d3. gwendolyn louise maddox.

Mirrors are fickle things. Some days, you see your reflection exactly as you wish yourself to be. Most of the time you just see everything you wish you weren't. When I look in my hallway mirror, I simply see a shadow of the person I used to be.

I take after my mother. Family and friends say I look exactly like her when she was my age. Our mousy blonde hair is the same color, and I like to think it's almost poetic to say that our eyes are the same blue as the ocean. My mother and I are very pale, although I believe she prides herself on the fact that she doesn't have to be as dark as the lower Districts. For me, it's simply just a distaste for the sun. When I was little, I loved looking like her; nowadays, I can't help but wish to be as dissimilar as I possibly can. When I smile into the dusty mirror in our hallway--the only one in the house--I see my dad's mouth, with tiny teeth just a tad too crowded behind my lips.

I try to stand tall despite my tiny frame. My legs are bruised and scarred; clumsiness and pale skin are not a favorable combination. Sometimes I wish I looked like the Careers on the television when the Games are on; they are large, strong, and everything that I am not. I look at my reflection, all brittle bones and patchy skin, and wonder if I could ever be as eloquently dynamic as them.

I have been told that I am too blunt for my own good. People warn me of the destruction I can cause when I am too honest with other people. I ask them what is the point of speaking if we are not honest with ourselves? In a sense, I am probably a bit too harsh to those I've just met, but I find it ignoble to be insincere with our words and actions. I don't necessarily go out of my way to offend people, but I won't let their probable insecurities stop me from being straightforward.

Maybe because of this, I have a difficult time maintaining relationships. I am reserved, inconsistent with my friendships. I've watched my group of friends become smaller and smaller; my loneliness hit me the day I walked home and noticed that my old friends were walking as well, but with a deliberate air of avoidance in their steps. I knew then that I had created my own isolation, by frequenting work and staying home rather than choosing their company. I still see them in the streets and in school, sometimes. They smile and I wave, but never more than this. It's an unspoken understanding that I drifted without the intent of ever rekindling the flame, and I don't blame them for not attempting it on their own parts.

I dream of a life beyond the reaches of our District walls. I want to know how the ocean feels on my skin, what the forest smells like after a heavy rain. Those of us in the Districts will only know the beauty of Panem if we are chosen for the Games; as much as I yearn for the beauty of the world, an obstinate threat of death is not worth the allure of a man-made Games arena.

I was born in the middle of a winter storm, when the rain pounded against the windows like an unwanted wanderer, and the lights flickered above my mother's head like fireflies do in the evening time. I was a home birth, for although my family could have afforded proper medical care, the downpours made travel to the hospital impossible. My brother was born two years later in the hospital, in the sweltering heat of summer when the fans and cool rags did nothing to cool her down.

I spent a lot of my childhood in the attic. I discovered the hole in the ceiling when I was four years old, and made a personal nest out of the dust and wooden floorboards. My parents had hidden away many of our family's possessions; jewelry and clothing that had been passed down through the years, and old toys from my parents' childhood. I found faded books and journals, filled with pictures, writing and stories; my father's grandmother had put them together, before the beginning of Panem, before the Dark Days swept away the memories of life before. I wondered why they were hidden from my brother and me, why such a vital part of our past had been boxed away into the shadows and dust. The photographs are magnetic and nostalgic; it's hard to believe life before Panem was filled with such an indestructible freedom of spirit. Still, the beauty of photographs dulls with time. It's difficult to fantasize of ever visiting such places when the District boundaries feel more and more like a cage with each passing day.

My mother was kind for a time. She worked hard to keep my brother and I entertained, enlightened. I used to dress in her clothes and wear her jewelry, anything to make myself more like her. She was everything to me, everything I wanted to be. As I grew older, I felt the pain of her memory loss. It was the little things at first, where she put her shoes, or the route to the nearest market. When it got worse, I could see the way her inability haunted her. The light in her eyes was absent, displaced by a sadness that ran deeper than one could ever put into words.

She wasn't the only one that suffered from the effects of her sickness. I watched my father deteriorate from my mother's condition, too. He started to come home later and later, and eventually would be absent for days at a time. If he did come home, he would retreat into the darkness of our cold, empty spare room, not bothering to say hi to any of us in the house. I prayed for him to come back to us, for him to be my dad again.

He left when I was fifteen. He departed into the embrace of the night, with only his clothes and a photo of my brother and me. As he walked out our door, he told us that it wouldn't be the last time we would see him. I haven't heard from him since.

My mother's sickness is unmanageable now. Sometimes she forgets who my brother and I are and frightens herself, before we convince her that we are not harmful. I take care of her as much as I can, cooking and tidying up our home. I took up a job at the local market, just enough to keep food on our plates. My parents' savings disappeared quickly, where I used it on buying clothes and other necessities. I keep my brother in school and my mother fed, and I suppose that's enough of a success for my own self.