Jacinda Zembori | District Eight | Hunger Games: The RPG

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Jacinda Zembori | District Eight Dec 30, 2013 23:40:55 GMT -5

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Post by Deleted on Dec 30, 2013 23:40:55 GMT -5

Name: Jacinda Mnemosyne Zembori.
Age: ~~Fifteen~~ ~~Sixteen~~ Seventeen.
Gender: Female.
District/Area: District Eight.
Appearance:

Face claim: Danielle Campbell.

Personality:

History:

Codeword: Odair.
Comments/Other:

Last Edit: Jun 10, 2014 23:50:55 GMT -5 by Deleted

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Jacinda Zembori | District Eight Dec 31, 2013 12:20:28 GMT -5

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Post by Deleted on Dec 31, 2013 12:20:28 GMT -5

|| JACINDA ZEMBORI || DISTRICT EIGHT ||

♚
i'm a ghost of a girl that i want to be most ,

An endless stretch of green grass lies before me. Morning dew that clings to the blades of grass glistens in the sun. The dew drops look like tiny glittering diamonds. The ballad blue sky is devoid of any white tufts of clouds. It's just a sea of blue, blue, blue. A multitude of flowers, whose petals are unimaginable shades of different of colors, sway rhythmically in the fresh, gentle breeze. A pond that glistens like the dew lies ten feet in front of me. The algae on the rim of the pond is like green lace. A family of swans glides gracefully across the water without creating any ripples in their wake. Lily pads float on the surface of the pond, large pink flowers sprouting from the center if the lily pad. Bright gold fish meander under the surface of the pond. The big clearing that I stand in is surrounded by a thick copse of lively green trees. Some of the trees have colorful flowers sprouting from their branches. A tiny white rabbit leaps across the clearing, careless and free. A flock of monarch butterflies fly past me, ascending into the cloudless sky. The bright, magnificent orange color of their wings mesmerizes me. I find colors fascinating. It's amazing how there can be so many shades of just one color. So many variants of colors, so many combinations of colors to form new colors.

I sit there for about twenty minutes savoring the scene before me. I think of how I can paint this scene with my paintbrush and colors on a canvas at home—I love to paint. Painting is my favorite hobby. I approach the pond and peer into the waters at the fish and the swans and the lily pads. As I'm looking into the pond, I see my own reflection. My reflection wavers as a fish leaps out of the water, causing ripples to spread throughout the pond. When the water becomes still again, I examine myself in the pond. The girl that stares back at me is short, about 5'3. She has glowing medium-toned skin that has a smudge of grime on her cheek, but not enough to notice unless you really looked for it. Her face is oval-shaped with a slightly squared jaw. In the center of her face, lies a narrow nose, which looks a little out of place on her wide face. Her face is framed by sheets of wavy dark brown hair that cascades down her back. The girl is very pretty, but unsettling. She may be adorable like a cherub, but her blue-green eyes eyes are hostile and shockingly seething. These hostile eyes stick out like a sore thumb on her adorable face. Thick eyelashes that belong on a doll line her eyes, which look strange against her icy eyes.

I shake my head and throw a stone into the pond, making my reflection tremble to the point that I can't see myself clearly anymore. I hate my eyes. I'm not mean! My eyes are just cruel like a shark's eyes. Thunder rumbles in the distance and I hear the crackle of lightning. A jagged white line juts across the sky, which has turned ominous gray. The sun is shrouded in a blanket of black clouds that resemble big puffs of smoke. The swans and fish and lily pads disappear from the pond. The trees surrounding the clearing shrivels into dust. The blades of grass shrink into the ground until they're gone, and are replaced by black asphalt. Factories sprout across the area as far at the eye can see, populating the sky with nasty white smoke that burns my nose. The pond remains, but it isn't pretty anymore. It is muddy gray and unoccupied by any creature.

When I peer into the pond to look at myself again, I don't see the girl I saw before.

The person I see is disheveled with grime on her once pretty face. Her hair is a tangled mane around her oval-shaped face. Her cheeks are sunken and her expression is sullen. The fierceness of her eyes has faded, although they're still hostile. Her eyes are dull and filled with despair. Her medium-toned skin has taken on a sallow appearance. The girl's lips are cracked and pale. She is a depressing sight, and only a glimmer of her beauty shines through all of the hideousness and grime. She is me. I am her. This girl that stares back at me with those hostile eyes is me, a different version of me. A disheveled, hungry, desolate me.

The me I never want to be.

I have awoken from this dream about a million times. I wake up with tears streaming down my cheeks in rivulets. This dream is a good dream, but it's also a nightmare. It's a good dream because I get a brief change of scenery, and it's a bad dream because I have to watch the beauty crumble to hideous factories and see the sky filled with pollution. I wish I could see a beautiful blue sky, healthy green grass, and colorful flowers swaying in the soft breeze—in real life. But all I see in District Eight is the muddy gray sky, white smoke curling into the air from factories, black asphalt, and not a blade of grass in sight. I have seen grass and blue skies on television during the Games, but it's not the same as seeing it in real life. I want to feel the rush of clean air down my throat, feel the dew sitting on blades of grass, and smell the sweet fragrance of flowers.

I don't want to just see them. I yearn to break free of the chains that are the Capitol, keeping me here in bleak District Eight. I plan to flee, I plan to venture into the world. I want adventure. I have since I was a young child. I have always wanted more than what I have. I want to taste the salty air of the seas, feel the hot sand under my back, and see every sight there is to see in the world. Of course, this will be difficult to accomplish for a mere little girl in District Eight. But I have hope, and sometimes hope is just enough to help you scrape by. I should know—living in Eight has many cons. People live in poverty, it smells wretched, food can be hard to come by, and kids work in factories at young ages. I can think of way more cons, but I cannot sum up any pros. Maybe one pro is that clothes come easily, but not pretty clothes a girl would want. Plain clothes is what we get. But hey, it's better than nothing.

I was born and raised in a petite, run-down house. I am an only child, born to poor parents. My father never wanted to bring a child into the cruel world we live in, but all my mother ever wanted was a child to love and protect. That is the only reason why I exist. It took her five years to convince my father to have a child (that's what she told me). After a year of happiness, tragedy struck. My father was working in a factory, when one of his co-workers passed out from lack of water. A Peacekeeper beat the man until he woke up. My father felt that the Peacekeeper's actions were inhumane and wrong, so he shoved the Peacekeeper aside and told him to leave the man alone. The Peacekeeper put a gun to my father's head and fired, killing him instantly. My mother didn't handle the news of his death well. It killed her mentally. The only thing she did for six years was work at the factory, take care of me, eat, drink, and sleep. Her face was devoid of a smile for six years.

When I was seven, I saw the slightest of smiles curve her lips when I ran into the room singing a silly song about frying pans (I made it up). Weird right? I was an eccentric child. I was eccentric, but that doesn't mean I was happy. I didn't have much to be happy about. I had little money, little friends, and a mother who was depressed. Who would be happy? Not me. I wasn't depressed—I've always been an upbeat person. I was as upbeat as I could be living in those conditions. When I turned nine, I developed immense kindness. I hate to see hungry children crying out because of their hunger pains. Their ribs showing under their dirty clothes and dull, pitifully desolate eyes. I would steal food and feed hungry people because I couldn't stand the sight of suffering.

When I turned ten, my view of the world morphed drastically. I began to see District Eight as a prison holding me, and will keep holding me until I die. I started to loathe the Capitol, and see all of them as heartless demons (especially after seeing ten brutal Hunger Games). I refuse to put up with everything that goes on in the districts. Peacekeepers killing people, tributes perishing in the Games, people suffering, starvation . . . . The list goes on and on. At age ten, I planned my escape from District Eight. I never shared this with anyone. That would be like suicide. The conundrum here is how to escape? I've explored District Eight since I was little while I was on "mini-adventures," and I know the area like the back of my hand. There is no way out. The only thing I can think of is getting under the fence. This would be extremely dangerous, since Peacekeepers are around and the fence is electric. Obviously, since it's been four years since I made up my plan and I'm still here, not everything worked out.

Two years passed since my plan, and it seemed that I would never escape the horrors of District Eight. By this time, I was concerned about something else: the Hunger Games. I was of age to enter, since I was twelve. Twelve-year-olds don't stand a chance in the Arena. The only thing that would help me in the Arena is my quick hands from manufacturing clothes in the factory. Nothing more. Maybe the fact that I had quick legs. But I'm not cunning, lethal, or brave, but I am resourceful. If I had a sibling that went along with me into the Games, maybe I could help them win. I am very family-oriented. I love my very small family (my mother, cousins, aunts, and uncles). I would do anything to save my family. But I wouldn't do anything to save a friend. How terrible of me, right? Wrong. Friends are not your blood. Family over friends, that's my motto. I can be self-centered when I feel that I matter more than someone else. I wouldn't save a random person if it meant I'd have to give my life for theirs. I would only do that for family.

Now I'm fifteen and I have fully developed my escape plan. I have considered every way my plan can go wrong, and I have fixed it over and over again until it's foolproof. My fear of the Games has died down—my name is only in the bowl one time out of hundreds of teens. I believe the odds are in my favor. I'm more concerned about survival in District Eight. I must scrape by every day until I can save and steal (not from hungry, poor people) enough food and supplies so I can get out of District Eight. I already have a shovel to dig under the fence, and I've sewed a pack together out of clothes I smuggled out of the factory. I lose patience every day with life in District Eight. I'm tired of seeing those gray, polluted skies. I'm ready to see a blue sky and green vegetation.

I am ready to get out of here.

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Last Edit: Jun 10, 2014 23:50:20 GMT -5 by Deleted

Deleted 0 POSTS last seen Apr 23, 2024 16:40:30 GMT -5	Jacinda Zembori \| District Eight Dec 31, 2013 12:22:23 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by Deleted on Dec 31, 2013 12:22:23 GMT -5 Finished!

rook Veteran Member 2,361 POSTS Pronouns: he/him last seen Sept 26, 2023 15:42:53 GMT -5 who needs another thing to be sad about?	Jacinda Zembori \| District Eight Dec 31, 2013 13:05:10 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by rook on Dec 31, 2013 13:05:10 GMT -5 Wow, I love it. Accepted. [/blockquote]
	an hourglass is just a glass with sand inside