Kasha Voltolini ~District 8~ FIN
Nov 15, 2015 22:27:07 GMT -5
Post by logic on Nov 15, 2015 22:27:07 GMT -5
Age: 17
Gender: Female
District: 8
Appearance:
FC: Othilia Simon
I twirl the mouse-brown lengths of hair around my finger, as soft as my mother’s voice as she comforts me, wiping my cheeks with her delicate hands, which I wished I had inherited. Instead, my calloused, veiny fingers were wringing the sheet between my hands as I heard another blow delivered to my father’s face. I’m not sure why I cared so much, he had never done anything for me or my mother except ridicule us and occasionally “put us back in our place”, which we were sure to never leave. Likewise, my mother has never been able to give me many material belongings due to incapability, but the one thing she did give me was her hair. Besides the fact that I was an inch or so taller than her, we looked like twins from the back, with our wavy curls flowing halfway down our backs, and stopping abruptly above our midline. Unfortunately, that is where the similarities end.
My features are as sharp as my father’s voice. My face is constructed by harsh lines, hollowing out my cheekbones, straightening my nose, and pointing my chin to the ground. There is little femininity in my bone structure, but my mother has always said that I have eyes with the same hypnotic tendencies of a siren. I’ve always just seen green/grey reflections when I look in the cracked mirror on my nightstand, a reminder of the repercussions I will receive next time I arrive home past curfew. “Kasha,” my mother whispers in my ear, with her heavy accent that she received from her parents before her, who were immigrants from a nation outside of Panem. “It will all be alright. It always is.” It never was. The bruises that painted my pale skin were proof of that. As was the tightness of my skin on my bones, undernourished from years of my father sucking away our finances.
Personality
My entire life has been walking on eggshells, trying not to get on anyone’s bad side. I’ve trained myself to be reserved at home around my father, and I suppose this training has spread to all areas of my life. When I went to school, I never raised my hand, I refused to do presentations, and I eventually failed out of classes. I never told my father, because I know what the consequences would be. Thankfully, I can always confide in my mother, her understanding is above and beyond that of any other person that I have ever encountered. How a beautiful, loving woman like her ended up with a man like my father is beyond me.
I have no choice but to remain quiet, don’t speak unless spoken to. These instructions were more clear cut when I was a child, but now they are unspoken rules that, if broken, could result in any number of negatives. I’m always living in fear, and the bags under my eyes show how little sleep I get at night. Every creak of the wood or rattle of the shutters makes me sit straight up in bed and reach for the butcher knife I keep under my pillow, just in case. I’ve never used it, but there have been times where I should have.
I’m not even sure what I would do if I had to defend myself. I always back down when I’m attacked, verbally or physically. It’s like my body never evolved the fight or flight instinct, I just sit and take it all, to the point of exhaustion. And then I wake up the next day and deal with it all again. I know it could be worse, but I’m not exactly going to say that I’m grateful for the life that I have. It could be a hell of a lot better too. It’s my dream to make this better for my mother and I, but what control do I have? Maybe together we could overcome his destructive tendencies, but I still see the way she looks at him, like she’s searching for the man who used to love her. I’ve given up hope that he’s ever going to come back.
History
I know that I could leave, I make enough money to support myself, but I know that if I did, my mother would bear the brunt of a temper usually spread out between the both of us. I’m not sure when he started his drinking, but I know that it changed him so much that he is only a shell of the man that he was, the man that my mother fell in love with. She used to tell me of all of the romantic dates and encounters they had before he finally asked for her hand in marriage. I’m convinced that it was all an act, because shortly after they were married, I was born, and our already musty house began to smell of booze and bile.
Every morning, before he wakes up and starts the cycle again, my mother and I wake up without saying a word, and clean up the mess that he has left behind. Thrown cans and bottles of substances that I have never even heard of, broken dishes from his fits of rage, and the bankruptcy notices torn up on the floor all go into the trash, out of sight, out of mind, at least until he wakes up.
My grandparents, whom I have never met, were wanderers from the areas outside of the structured districts. They were called to the Capitol for some political business, to document a treaty between the district-less and the Capitol.Unsurprisingly, it was all a trap to capture the traitors and to have them put in prison for their crimes. My grandfather, whom I am often compared to, had a sharp wit and was able to arrange a deal with a Peacemaker so that he and his wife were able to relocate to the districts under the nose of the officials. I have no idea what the outside is like, and I was never able to ask because my grandparents died in a storm when my mother was very young. She never speaks of them, it’s like they never existed. Maybe it would be better if they hadn’t because then neither my mother or I would be in this situation. It’s gotten to the point where I would rather never have existed at all than be where I stand today.
As soon as I dropped out of school, I began to work at one of the textile mills near my house. I barely make enough money to support my mother and I in the way of food. But it’s something, and I know that if I lost my job or was unable to work, we would both be dead in a matter of weeks. The level of selfishness a person attains when he is addicted to a substance is unreal to me, and I’m glad it is so. I have sworn a long time ago that the vile substance will never pass my lips. Until I can find a way out, my mother and I are trapped in a box that just keeps getting smaller and smaller and smaller.
Does: E58181
Thinks:E5AEAE
Says:EDC2CC
Code Word: Odair
