Zavia Wayne || District 4 || FIN

You remember a life before you were born. A life of warmth, comfort and music- the sound of creaking joints and a loving heart beat. Things then, were so peaceful, you actually enjoyed your existence in a void of darkness; that is until the world cracked open, like a giant egg, and you were pulled from your mothers womb violently as you mother lay dying on the bed. You cried, but not with grief, no. You cried because you wanted to go back, you wanted to be in the warmth of your mothers being and hear her song and heart beat- you did not know that her heart had given out moments before your birth-but no matter how much you cried, the adults would not put you back, they would not put you in your mothers arms. 

You do not remember much from those first few years, but you were mostly forgotten. Taken to an orphanage by the sea, you were shoved to the back of the minds of those who ran the orphanage- they had many children to feed and most babies did not make it past their first year; specially ones that looked a sickly as you. Yes, you were tiny but that did not kill your spirit and wanting to live. So when you did get that mouthful of dusty watered down milk powder, it just gave your instinct a willingness to fight. Every now and then, the owners of the orphanage would go "Oh Zavia is still here?". Yes, you were still there. 

As you grew, gained your legs, you became more nnoticeable A mass of hair, the colour of the golden sands outside your front door, had sprouted on top of your head and became a tangled mess as it fell past your shoulders. Your skin, pale and peachy like most little kids, burnt easily in the sun; unlike the other children, you looked more like a tomato after a day in the sun rather than golden. Your eyes were, the most unique thing about you. Wide and bright, blue as the skys that graced District 4 often, your look was almost insane. Crazy, is what some of the wanting parents called you, but in fact you were quite the oppisote- you were more sane than most in this world and you knew it deep in your heart. 

When you grew into big girl shoes, gained the hand-me-down school clothes that were far too big, you realized you liked order. Mess was a no and you found yourself thrown into hysterics if someone knocked a block out of place on your bedside table or moved the stagnant glass of water you'd not touched in weeks because you were afraid to see the stain on the wood it would've left behind. The other children found your obsessiveness with things being in their place absolutely hilarious and so they moved things and laughed when you screamed and cried about it. They didn't laugh anymore after you bit a girl when she tried to knock a row of sticks you had laid out in a perfect line. 

School was the best and worst place to be, but you loved it regardless. Everyone had to be quiet, everyone had their assigned seats and there were timetables that told people where they had to be and when- you loved that very much. What you did not like is being scolded for re-organizing the inside of your desk again and again and again when you were supposed to be listening to the teacher. It wasn't your fault that a woodlouse had died inside your desk, curled up into a tiny ball, meaning you had to find a place for it next to your pencils and pens.

School is also where you discovered your love for art. The paints, the colors, they all fascinated you so much that you spent almost all your breaks in the art room painting things. Art is your best subjects, you want it to be. You're not good at English or History or Maths- even though maths is organized and perfect- but you are good at Art. You never felt so happy to do something; holding a paint brush in those long and spindly fingers that sometimes jittered about, out of your control, felt so good. You could even draw on the pavement outside the orphanage- not exactly the same, using a stone, but you could still draw pictures. 

You barely ever talk to people, you don't even talk to teachers or your carers. You're 10 and you can't even read. You've been taught but you don't understand the words on the paper, they're a mess and they move and dance across the paper when you stare at them. So you don't ever read. You can talk, you've been taught since the day you had teeth, but you find it hard to form words. You're writing is a mess too, which is weird because your hand is so steady with a paint brush, and barely legible. It hasn't changed since you were 5- none of it. The talking, the writing or the reading.

You're teachers are beginning to notice- they tell your carers who take you to a Clinic. The Doctor wonders if it's because you didn't get much oxygen when you were born. You're teachers are worried you won't graduate High school and you are even 12 yet! You don't care though because you don't really listen to what the adults say, you just swing your legs beneath the chair and then begin to make a fuss when you've sat still too long, 

You're 12 now. 12 years old is a big thing for everyone, even at the orphanage. On reaping day last year, you wonder why everyone is so quiet yet so busy on that day. They make you dress in what nice clothes you have- for you, that was a dress that was once white but is now a dirty grey- and then they ferry you off to the town square where you watch the big screens and the fancy people talk about the Hunger Games.

You know about the Hunger Games, but you don't understand the grief behind them. You don't understand why Mrs Krigel cries when her son is called or why Siren Baitwell didn't come home. It means nothing to you when two more names are called- you return to the orphanage as if nothing had happened. You watch the games at school, you watch it home before bed and then you watch the new winner- Patricia Valiferno- stand on the same stage the tributes of 4 had stood on a few weeks earlier but it doesn't cross your mind that they're dead and that some day, you will to. You're 12 now, you know it means you can be put into the 'reaping' and stand with all the other kids from the orphanage who are of reaping age but that doesn't change the fact you have no idea what your name being pulled could mean for you. 

You do not have a clue. 

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