Leonice Malkov - District 7 {FINISHED}

I'd like to say we gave it a try
I'd like to blame it all on life

---

When I was about five years old, my mother told me I was beautiful.


I stood in front of the mirror as she played with locks of my short blonde hair, which soon turned light brown. She was braiding it for school. She told me I was the most beautiful girl in the world. And I believed her. But then I went to school, for my first ever day, and the children there laughed and pulled on my braid. Mama told me I had to make friends, so I smiled at them. I thought they were just playing around and soon we'd be friends. I was wrong. They laughed even more, push me over, call me names. When they talked about the Hunger Games in class, a girl leaned over towards me and said, "I hope you get picked for the Hunger Games." Day after day I went through this, until one day I came home crying, with blood running from my nose, bruises all over my body. The last thing I remembered before I passed out was being kicked extremely hard in the head by a boy twice my size.

Mama patched me back up. She had healer's hands, and she had all the required medicine and herbs. She made me some medicine to soothe the pain. I wished I could just stay home with Mama every day, helping her heal injured men and women from our district. But the very next day she sent me back to school with the usual braid down my back. I had grown to hate that braid. Every day my hair was violated, pulled on and yanked. As soon as I left the door, I pulled the band from my hair and untied it. Light brown waves tumbled down my back. I felt, for the first time in my life, that Mama had not been joking when she said I was beautiful. It was just my braid.

I walked to school, the waves bouncing on my shoulder and my back. The kids didn't pull on my hair. Instead they grabbed me by it and slammed me against the wall. They told me I was stupid if I thought wearing my hair down would stop them from hurting me. They described how they were going to beat me up after school in great detail, all while pulling on my hair. Then they let go, sending relief through my body. They walked off and I followed them meekly into the classroom.

From that day on, they would torment me and tell me to go die. Tell me I should really volunteer for the Games when I was of age, because nobody wanted me here. They said they would eagerly await my death. They told me I was worthless, useless, stupid. Mama kept me going through the difficult times.

And now, as I look in the mirror in the morning before school, I wonder - am I really beautiful? Years of not having enough to eat has made me skinny and weak. My hair is greasy because we can rarely wash it, and my eyes show every sign of not having enough sleep. I do not have curves. I do not have perfect skin. I am a flawed human being. I don't mean the harmless flaws, the flaws that everyone has. I am flawed in a way nobody would want to be flawed. My bags under my eyes, my body shape, my greasy hair, my unwashed skin...everything looks like I am from a poor district. And District 7 is not the poorest. We are just poor people in a middle-class district.

I run my fingers through my hair. Because I had not worn it in a braid for a long time, it has turned to its natural look - straight. Mama cut it yesterday. It looks fresher and cleaner, but still greasy and unwashed. I wondered, what if I was reaped? Would the stylists have a hard time making me look beautiful for the cameras? Or would they use surgery? Give me unnatural curves and a bit more fat on me? Would I get obese from the luxurious Capitol meals I heard about? Questions spun around my mind and I wanted them answered. I sigh and sit down on Mama's bed, running my hands through the soft torn blanket. It is old, and worn away, but it is home. This house is where I belong. Not the Capitol. Not some shiny new home in Victor's Village if some miracle happens and I win a Hunger Games. Here, in my own home, with Mama and the lingering memories of my deceased papa.

Let me tell you about Papa. When I was born, seventeen years ago, my Mama and Papa were happily married for about three years. Mama had gone through her nine months of pregnancy and her few hours of pain to bring me into the world. My bright baby blue eyes soon turned a pale green, and my once blonde hair turned light brown. A year of my life was spent in peace, despite the lack of food making Mama's breast milk unsatisfying. But when I was almost just two years old, old enough to understand that something was wrong with Papa, he grew ill. Mama nursed him every day but it was not enough. My papa died with Mama at his side. Mama looked at me, the last thing she had left of my papa. My eyes matched his, but my hair matched hers. 

Mama had to raise me on her own. She did a good job of it, considering the lack of resources we had in the house. She nursed me when I was sick, and she supported me through difficult times. Through the bad and the good. Mama was my only friend, the only person I loved, and as far as I knew, the only person I would ever love. I knew that when I was not eligible for the reaping either, I may have to have children. But I do not want to. I want only two mouths to feed - mine, and Mama's. As she grows old I shall nurse her, feed her and protect her, just like she did when I was little.

And, just like she did, I shall tell her that she is beautiful, as I braid her hair in front of the mirror.

---
How almost, Almost is never enough
So close to being in love
---

This Template was made by Lupita of Caution 2.0, do not remove the credits from it. If she finds out you stole this then she will sick her kids on you. Don't be fooled, a three year old and a six year old can be very frightening.