hazel kasimatis x district seven

TELL MY LOVE TO WRECK IT ALL
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hazel aika kasimatis. fifteen sixteen seventeen. female. district seven.

I was born in District Seven to two wonderful parents. I inherited most of my traits from my father, and only a few from my mother. Blonde waves of hair, like my father's, frame my oval shaped face, which I got from my mother. I have my father's ivory skin and his dark, bushy eyebrows that aren't suited for a girl. My eyes are deep green with flecks and streaks of brown; they are hazel. I inherited these oculars from my father. Maybe I'm named for my eyes, or maybe I'm named after the tree. I'm not sure which.

I am a foot taller than my mother, who is 5'6 - I am 5'7. I have lanky limbs like my mother and her narrow nose, which I think looks a little out of place since it's a little unproportionate to my large face. I have her narrow hands and narrow fingers and my father's broad shoulders which look extremely out of place, more than my narrow nose. My sister, Annakin, looks a lot like my father as well, but my brother, Jace, resembles my mother more.

I wish I looked more like her, so It'd be like I was staring at a piece of my mother when I looked in the mirror. I miss her, and I wish I could see more of her in me. She's gone, gone forever. I miss her more than I miss my father - I always had a stronger bond with her than my father. But my father's gone forever, too, just like my mother.

Although they're gone and I'm alone with Annakin and Jace, I enjoy looking back on memories whenever I'm in a pensive state.

"They're not people, they're Victors," my mother used to tell me.

She's right - was right. They are not people. They are Victors, a type of monster that inhabits Panem. I was taught at a young age that they are monsters, and that's all. Nothing more than heartless demons who slaughter people in return for riches and adoration from the naive, shallow, ridiculous Capitolites who cake on ten pounds of makeup.

I'm not hateful towards many people, but I have a special hatred for the Capitol. I envy them, with their wealth and full stomachs, but that's not why I loathe them. I loathe every single one of them because they force us to be their slaves, and they send out Peacekeepers to keep us from revolting.

The Capitol has taken everything. Everything! They left me with nothing but a an old, small clock that belonged to my father that I wear on a chain around my neck and two depressed siblings. My father was killed by Peacekeepers right before my eyes because he was overheard by someone talking about rebellion. I never figured out who the tattletale was, but I intend to figure it out. Part of me wants revenge, but another part of me is just curious and wants to know why. Why, why did they do that? Why did they feel the need to have my father killed?

I am not violent, nor am I peaceful. I am neutral. Being neutral does not make me passive. I am extremely strong-willed and I will not allow myself to be controlled by anyone. I can be aggressive when it comes to people controlling me. I appear as a sweet as molasses, but my tongue is as sharp as blades. My sarcasm and bitter, harsh words can cut as deep as a sword. I prefer to be more like a pillow, soft and comforting, but no one, especially not me, can be good all the time.

I am extremely independent. I don't want help, I don't need help from anyone. Help doesn't make you weak, but I like to do things myself. Being independent gives me a sense of security. I don't like to be unstable. I want to feel safe. But safety isn't something that's easily found in Panem. Seriously, they let children in District Seven handle axes. Peacekeepers infest the districts, bearing guns and shooting anyone who dares oppose the Capitol. And that damn president of Panem, who thinks they own us. Well they don't. And to anyone who thinks they do, go to hell.

In the mirror I see my father - his hair, his eyes, his skin, his eyebrows, his face shape. I see mere fragments of my mother. Even in personality I am more like my father in many ways. He is - was - neutral like me, not violent, not peaceful. He was strong-willed but dependent on friends and family, whereas I am independent. He was always more rebellious than my mother. It started out as a small spark inside him and slowly grew. Then he died because he said too much. I have his clock that has been passed down from generation to generation, and it is a constant reminder that there is one thing no one can escape: time. I sometimes hold it in my hand and listen to the time tick by, wondering what new kind of hell I'll be trusted into next.

Then there was my mother, who I had a few things in common with. She was wild and loved to laugh and she could never sit still, always full of life, like me. I think I'm much more down to earth than she was, though, but I'm still wild. I can crack jokes, like her, and I love to be out in the woods, chopping away with my axe . . . . But there are many things different from my mother and I. She was far too violent and argumentative, and a little ignorant. Short-tempered and stubborn and all, my mother was a great person.

I try not to be ignorant, but sometimes one cannot refrain from ignorance. It comes naturally to humans. I have a soft spot, a fragile side that I try to hide. I'm breakable, easily put down and harmed emotionally. But I am also kind, which is an upside to having a soft spot. My mother was kind, and so was my father. My father was more emotional than my mother, which I thought was strange for a man, but when I voiced my thoughts, my mother smacked me and said, "You're stereotyping. Never stereotype. Girls and boys may act however they like."

She thought that stereotypes were unfair (especially gender stereotypes), that judging people was unfair, that lying was unfair, that everything was unfair. My mother was all about being fair, but I'm not. Life isn't fair. If it was, my parents would still be here.

I can still remember the day my mother slipped away from me. I remember very clearly.

x x x

We were in the forest chopping trees with other citizens of District Seven. I was thirteen at the time, shortly after Cricket Antoinette won the 63rd Hunger Games. Lots of people seemed disappointed that Owen Rook nor Sampson Farron made it through the Games, although I personally didn't care.

My mother had chopped far into the trunk of the tree with her axe. I remember how she drew her arm back to make the final swing, how her legs tensed to quickly run out of the way so the tree wouldn't fall on her.

As she made the final blow, she turned her head to look at a child who was hurt - they had cut themselves my accident with their axe. The seen was so horrifying, my mother completely forgot that a tree was about to crush her.

And crush her it did.

When I looked down at her dead body under the tree, my mouth was agape, my eyes were wide, and I was frozen in place. I couldn't breath, I couldn't think. All I could do was stare in astonishment at the crimson blood spattered on the ground where my mother's right arm was sticking out under the tree.

I cannot bring myself to describe it further. It brings me too much grief.

What I saw that day is burned into my mind permanently. It will never go away for as long as I live. I'm surprised I didn't go insane.

Earlier in my childhood, I never thought I would lose anything. I always thought that both of my parents would be there for me, and they would see my children and my children's children. I remember that my mother would sing me a lullaby to bed and my father would drop me off at school everyday, no matter how old I got.

We lived normal lives without tragedy of any kind. My parents had a wonderful relationships. They almost never fought and rarely had a disagreement. I had lots of friends, I got good grades, and I was skilled with an axe - absolutely lethal by the time I was fourteen. Everything was fine. Not perfect, but fine.

But now everything is not fine. My parents are gone, I'm depressed, Annakin and Jace are depressed, and we live with Uncle Eleazer and Aunt Ashtyn. They take good care of us and we get along with our three cousins, Zoella, Lance, and Blayze. I still make good grades, have lots of friends (I'm much more detached now), and I'm still great with an axe. But it's not the same. There are no lullabies before bed and no one drops me off at school - walk instead, since my aunt and uncle live close to the school. It's not the same.

Nothing will ever be the same.

ODAIR