and they all dance together to create a beautiful picture called music. And to hear myself play the notes on a guitar, letting the sound ring inside myself and around me, is just amazing. To discover that such a beautiful thing has been put in this messed up world is such a blessing, and I have to make sure that that thing thrives, and that it never dies. I have to keep playing my music, to show the world what real beauty is.

When the orchard trees turn orange, the grass yellows, there's a chill in the air, and the harvest time is in full swing, that's the best time to play music. It's inspiring to watch all the change around me, and the workers need a break from the Peacekeeper's yelling. I think they appreciate my music, but I can't ever be sure. Sometimes I'll climb into a tree and have someone pass me my guitar, then play for over an hour while the workers pick apples and oranges and all other kinds of fruit from the trees. But I don't mind. I love it, the sound of musical notes as they dance around the orchard, the wind as the background, the workers humming softly beneath me as I let my music ring for all to hear.

When I said I had seven brothers and sisters, I bet that caught your attention, didn't it? People these days generally have large families, but I think mine is exceptionally large. Seven. Plus me, that's a total of eight kids. It's a wonder my mother survived. I'm sure you'll want to hear about every single one, but you'll have to be patient. I have to tell you about my parents, first.

Their names are Till and Jack. Simple names, I know, but they're simple folks, too. They were both born and raised in District 11, and had fairly normal lives. My father sometimes tells the story of how he met my mother, and when he does, he tells it in detail. He saw her one day in the market, and immediately fell in love. Her dark red hair, pale green eyes, her tinkling laugh, she was perfect. Somehow, he came up with the stupid idea that stealing would be a good way to show off. He caught her eye, winked, snatched up an apple from the apple seller, and bolted. He caused a huge uproar that day, and the Peacekeepers caught him quickly. He was publicly whipped, despite the fact that his crime was so small. Mother disagreed with what he'd done, but she felt pity for him, and agreed to help nurse him back to health. Overtime, they learned more about each other and grew very close, and then one day, it happened. He proposed, she accepted, they said 'I do'. The end.

But that's not the end of my family's story, far from it. To celebrate their marriage, they planted a tree in the backyard, a small seed that has now grown into a huge, majestic cherry blossom. It blooms every year, and the petals fall in heaps around it, painting a beautiful picture. But where do I come in? Be patient, I'm getting to that part!

I was born in the middle of spring, near the beginning of May. Having a child meant that my parents had to work harder to put food on the table, and when there wasn't enough, they gave it to me. Like they did when they got married, they planted a second tree in the backyard, a maple. They put it next to the first tree, so that the leaves would form an arch when the trees got bigger.

The others started coming only a year later. Mum loved having a child, and she wanted more. She and Dad hadn't settled on a certain number of kids, but they knew they wanted more than the average person. They wanted a house full of laughter and smiles, family memories and good times.

Their second child was born in January, a boy, who they named Kyle. He's seventeen years old now, and the biggest pain in the neck, but he can be a sweetheart. He get's really nervous around girls, and I admit that I tease him for it at times, bit we're still good friends. The two of us are really competitive, and just about everything we do has to be a competition. Even when we were two, there was Who-Can-Eat-Faster, Who-Can-Get-Dressed-Faster, Who-Can-Yell-Louder, and Who-Can-Walk-Farther. Of course we didn't really know we were competing, but I think it was still a type of competition. We each boast about winning those competitions, but neither of us can really remember them. Mum and Dad tell us about when we were little, when we were the only kids in the house, and the stories are always great.

Kyle's tree was an oak. They put it near the first two, to form a triangle, where we now hang hammocks in the summer and pick flowers in the spring, and where we all hide in the winter and have snowball fights.

The third was named Camille. I honestly hate the fact that our names are so similar, but it's not so bad, because she insists that everyone calls her Cam. She was born a year after Kyle, now sixteen, and is pretty close to both of us. She loves climbing and running and swimming, anything active, even if it's just picking apples. She's the biggest drama queen in the house, she exaggerates things so much it's not even funny. She's a social butterfly, too, and probably has the most friends out of everyone in the house. Do I like her? Yes and no. She's a sister, so obviously we have the occasional squabble, but we're pretty close otherwise.

For Cam, my parents planted an orange tree. It's slightly shorter than the others, and was placed just outside the small triangle. The fruits it gives us in autumn are the best in the world, especially since we get to eat them ourselves and don't have to send them off to the Capitol.

After Cam, there was a two-year time lapse where no more kids were born, and it was just the three of us, playing outside with the four saplings, watching Mum and Dad fruits, and yelling ourselves hoarse when we didn't get what we wanted. We were a bratty bunch, my parents always tell me. They like telling us the story of when we found a dead mouse in the front yard, and decided to leave it on their bad as a gift. Mum didn't let us outside for a week.

The most annoying kids came next. Fritz and Theodore (who we call Teddy), the twins, now fourteen years old, and the best pranksters in District 11. When they were young, they shouted the loudest out of the five of us, made the biggest messes, and broke the most amount of dishes. Now, they're the jokers in the family, the ones who play pranks and know almost a hundred jokes. They have fiery tempers, and usually come home with bruises because they got into a fight with a Peacekeeper. The two are so similar, and very close to each other, I don't think one could live without the other.

My parents planted two birch trees for the twins, right beside each other, next to the orange tree that they planted for Cam. They're two of the younger trees, shorter and thinner than the rest, but strong just the same. The younger kids like to pull bark off of them and use coal from the fire to write notes to each other, and they especially enjoy climbing the thin branches, because they're so low to the ground.

It was another two years before anymore kids were born. My parents had to get used to the number of kids in the house, and for a while, they thought they were done. But when two years had passed, they wanted more smiling faces, more children to laugh and play with. Of course, the number of mouths to feed was a bit of a problem, but by selling the fruit from the orange tree and the cherries from the cherry blossom, we could earn extra money. Plus, I was old enough to help out in the orchards. Sure, I was young, but I could climb higher then anyone else and pick the juiciest apples from the thinnest branches.

After two years, a girl was born into the family in late August. Now twelve years old, her name is Acacia, and she's one of the youngest in the family. I remember how weak she was when she was born, a skinny little thing with a sickly yellow complexion. Teddy fell in love with her at once. He never left her, always played with her, offered her his food when she didn't have any. She never became a strong person, always skinnier than the rest of us and with skin even more pale than mine. Her eyes were watery blue, but they still showed so much love and curiosity.

A willow was planted for her. A thin, wispy tree with leaves  that formed a shelter to hide in and play House. It completed the square of trees around the first triangle, along with the two birches and the orange tree. We had our own forest, small though it was, a sanctuary where we could play in safety and not be disturbed.

Again, two years passed. By this point, I could help my Mum with the chores, washing the dishes, making the beds, and generally giving the house a good clean-up. It was getting a little cramped, so Dad took it upon himself to extend the building. With permission from the Mayor, he added another room. We now had four bedrooms, a kitchen, and a living room. That was it. The kitchen was the biggest, with a long table down the middle where we all shared our meals and played games. Meals at our house were already crazy at that time: Mum had to feed the twins and Acacia, and Dad was in charge of helping the other three, including me. Besides that, we all had different favorite foods, and wanted our own favorites for every meal. Not all of us were ever happy, there was always one disappointed face when we sat down for dinner. Besides that, we were usually all screaming and shrieking with laughter and/or anger, which meant we all went away with headaches 90% of the time.

Anyways, the seventh child was another girl, little Mary. She's the sweetheart in the family, the angel, the one who does everything right. She never got in trouble, never said anything wrong, and I'm sure she's never told a lie. She was healthy, unlike Acacia, and somehow always had enough food in her belly. She never broke a rule, at least not in public, and was on everyone's good side. Even the Peacekeepers liked her.

Her tree was an ash. Now one of the shorter ones, it was put between the two birches, a couple feet from the outer square. It's still quite young, with a thin trunk and not a great one to climb. The younger kids love picking flowers from it when it blooms, and they make bouquets from the cherry blossom and a few dandelions.

Mum and Dad still wanted one more child. The house was crowded, with three to a bedroom and barely enough seats at the table, but they still wanted another. Money was scarce, but the three eldest, including me, were able to help out in the orchards. We were earning some money, but just barely enough. The unfortunate part was, they kept trying, but it wasn't working. Mum couldn't have a baby anymore. So, they chose to go to the orphanage, a small building on the edge of town.

We all went, because we wanted to choose as a family who we were going to adopt. The seven of us and our parents played with just about every kid there, but I don't think the owner appreciated how loud we were. We actually had to take three visits before we had chosen, and there was a lot of paperwork for them to fill out but we managed to agree on one. It was a boy, three years old then, now eleven. We all liked him, he was energetic and loved to play. His name was Jace, Jace McKendrie, parents were killed by Tracker Jackers. We took him home, and he became Jace Mckendrie-Marley. 

He was a little wild and often got into trouble, but my parents loved him even more. He fit right in with Teddy and Acacia, and thy had their own games of tag and hide-and-seek in the small forest that was now forming in our backyard. It was put opposite the ash, and has grown quite fast, making a great tree for hiding in and making forts. The little forest is almost where our family lives. We do everything there: we have picnics, sometimes we sleep in hand-woven hammocks, we play games, and it's my favorite place to go to write music. It's our sanctuary, our home.