{chelsea oscario}{one}{fin}

CHELSEA OSCARIO

( i. )

"Ripred, those tattoos make you so un-lady like." My mother's annoying voice rings in my ears. I honestly don't care. I don't care about how I look, how people view me. I just don't, never have, never will. Caring is like worrying, and I don't want to worry about opinions and critiques others give me. I never follow their advice anyway. Mother really doesn't like anything about me. Tattoos lace my skinny arms, crawling across my pale skin in colorful swirls. Her annoyance delights me. "I could point out that you were the one who bought them for me." I say, my wiry back sinking into the cushy mattress on my bed. My legs cross and my face, chiseled, sharp, and narrow has set expression of boredom on it. My mother calls it a crueler pretty, still beautiful but harsh. High cheek bones and defined hollows on my cheeks. My thin lips are curved into an idle smile.

I can get my mother to buy practically anything for me. I am a very persuasive person, if I do say so myself. She's pretty rich, owning a nice jewelry store that is running steadily. My father abandoned us when I was eight, which was a pretty hard blow for her. I didn't care much. He never loved me, I never love him. But now I think she is forever drunken with sadness, which works as an advantage. I never pity, I prey. Mother says it's disgusting that I target other people's weaknesses just to break them down. But it just comes so naturally. I don't even remember coming up with an insult before it tumbles from my lips. It just happens. I don't really think before I say something, I just say whatever comes to my mind. Nothing else. I have become somewhat bad at lying because of that; the truth is fun to say, especially when it hurts. That's why my mother never asks me personal questions; she knows she won't be able to stand the answers I give. The true ones.

The low dip of my tank tops seems to emphasize the lack of what some people would call a "rack." My slim neck gives a slight jerk, flicking the raven toned hair from my eyes. Mother doesn't like the way I style it, almost covering my eyes, which she says are the only things pretty about me. My brown eyes, which I inherited from my father. I'm pretty sure that's the only reason why she ever says that. It falls coarsely to my chest, usually full of bedraggled tangles. I'm much too lazy to brush it, even though Mother tells me to. Being rebellious and rude is fun. And I don't save it just for my mother. I am hated by several people in District One, and being "bitchy" now seems to be branded to my forehead. Maybe I should get that as a tattoo next...

( ii. )

"Mommy? What happened to Father?" I was too little to be sensitive about the subject. Apparently, that lack of sensitivity has carried to my age now. Her lips would purse, her jaws clenching together. I'm not very good at reading emotions. I have an annoying persistence to me that lets me get what I want, I guess. And I'll keep asking until she answers me, and she knows that. "He left us. One night he was here, the next he abandoned us." I have grown up with a biased hate for my father, which makes me quick to judge and grudge others as well. I think my mother shared the truth with me when I was too young. Perhaps if I was raised differently, I would be more contained and loyal. But I am my mother's one and only chance. She has no experience, and I have no younger siblings. I felt my slight shoulders shrug as I skipped off.

My mother took over the jewelry store, since it belonged to her parents. I remember dancing across the floors, gasping at jewels and shiny things. That was when I wasn't moody or snappy, back when I was actually pleasant. We live in an apartment, moving out of the house our whole family used to own. We could afford it, but my mother doesn't like having empty spaces. I think that has carried on to me, because my room is cluttered with clothes and little trinkets. I am not neat at all. And, besides, I think the vacancy will remind her of Father. I can understand that, which is surprising, since I am not a very understanding person. I am more self centered. Yay.

My bad girl attitude evolved when I was twelve probably. I never wanted to train for the games, because it just seems so useless. Why work so hard and risk the chance of not even being in the games? Stupid. Did I mention I'm very opinionated? I am. I got my first tattoo when I was fifteen, for my birthday. My mother said I could get anything I wanted, but I'm pretty sure it's not exactly what she had in mind. Even more proof that she has no idea who I am. It's kind of sad, to have someone that is supposed to be close be so far away. But I tend to shut people out, so it isn't surprising. And I have already built up a horrible reputation, so there really isn't any turning back. I don't believe in forgiveness, it is useless and it never works really. Hatred is still there, so it doesn't even matter. Why even bother? Being lazy and care free is better.

SIXTEEN -- FEMALE -- DISTRICT ONE