jonathen vance- capitol- done

I call myself Jon because of that stupid name I was gifted with when I was born. Average when you look at it, but when you sound it out it feels as if you are killing a precious avox every time you mutter that first, cursed syllable. Who would name a kid JOE NEIGH THENE? Jonathon is normal! Why couldn't my idiotic parents just stick to the regular, non-annoying name! They just wanted to stand out though. To them a baby is just a shiny new assecory readyto be pinned on or permenently embedded in your skin like the Jewels I had stapled onto my face. Three little sparkling diamonds on each cheek. That was fashion at the time, and it still is! Sorry, drifted a bit off topic for a moment. That happens a bit when your ADD like me. Sometimes I am in the middle of one subject and I get distracted by something else and continue that subject. There! I'm doing it again! I will try to bring our focus back to my life, sorry for all the confusion. Anyways, where was I? Oh yes, my mother. My loving, adoring mother who always took care of me when times were hard. Just kidding.

Most of my life, my mother treated me like trash. After I left her to continue my life away from her, she just treated me worse. Ever since I was a little kid she had been hiring me off as a model. I didn't want to be, but I didn't have a say in the matter. My mother on the other hand, wanted to be able to go to her friends and say to them with her flourescent pink hair bouncing everywhere: "Hey look my son's a model! Isn't he adorable!" That was when I was three. As I grew up my mom forced me to contnue modeling even for shoots I didn't want to be in. For example, once I turned twelve my mom put me on strict training to make me look "perfect." Like those other teenage models. By the time I turned fourteen she deemed me ready for something I really didn't want to do, a shirtless shoot. It was awful, just standing there without my shirt on as photographers flashed lights at me. I can still remember feeling awkward and terrified, the lights from the cameras lighting up my dirty blond hair and my chisled face.

I wanted it so desperately to end after that, but she wouldn't have any of that. She loved saying to her friends, "Look at my son's abs!" It was awful. Her using me to brag for something I didn't even care about. When I was sixteen, I finally picked up enough courage to tell her to stop. I remember it even now.

I walked downstairs, preparing myself. I found my mother in the lounge painting her nails bright neon blue as she watched some tv show. I walked up to my mother, inhaled deeply, snd spkke to her. "Mom, can I talk to you about something?" My deep voice would say. She even had it changed when I was thirteen to make it deeper. To make me more "perfect". My mother pursed her lips in annoyance and didn't even look up from her nails. "What is it?" She snapped at me, anger in her tone, "Can't you see I'm busy!" I don't care though and I barrel on. "Mom, I don't like the fact that you treated me like trash all these years, forced me to do something I hated and didn't want to do and did it," I took a deep, worried breath, wondering how she would react to this next part, "and did it all just to impress you friends."

I remember my mother's beautiful features contorting into a look of anger, and her standing up, reaching to only about my shouldures as I stood at six feet at the time. A harsh shriek came from her as she yelled at me, "You stupid boy! I have got you a wonderful job, a wonderful life, and a wonderful opportunity for the future!" I cringe back a step but she keeps coming at me, "I HAVE CLOTHED YOU, GIVEN YOU A HOME FOR YOUR WHOLE LIFE AND THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY ME?" I remember cringing back as her hand reached up to slap my chisled face.

So much has changed since then. For one thing I grew a few inches taller and I stand at six foot four now, and I am still a model, but I am not with my mother. When I was eighteen I moved out, taking all the money I had been earning as a model with me, and trust me, that was a lot. I bought a small mansion out by a lake towards the outskirts of the capitol. I have four avoxes with me that I bought to do all the cooking and cleaning, but guess what. With me, I give them a home and I actually pay them a good amount of money. My mother treated me like an avox since she didn't want to waste money on one, that's what kids are for she always said, and so she treated me like scum, forcing me to do all the work around the house for her, and even massage her gross feet! Because I know how awful avoxes are treated, my house is a home for them, but they still need to work. At least it wasn't pilled on one of them like it was on me.

That was my life. Now I should talk about me. The model.

I have a deep tan stretching over my skin, turning it a dark bronze color which matches it with the dirty blond swoop of my hair. My muscles have been shaped and molded by the personal trainer to turn me into the perfect model everyone fawns over to take a picture of. Some stuff though, isn't too picture perfect though. Even though I am well out of my teenage years, I still have pimples that pop up on my face that I can only conceal for photo shoots with about three layers of makeup on the affected zone. My agent dislikes the fact that I dislike covering it up. It is supposed to be my choice, but then she explains I can't get any jobs with a pimple. Who wants a large zit on the cover of Insane Fashion?

Back to me though, not the grusome zits. I said this already but I might as well review some topics of what I look like. I am six feet four inches tall, which I suppose is very tall for, well, anyone. My fingers are short and stocky, which matches along with my muscular arms, but not very good if I ever want to take up a graceful art like pottery, weaving, or knitting. My fingers would just get in the way of the gracefulness. Pottery, I would break the clay. Weaving, I would break the little threads. Knitting, I would just end up making a hat instead of a scarf like I planned too.

Oh, I should mention one more thing that I mentioned before because I love this feature about my body. On each of my cheeks, I have three diamonds implsnted in them, glittering in the sunlight and making me look like a disco ball. It's fabulous!

I am also not too vain. I don't care how I look. Even for a photoshoot I insist on no makeup, even though the makeup artists eventual force it onto my face somehow. I am also really fair as you might have seen from my avoxes. I treat them no differently then a human. I treat them with politeness and pay them with housing, food, and money for working in my house. I am also very gullible though, easily tricked by people. If I was told someone wrote gullible on the roof, I wouldn't need to look because I alrewdy beleived them.

I am also a real flirt, chasing down girls to make up for the lost time when I was teen with my mother forcing me to stay inside a tanning bed than letting me go to the beach to sociolize. I am also very aimiable and I love talking to people, anyone at all, and I find myself charismatic and easy to talk to as well despite my years of being forced inside to train all day to get that "perfect body" my mother wanted for me.

Finally, I am very trusting of people. I always hope to see the best in someone because of my mother who made me see the worst in her. I don't want to let myself beleive I have met others like my mother so I force myself to beleive that everyone is good and kind, but deep down, I know that almost every single person in the capitol has that spark of evil in them, even me.