Spoke Hollow. // District 2.

Spoke Hollow.
District Two.
Nineteen.
Female.
Odair.

I've never fit in with my family.

My parents aren't the cookie-cutter hand-holdy type, never have been, but they're not intense by any definition of the word. They've got soft eyes and soft hearts, eyes wrinkled up from all the smiling.

It's gross, and you know why? Because the first thing they taught me when I started training was that my emotions would get the better of me. Not maybe, not if you do this, you'll get hurt. One day, I would make a mistake.

You will be ruined by yourself.

Ever since then, I took that reality to heart like it was a life jacket keeping me afloat.

And it did – it kept me sane. It kept me whole. People don't fuck with me unless they're fixing to have both of their arms broken, and I'm happy to oblige the ones who don't know any better. Hell, I'll lash out if someone so much as looks at me wrong.

This is District Two, after all.

But it's not just that. I've gotten pretty good at distancing myself from everything that could possibly hurt me – well, except for a fight – and I feel strong because of it. The thought of completely and totally relying on myself is a comfort that a lot of people don't get to experience, and that's because they're all too weak to understand it. They've got their comforts and their hugs and their smiles, and I've got a heart honed sharp like a blade. 

My parents hate it. I know why they hate it, I guess, but that doesn't make it any better. They wanted a daughter they could show off to the world, someone normal, like ”lookit here at this girl, isn't she something?” but they were disappointed. They wanted me to be kinder, gentler. Weaker, maybe? Yes, they would have had me be weak.

When I started Career training, they tried to talk me out of it every day. I just told them no, told them no a hundred times, because this was me and I was meant to do this and they would just have to get used to it. It's not like they didn't have their own lives, their own work, their own responsibilities. I hardly ever saw them during the daytime when I was growing up because they worked so much; I guess they were trying hard to make us poor instead of dirt poor, which we were, even living in District Two. In hindsight, I probably should have started working alongside them instead of training, but there's nothing I can do about it now.

The worst part? All those years of training for the Games were worth nothing. My parents cried at every reaping, but my name was never called.

When I was 18 – my last reaping – I almost stood up and volunteered.

I almost did it. I would have left my parents sobbing in the crowd to stand up and claim victory as my own. I would have broken their no-good fragile hearts and made a name for myself then and there; nothing so pointless as their fear would stop me.

(But I'm 19 now, and I wonder whose fear was really at fault.)

That day, I was so mad at myself and at my parents that I marched right on over and signed up to train as a Peacekeeper, but I was denied. A grown man with gray hair and gross stubble on his double chin told me no and laughed in my face because I'd “caused too much trouble already” and wasn't eligible to enforce the law when all I ever did was break it.

(“What, do you think we're stupid?”)

Well.. yeah, a little. And I told him so.

I thought they wouldn't recognize my face, to be honest. I hadn't broken a law – er, been caught – in about three years, and I'd changed physically since then. My brown hair was shorter, cut off because my mom told me that my long hair looked “adorable” - her word, not mine – and I was taller. When I was 15 I had to be.. what, 5'7”? But at 18 I'd grown a couple more inches and gained a little weight, thanks to my dad working the occasional double shift. I looked stronger, and my face looked different too. It's like all the youth decided to drift away in the span of a year, leaving my cheekbones sharp and my face clear of acne.

I dressed the same, though. Not a lot of people in District Two are dirt poor, so I kind of stood out in my ragged t-shirts and stained jeans. There were other things that stayed the same too, I know – my eyes were still green, my hair still tangled, my expression still vaguely irritated. No matter what the sign was, mine was a face that apparently wasn't going to be forgotten, and I'd labeled myself a troublemaker.

It was stupid of me to mess with the law, but I was always bored. I couldn't use my Career skills practically besides watching the Games and scoffing at every little mistake, and it's not like I had siblings to talk to. The other people in school were afraid of me, I think, or else nobody liked me enough to talk. Probably both, to be honest. With nothing to do, I spent my younger years training and prowling the District for (mostly illegal) ways to entertain myself, silent, hotheaded, alone.

I have my parents, my training, and myself.

(And it is not enough.)