Heather Labarre : D5 : Finished
Sept 5, 2014 15:17:53 GMT -5
Post by goat on Sept 5, 2014 15:17:53 GMT -5
[googlefont="Indie Flower:400"]
Heather Eunice Labarre. Labarre pronounced like 'cabaret'. My mother, coincidentally, was a cabaret singer when she was 18. That's how she met my dad. They had some secret romance in the old bar she worked in, and then there I was- gone as soon as I came. Handed over to the cheapest orphanage in the District. My mother apparently sent me letters for the first few years of my life, but I haven't seen them yet.
I've seen pictures of her before. In fact, I pass the bar she used to work at everyday on my way to school. One day I mustered up the courage to speak to the bartender, and he told me she's long gone, but her photo is still blown up in the window. I can't see any resemblance at all. She's tall, pale, with wild red hair curling around her face. In the window space next to her poster, I can see my own reflection. Short, tan, with stringy brown hair. I look back to the poster before pulling my braid out, shaking my waves loose. I try to make my hair wild like hers, but it just ends up looking like a bird's nest. So I sigh, flattening it back down.
My mother has striking eyes- big, electric green. My eyes are like almonds. Small, and muddy brown. I guess being a stunning cabaret girl doesn't run in the family (Or maybe I just got stuck with my father's genes). Instead of red dresses, I'm stuck with grey T-shirts and patched up jeans. In my five foot four inch frame, I'm nothing special. Just plain old Heather. Boring. Nothing like my mother was. Or is. If there's one thing my mother and I both share, it's our nose. It's large, sloping down the middle of my face and just barely stopping before my mouth. I can't stand my nose, but I bet my mother liked hers. I bet she was confident about everything. Self-esteem isn't my forte. There's so much about myself I wish I could change.
I once ran into someone my mother used to work with. She recognized me from the time I stepped inside the bar to ask about the poster. She said my mother was a wild, free spirit. God, I wish I could be like that. Someone once told me I would probably get scared of my own reflection, and they're right. I'm the biggest scaredy cat this side of the District has ever seen. It drives me to paranoia. I double, triple, quadruple check everything. Doors, windows, stovetops, sewer grates. You name it and I've probably checked it.
I also tend to excessively worry about people. It seems sweet at first, but soon I won't even let you go down the stairs before I check every step. It's embarrassing, but there's always this thing in the back of my mind driving me to do it. I'm also a little nosy. Ok, a lot. I always want to know what my friends are thinking, or doing. Just to make sure they aren't talking about me. Or that they aren't doing anything dangerous. Lots of older kids at the orphanage get into trouble all the time. I hear them being scolded. I guess freedom can really come with consequences.
Under all my anxiety and nosiness, I really do care about people. I could never tell them, though. I'm constantly worried that my friends will leave me sometime, like my mother did. I'm sure my mother is a good woman, really. I believe there's good in everyone. Sort of. Some people are better at showing at than others. Others are just completely unredeemable. But I can't tell who I believe are unredeemable. That could put me into trouble.
I think my constant anxiety stems from my childhood. When I mentioned it was the cheapest orphanage, I really meant it. The older kids got the big rooms on the ground floor while the children under 12 were shoved upstairs into 3 too-small rooms. I'd fallen through one too many wooden steps before devoting hours in a day to checking every single one of them. The other kids my age told me I was weird, but I was just trying to prevent splinters. I didn't really think it'd develop into such a bad habit.
The kids my age were always teasing me, but the older kids seemed to like me. There were a few who were constantly doting on me- making sure I was alright, doing well in school and all that. I didn't know, or will probably ever know, what having is mother is like, but I'm pretty sure it would feel something like that. Teasing from the kids my age, however, just drove me into shyness. A state of shyness I never really grew out of. I have a few friends, luckily made out of mutual shyness. After school, we run off and climb on some rooftop and watch the smog seep through the city. I talk with them, of course. We're comfortable around eachother. Just not around other people.
I still live in that same orphanage. Since I'm 15, I get a nicer room and don't have to worry about splintery stairs. I just have to worry about every other staircase I encounter. I try my best to help around with the younger kids, cause I know how it feels to be totally abandoned and left in this shit orphanage, but I think I just come off as overbearing. 3 more years, and I'm out. I'll be free. Freedom is a scary feeling. I don't know what will happen once I'm out in the world, but I hope it'll go alright. For now, I just have to worry about snow and school and stairs and windows and doors and- well, everything, I guess. That wasn't the best comparison I've ever made.
Heather Labarre
age: 15
gender: female
district: 5
sexuality: bisexual
gender: female
district: 5
sexuality: bisexual
Heather Eunice Labarre. Labarre pronounced like 'cabaret'. My mother, coincidentally, was a cabaret singer when she was 18. That's how she met my dad. They had some secret romance in the old bar she worked in, and then there I was- gone as soon as I came. Handed over to the cheapest orphanage in the District. My mother apparently sent me letters for the first few years of my life, but I haven't seen them yet.
I've seen pictures of her before. In fact, I pass the bar she used to work at everyday on my way to school. One day I mustered up the courage to speak to the bartender, and he told me she's long gone, but her photo is still blown up in the window. I can't see any resemblance at all. She's tall, pale, with wild red hair curling around her face. In the window space next to her poster, I can see my own reflection. Short, tan, with stringy brown hair. I look back to the poster before pulling my braid out, shaking my waves loose. I try to make my hair wild like hers, but it just ends up looking like a bird's nest. So I sigh, flattening it back down.
My mother has striking eyes- big, electric green. My eyes are like almonds. Small, and muddy brown. I guess being a stunning cabaret girl doesn't run in the family (Or maybe I just got stuck with my father's genes). Instead of red dresses, I'm stuck with grey T-shirts and patched up jeans. In my five foot four inch frame, I'm nothing special. Just plain old Heather. Boring. Nothing like my mother was. Or is. If there's one thing my mother and I both share, it's our nose. It's large, sloping down the middle of my face and just barely stopping before my mouth. I can't stand my nose, but I bet my mother liked hers. I bet she was confident about everything. Self-esteem isn't my forte. There's so much about myself I wish I could change.
I once ran into someone my mother used to work with. She recognized me from the time I stepped inside the bar to ask about the poster. She said my mother was a wild, free spirit. God, I wish I could be like that. Someone once told me I would probably get scared of my own reflection, and they're right. I'm the biggest scaredy cat this side of the District has ever seen. It drives me to paranoia. I double, triple, quadruple check everything. Doors, windows, stovetops, sewer grates. You name it and I've probably checked it.
I also tend to excessively worry about people. It seems sweet at first, but soon I won't even let you go down the stairs before I check every step. It's embarrassing, but there's always this thing in the back of my mind driving me to do it. I'm also a little nosy. Ok, a lot. I always want to know what my friends are thinking, or doing. Just to make sure they aren't talking about me. Or that they aren't doing anything dangerous. Lots of older kids at the orphanage get into trouble all the time. I hear them being scolded. I guess freedom can really come with consequences.
Under all my anxiety and nosiness, I really do care about people. I could never tell them, though. I'm constantly worried that my friends will leave me sometime, like my mother did. I'm sure my mother is a good woman, really. I believe there's good in everyone. Sort of. Some people are better at showing at than others. Others are just completely unredeemable. But I can't tell who I believe are unredeemable. That could put me into trouble.
I think my constant anxiety stems from my childhood. When I mentioned it was the cheapest orphanage, I really meant it. The older kids got the big rooms on the ground floor while the children under 12 were shoved upstairs into 3 too-small rooms. I'd fallen through one too many wooden steps before devoting hours in a day to checking every single one of them. The other kids my age told me I was weird, but I was just trying to prevent splinters. I didn't really think it'd develop into such a bad habit.
The kids my age were always teasing me, but the older kids seemed to like me. There were a few who were constantly doting on me- making sure I was alright, doing well in school and all that. I didn't know, or will probably ever know, what having is mother is like, but I'm pretty sure it would feel something like that. Teasing from the kids my age, however, just drove me into shyness. A state of shyness I never really grew out of. I have a few friends, luckily made out of mutual shyness. After school, we run off and climb on some rooftop and watch the smog seep through the city. I talk with them, of course. We're comfortable around eachother. Just not around other people.
I still live in that same orphanage. Since I'm 15, I get a nicer room and don't have to worry about splintery stairs. I just have to worry about every other staircase I encounter. I try my best to help around with the younger kids, cause I know how it feels to be totally abandoned and left in this shit orphanage, but I think I just come off as overbearing. 3 more years, and I'm out. I'll be free. Freedom is a scary feeling. I don't know what will happen once I'm out in the world, but I hope it'll go alright. For now, I just have to worry about snow and school and stairs and windows and doors and- well, everything, I guess. That wasn't the best comparison I've ever made.
codeword: odair
faceclaim: krystina alabado
faceclaim: krystina alabado
