lina meane//d11/cbd2

My red hair matches my personality very poorly. Instead of being boisterous, loud, and outgoing as one might expect from a stereotypical someone with fiery red hair, I am a bit more reclusive. I am a painter for a living, it does not make me much to get by on as not many in district eleven have enough money to bother buying something like a painting.

It's what I enjoy, and that's what makes up for the poor wages. Sitting at the edge of an easel, paint brush gliding across a blank canvas in my small home I recently got for myself as I moved out of my parents'. My parents didn't want me becoming an artist. They said there was no pride, no dignity. I told them there was no pride in becoming an irrigation worker either. Despite my parent's words, when I sit by my masterpieces I feel a sense of pride blooming within me.

My green eyes reflect that pride back out into the world, shining out from my thin, pale, freckled body.

I don't have much else to be proud of. I am no work of art myself, my house is a small messy clutter, and my family is full of drunkards and drug addicts. One of my main reasons for leaving my main family was because my dad would start off into drunken rages after going out for a just a little while. I had been counting the days to my 18th birthday so that I could leave the house where I lived in fear for so long. Now that I am out of that wretched house, all my mind is focused on is making a way for me to live off of my passion.