hera duberry ; district four ; fin

a p p e a r a n c e » hera hera the perfect girl

Wake up, get out of bed. Brush out brown hair-it's boring, it's too plain, you need to change it or people will get bored of you. Apply foundation to cover up freckles because your skin has to be flawless. Mascara, eyeliner, the subtlest bit of eyeshadow. Apply lip gloss. Go over everything to make sure it is perfect. Brush your hair again.

That is how my mornings go. Every day. I don't care if I'm sick, I don't care how tired I am. Someone could see me at any minute- Hermes especially is prone to unexpected drop-ins- and if they see me with unwashed hair and pimples and flaws I will be done for.

A lot of work goes into my appearance, you know. I make it look effortless. That's one of the hardest parts. I mean, don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with- oh, I'll just say it. There's nothing wrong with tacky makeup and looking like a hooker if that's what you want to do. I just think it's more elegant to have a slightly subtler appearance. That's what I strive for, and that's what I achieve. Every day. Does that sound easy to you? Because believe me, it's not.
There is nothing harder than seemingly effortless beauty, and that's what I strive for. I am not a flashy girl.

My hair is brownish-reddish, and it's not the most lovely color, but I make do with it. I keep it clean and dry-which is more of a challenge than it sounds here in District Four.
And my eyes are green-grey like the sea, and they could be prettier, everything about me could be prettier but it is okay. Because I take what I have, and I make it something worthwhile.

p e r s o n a l i t y » don't let them see you crack

It's not easy being queen.
It may seem like a cushy spot, but it's a lot of work, okay, believe me. It's mine, though. You eying my spot or something? Bitch. Please. It's hard, but it's mine, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. Okay, maybe. Maybe.

I've always had what people call leadership potential, you know. Bossing around the other kids from when I was five years old. I'm still doing it now, you know. It's just not as obvious. I manipulate people a lot more subtly now. That's serious, you know. I can get people to do what I want. It's just not as straightforward as it used to be.

I am not a girl who does bad things.
I get good grades. I do my homework. I smile at old people in the street, I career train in my spare time and I even have a more than healthy social life. I am the model daughter. I am the child every parent in District Four would kill to have.
This is the part where you expect me to talk about child abuse or something, right? Something like "Except mine, apparently, because they hated me". I'm not going to say that, because that's not the truth. Except here's the thing. I almost wish it was. It would give me an excuse, a reason to be the way I am. It's not shameful to cry into your pillow when your parents beat you. You're not a disgrace for screwing up one little thing when you have a good reason. Because see, this is the thing about me. There is nothing wrong with me. Speaking objectively, of course. Everything about me is supposed to be perfect. I am not allowed to have flaws. I am not allowed to cry because I am the one smoothing things over and hiding them away, avoiding confrontation, defusing the bombs. When the person who fixes things is the one who breaks it, nobody is sure what to do, so I can't break anything. That probably sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? Because I'm sure my friends would support me. I'm certain I would have people to fall back on. The reason I can't is because I will not let myself.

When you are Hera DuBerry, you are never far from flawlessness. It's okay for other people to fail, because they can pick themselves back up and carry on. You are so fragile that one fall means you are never getting up again.
Perfection is never too much to ask for.

I am boring. I do what I am told. I live my life as is expected of me. I have never broken a rule. There's an effort to my kind of shininess, though. I want to be untouchable. I want to be someone people fear and admire, like the Victors that come home with a new kind of terror trailing behind them. I'm not, though. It's a duller kind of beauty. I am comfortable, I think. Nobody is scared of me, but nobody hates me either. It's not a terrible thing. But I still wish it was different.
That's the first time I have said that I want things to be different. Because I don't. I couldn't ask for anything more than what I already have.
Sometimes I wish I was the kind of girl who did anyway.
But I don't.
Because I'm not.

Think of me when you're out
When you're out there
I'll beg you nice from my knees
And when the world treats you way too fairly
Well it's a shame I'm a dream

h i s t o r y » only cry behind closed doors

I grew up good.
That's not articulate enough. I can do better.
Perfect neighborhood, perfect street, perfect house full of perfect people. Older brother, younger sister, happily married parents. No drama. No trouble. No tragedies.
Perfect life. Perfect me.
It's been that way all along, and it will be that way until the day I die. I will keep going to school and never drink or do drugs or have sex until I'm married- meet a perfect boy or girl and settle down with a perfect family of my own. And grow old. And die.
That's what my life will be. I've never had another option- not that I would need one. What more could a girl ask for? This is all anyone could ever need, isn't it? It's all I could need. Some people are destined for bigger things than District Four. I'm not. I know my purpose. I know my path.
There's never been more than one tragedy in my parents' lives-I used to have an older sister. I never knew her. She died before I was born- not in the Games or anything. She killed herself when my brother was seven. She was thirteen. Barely a teenager, but apparently this life was so dissatisfying for her that she had to get out. I can't imagine being that desperate. I can't imagine wanting anything that badly. No. Here's the thing. I can. I know what it means to want. I don't know what it means to need.
Maybe that's why I'm so desperate to be perfect. I will be the ideal daughter my sister wasn't. No matter the cost, I will be perfect.

My little sister is blonde and precious and she plays in the sand while my parents smile. My brother is tall and strong and brave. My mother is sunny and sweet and never in a bad mood, my father is an ex-career distantly related to some victor-or-other. I am pretty and I am popular. We are the model family. And it's not even one of those perfect-family-with-dark-secrets deals that seem to be so common. There is nothing to hide. We are all exactly as we appear, even if I have to strain a little to make myself subtle and beautiful all at once. Nobody knows that, and nobody needs to. And everyone has to try a little harder sometimes. I can't be the only one. I can't be.
But I think I am.

Chaos is not something I am a part of. It surrounds me. My friends are hurricanes-in the most metaphorical sense. They are blurs of color and laughter and light that dance around me and each other, crying and laughing and smiling and bleeding. I stay the same. I am the constant.
We met over the years, and somehow we have become this. We are a nest of misfits, and I am the mother figure, and through everyone's drama and love and hate and either and both-I am there. I am always, always there.

codeword:


comments/other: first rp in a long time. i'm sorry. that is all i can say.
lyrics; "All These Things That I've Done"-The Killers; "Numb"-Marina And The Diamonds; "All I Wanted"-Paramore
fc; elizabeth gillies
narrating [6AC5CC]
thinking [0F9EA6]
talking [067278]
others talking [005738]