riven fowley {ten} finished

When I was younger, I was always self conscious of my body. I don't think I realized that just about everyone in District 10 is underweight, and in fact I'd probably stick out more if I was healthy. Barely reaching 5 feet and weighing a grand total of 92 pounds, I'm thin as a board and easily pushed around. I was never able to help out with lifting bales of hay for the horses or carrying the boxes we fill with milk cartons from the cows. When I take off my shirt and look in the old, dusty mirror in my room, I can see small ribs poking through my skin. My entire body is bony. All sharp angles and no soft corners or smooth curves. I have small but clever hands. I like to keep my nails short, and this is usually accomplished by chewing them off—a habit I use to consume my time which I don't particularly like. My feet, unlike my hands, are long and awkward. Kind of like a duck, Kennedy says. It's hard to find shoes that fit, and I often have to borrow a pair from one of my brothers. I have an almost-flat chest, another thing that I'm self-conscious about. Other girls grew into nicely curved bodies, while I remained plain and flat and not exactly pleasing to the eye. At least I don't get boys whistling at me in the school halls.

My face, contrary to the rest of me, is round and child-like. I have no visible cheekbones, a wide forehead and a nicely curved chin. My skin is fair, and rather than getting a nice tan from being out in the sun all day, I get a thick smattering of brown freckles across my nose and cheeks. That's Hendrick's nickname for me: Freckles. I have big eyes that are set a little too far apart for my liking. I'm slightly farsighted, a trait Mama says I owe to my grandfather, who saw everything as fuzzy blobs in varying sizes. Unfortunately we can't afford glasses for me. I like the color of my eyes though—a kind of grey-blue that gets darker as it stretches away from the pupil.

My hair has a mind of it's own when it gets longer, so I keep it short, cropped close to my head. I use a knife and I cut it myself, which makes it a little messy and not very precise, often getting into my eyes. Grandma is always telling me to get it out of my face so she can look at me when I speak to her. I never tell her that I like it the way it is. Kennedy always said I should have been called Raven, because my hair is pitch black and kind of shiny, like a raven's feathers. I told him to shut his trap.

I have thick black eyebrows that are too long, unusually small ears, and a snub nose that I'm not particularly fond of. My lips are a shade darker than my skin and protrude ever so slightly from my face. Behind them is a set of mostly-healthy teeth, although they are a pale shade of yellow and the bottom row is crooked. My voice...well, I don't think it's quite fair for me to describe my own voice, since one hears their own voice differently from everyone else. My best guess is that I have a somewhat low voice for a girl, and it has a bit of a rasp. It's not sweet or smooth or easy-going, in fact it's kind of jerky sometimes. At least it's not annoyingly high-pitched.

Unlike a lot of people in District 10, I do enjoy paying attention to what I wear. I have an eye for anything that looks nice or interesting, especially when it comes to clothing. Unfortunately, I live in one of the less-fortunate districts, and I don't have much of a choice in my wardrobe. Even so, I have a particular liking for knit sweaters, overalls, and anything blue or grey. I get most of my clothes from the neighbor, who's daughter is a few years older than me and often gave me whatever didn't fit her when we were younger. I dislike having my hands out in the open, so I like to make sure I either have a set of pockets to hide them away in or a pair of long sleeves that I can pull down and grip the edges of with my fingertips.

I'm not a particularly confident person, and I am not entirely comfortable with my own body. My feet are too long, my legs too short, my arms too thin, and I just don't know how to move around. I'm fidgety, very rarely able to sit still. I tend to pace back and forth, readjust my seating position, or rock from side to side ever so slightly. I know I probably look strange, but I hate keeping still. My pace is quick, and I always look like I have a destination in mind, even when I don't. I dislike making eye contact with people. It just makes me uncomfortable. The way I carry myself is careful and purposeful, and probably a little awkward-looking to some, but I don't really think about that. Their opinion on me is their business and I'd rather not know how many people dislike me.

I'm a firm believer that no one will ever thoroughly know themselves. There is always some hidden aspect, some uncovered talent or flaw that will never be discovered. One can try as hard as they want to figure themselves out, but the human mind is simply too complex to understand it's entirety. There are, however, bits and pieces that one can figure out. I'd say I know myself just about as well as the average person, perhaps slightly better, if anything. I will explain as much as I can. Let me start with my characteristics, and then I'll move in to hobbies and skills and the like.

If you were to list all my traits, I would guess that the one at the top of the list, in big, bold letters, would be spontaneous. This would be followed by one or two sub-categories, but I'll address the main one first. I dislike having a plan. I prefer my schedule to be open, subject to change at a moment's notice. This, of course, means I have some level of disorganization (one of those sub-categories I mentioned earlier). My room is a disaster, my notes for school are messy and chaotic, and when I speak, my thoughts tend to come out in a random sequence that never really seems to have a logical pattern. If I have the impulse to do something, odds are that something will happen without a lot of thought put into it. The flip-side of this is degree of recklessness. As I said, little to no thought is put into my decisions—I simply act on instinct and impulse, which occasionally is not the best choice.

Second on that list of traits might be the word allocentric.

Allocentirc. Adjective. Having one's interest and attention centered on other persons.

Now, this may not be exactly what you think. I am not altruistic.

Altruistic. Adjective. Unselfishly concerned for or devoted to the well-being of others.

Some might say these are synonyms, but my opinion on words is not exactly the same as others. I very rarely put someone else's needs before my own. I am not entirely selfish, but neither do I have an unusually caring heart for the well-being of other people. I am allocentric. I focus on other people. I watch how they move, how they talk, how they act and react. I am absolutely fascinated with the complexity of the human mind and how it works. Each and every human being is so entirely different, it almost seems impossible. I observe and take note until I know someone inside out. Mentally documenting human behavior is a wonderful past time.

This observant habit of mine, I'm pleased to say, makes me a shrewd person. I am excellent at telling lies from the truth, although obviously I am not correct 100% of the time. I'd like to believe I am. I am quite good when it comes to judging a person's character, and I like to use this to my advantage when I pick and choose my potential friends.

I am clever and resourceful, and a little creative at times. Mama used to say I had quite the imagination. I enjoy building things and figuring out how to make it work, or pulling something apart to see the mechanics inside. And while I have an intelligent mind, it does not always come out that way in my speech. I am not gifted with a silver tongue, in fact I stumble over my words often. I can not tailor my speech to make myself seem amiable, as some are able to do.

Amiable. Adjective. Having or showing pleasant, good-natured personal qualities.

My words are not nearly as clever as my mind. I can not come up with quick comebacks for the life of me, I have next to no wit, and sometimes I honestly sound like a fool. The one skill I have with my speech is a little something called deceit. I am a compulsive liar. I often view this as a flaw, but it has come in handy when I would rather not take the blame for something, or when I want to keep a secret. That's another thing I'm good at: keeping secrets and promises. Despite by spontaneous attitude, this is the one thing about me that is reliable. If you tell me a secret, I swear I will take it to my grave.

Moving away from the analytical side of me, let's move on to my aesthetic side.

Aesthetic. Adjective. Concerned with beauty or the appreciation of beauty.

I have an eye for all things beautiful. I can sit for hours at a time and admire a field of flowers or a forest of trees or a sunset of orange and yellow and red and pink. I just love anything that is pleasing to the eye, or ear. I adore music and poetry, although I am completely incapable of writing it myself. I do however appreciate the talents of others. I am also not musically inclined, and I have a voice that sounds like a dying cow, but again, listening to others is extremely enjoyable for me. It is one of my favorite modes of escape.

That's another thing about me: I'm an escapist.

Escapist. Noun. The avoidance of reality by absorption of the mind in entertainment or in an imaginative situation, activity, etc.

Honestly, I hate the state of the world. What kind of demon sends children into an arena to kill each other? It's all so wrong and screwed up I can't stand it. I hate the Games with a passion. We are forced to watch it at home, but I squeeze my eyes shut and press my hands against my ears and curl up until it goes away. I use music and beauty and lyrics to run away from it all and try to forget it exists. I'd rather hear a gentle lie than an ugly truth.

As you may or may not have picked up from all this, I am a highly emotional person with strong opinions on just about everything. While I tend not to voice these opinions unless asked, I dislike when they are challenged. I want to stay true to myself and my values and I get uncomfortable when I think I could be wrong. Even when someone does ask me, I'm often nervous to share my opinion, in fact I can be quite cowardly at times. I am not a brave person. I do not possess the courage that many others have, and I'd rather hide in a hole than do the honorable thing if it keeps me safe.

So, these are the basics of my personality. As promised, I will speak a little bit about my hobbies and skills. Once again, you may have noticed that I have a particular taste for interesting words and their definitions. I'm actually quite obsessive about this—the collection of words. I adore encyclopedias and dictionaries and thesauruses, although there aren't that many in the school library. I love the sound of a good word on my tongue, and memorizing definitions is another form of escapism for me.

Something you may not have guessed is that I'm superstitious.

Superstition. Noun. A widely held but unjustified belief in supernatural causation leading to certain consequences of an action or event, or a practice based on such a belief.

Thirteen is an unlucky number. Don't walk under a ladder. Never ever break a mirror under any circumstances. I don't believe in any sort of god, but I do believe in a kind of energy that the earth possesses. I think of it as a living, breathing thing in and of itself, a creature we are meant to take care of. I think everything happens for a reason, even the bad stuff. Everything is intertwined in some incredible plan that humans will never fully understand. Maybe that's not your opinion, but it's certainly what I believe.

Although I am not a good singer, I have promise when it comes to painting and sketching. I have several sketchbooks that I put together myself with stray papers and string to bind it together, and these I use to keep my drawings in one place. My subjects change from day to day, sometimes a beautiful ocean and other times a grotesque monster. Really it all depends on my mood. My sketchbooks are an excellent way to look back and see how my life was going at a certain point in time.

I also enjoy collecting things. Anything small, shiny, or eye-catching immediately intrigues me, and often I like to slip it into my pocket. Of course, I am not a thief. I take these things off the streets, not from the shops. Stray coins, a lost button, a hair pin, a thimble. They all have stories behind them. I have a little wooden box in my room which I use to hold them all.

And speaking of stories, I'm sure you would like to hear mine.

My earliest memory is not exactly one of my nicest ones. My family cares for ten female cows for the Capitol (we don't actually own them), and one bull. The cows we keep usually in the barn where they're all lined up neatly and we can milk them, but the bull is kept out in a separate pen, and generally his only use is breeding. When I was little, I was always fascinated by the thick, shiny black horns that sprouted from either side of his head. The entire animal was black, save for a small white spot on the back of his left ear. I had been five years old, Mama tells me, and I just had to get a closer look at those horns. He was just standing there, in the middle of the field, chewing on a stalk of grass. So, little me crawled through the slats of the fence that Dad had built, and then I was on the other side. I think I made it about six or seven meters before the bull decided I was getting too close, and suddenly the ground was quivering beneath my feet and I heard angry snorts and when I looked up, this huge, black shadow was bearing down on me. Hendrick told me later that he had been yelling at me, but I wouldn't move, I just stood there and stared like a deer in headlights. He was the one who pulled me out. He jumped the fence and ran and swooped me up. He must have had a bit of head start, I'm not exactly sure how long I was standing there. He was thirteen at the time, and he had no problem picking up little 45-pound me and running to the other side of the field. I haven't gone into the bull pen since.

Growing up with brothers was an adventure. I have four of them: Wiley, my twin, born six minutes before me. Jasper, who is 19 and a pain in the neck. Kennedy, 23, and in charge of the horses. And Hendrick, now 26, working at a butcher shop down the road. Most people would think that having a twin means I'd be close to him, but honestly I don't spend a lot of my time with Wiley. He and Jasper like hanging out together, and then there's me, Kennedy and Hendrick. They're the intelligent ones, like me, who I can actually stand having a conversation with. Wiley and Jasper are all rough-and-tumble or who-can-get-the-most-girls. It's disgusting. People would also assume that having brothers means I'm independent, competitive, and like to wrestle. None of these are true. My brothers have always been gentle with me, and quite often they are the ones who come to my rescue when I need it. As I said before, I am not brave. I am cowardly.

On my first day of school, grade one, I got into a fight with a boy on the playground. He told me girls should sit and read books and sew and cook, not play tag or king of the castle on the old play structure. Even though these weren't exactly my favorite games at the time, I quite proudly told him I believed otherwise, that boys and girls should be equal and do whatever they want. At the age of six, our opinions were very important to us, and they quickly escalated in to an argument, and then suddenly he had punched me in the nose and I was bleeding. Kennedy, ten years old at the time and twice the size of my attacker, was on him in seconds. He got a good beating before one of the teachers realized what was happening and pulled them apart. All three of us had to stay an extra hour that day as punishment, and Kennedy had to do so all week. We never talked about it, and I've tried keeping my opinions to myself since then.

I am lucky enough to have both my parents alive, and one set of grandparents. Both Mama and Grandma had their kids when they were very young, so my grandparents are still in their 60s. Mama is a gentle soul, and loves her music as much as I do. When she was younger she wanted to be a pianist, but of course these dreams are not possible in District 10, and a piano costs an unimaginable amount. Instead, she shares a fiddle with Grandpa, and she loves to play and sing. Grandma has some form or other of dementia—we can't get her to a doctor, because once again, it's too expensive. It's not too bad at the moment, but she often has to ask the date or what we did yesterday or if Dad's parents are still alive. I don't really mind. Grandpa is patient, and never gets tired of answering her questions. I remember he loved to play games with us when he was a kid, from hide and seek to fort building. Now he has a passion for chess. Wiley carved a chess board out of wood for him and I painted it, and we use it to play multiple games during their visits. Dad is tall and strong with a huge laugh that you can hear pretty well across a field. He has a low, gentle voice, and we loved to hear stories from him before bed when we were younger.

Ever since I was about twelve, Dad has come home about once or twice a week extremely late and drunk enough that he can't get ready for bed himself. Mama is often asleep, so it's usually one of the children who have to care of him—most often Kennedy or I. Hendrick needs a good night's rest for work the next day, and Jasper and Wiley are too disgusted to do it, so that leaves the two of us. Dad is never violent or angry when he comes home. He never strikes us. He never shouts. He is simply quiet and I think sometimes ashamed of himself. He never tells us why he does it, but we don't do anything to stop him. Sometimes I wonder if it's his own form of escapism.

One night when I was fourteen, Hendrick came home at two in the morning, just about as drunk as Dad can get. He had never had alcohol before that time. And unlike Dad, he was violent. He slapped me for not latching the door, and again when I didn't pay attention to whatever he was arguing about. He asked me in the morning why I had a black eye, and he hasn't dared touch a bottle of alcohol since then.

I had my first boyfriend when I was sixteen—that was when Mama said I could. There were some girls in my class who had them at thirteen and fourteen, but I wasn't really into boys at that time. Sixteen was about when they started looking cute. His name was Felix, and he wasn't exactly the most popular kid in class. I liked him though, and that was all that mattered. He was smart, funny, and he cared about me. He always made sure he had time to spend with me and sometimes he brought me little gifts, like a flower or a bracelet he made from string or a jar with a cocoon in it. I loved those little gifts. The problem was, he never opened up to me. He rarely told me his honest opinion on things, he disliked talking about his past, and I just couldn't get to know him on any level deeper than his surface. I broke up with him after about four months, to Hendrick's great relief. He told me afterwards (in a joking manner) that I wasn't allowed to date until he had chosen the perfect guy.

Since then there hasn't been too many exciting events in my life, save for Wiley falling out of a tree and breaking his arm when we were seventeen. I told him he was an idiot for trying to climb it, the thing was dead and falling apart and a recent storm had made it extremely unstable. As I said before, he's not exactly one of the intelligent ones. I do enjoy my family, and I love each and every one of them, even if some of them can be a pain. I didn't have many friends growing up, so they kind of fill that void for me. Now all I can do is wait and see what life decides to throw at me next.