valentine wolfe {one} finished

Basics:
When I was a kid, I would always ask my parents why they named me Valentine. Valentine Wolfe, out of all the names they could've picked. Why not something nice, like Sarah or Emily or Hanna? No, they named me Valentine. I don't mind it so much now. In fact, I kind of like it. Sounds kind of haunting, doesn't it?

I celebrated my eighteenth birthday last summer, and by celebrate, I mean I sat alone in my room and fiddled with a deck of cards. Yeah I know, District One, I should be rich enough to have a celebration, right? Nope. My family is just barely in the middle class when it comes to the economy. Not to mention they probably wouldn't want to celebrate even if they could.

Appearance:
Lots of people have a hard time identifying me, since whenever I'm out in the public I often have my face covered in paint. It tends to attract more customers if I have an example, you know? And if I'm not selling the paint, I'm practicing, which means my regular face doesn't actually come out that often. I dislike looking at myself in the mirror. I can cover myself in paint, create a new face, almost become a new person. But when all of that comes away, I'm still just plain-and-simple Valentine.

Take away the paint, wash it all off, and you will see a skinny, pasty-skinned girl. I have a long face, with a pointy chin, thin nose, high cheekbones, and small eyes the shade of a murky pond. Too green to be called blue, with hints of brown that overall make it difficult to name. I'm not underweight, but I'm not exactly made up of nice curves and smooth edges either. My bones are all thin and sharp, jutting out in places like my elbows and shoulders and hips. My fingers, like the rest of me, are long and bony, which can look a little awkward to some, but I'm fairly adept with them. I can use both with equal skill. Ambidextrous, I think they call it. It helps a lot when I have to paint a kid's face who won't stop squirming.

The one thing I kind of like about myself is my hair. It's reaches down to my hips, ranging in color from corny yellow to pale brown. Mom just calls it dirty blonde, but I like to be a bit more creative. I prefer to leave it down, although it can get in the way when I'm trying to paint, in which case I pull it up into a ponytail. I didn't stop growing until last year, when I'd reached 5' 11". So on top of my angles, ghostly complexion, and overall unfriendly aura, I'm now frighteningly tall. When I take out my face paints, I usually have to be sitting, otherwise I tend to scare the little kids away.

My pace is quick, always looking like I'm going somewhere when in fact I'm sometimes just wondering. When I speak it's usually in short, clipped sentences, and I don't really like saying any more than what's needed. As for the way I dress, I like to keep it simple, although with something interesting to look at. Plaid shirts and scarves are particular favorites of mine. I tend to give of an intimidating demeanor, which can be good or bad. It depends on the situation. Lots of people would call me "hard to approach". But, that's getting into my personality.

Personality:
Am I really hard to approach? Well, that depends. If you're a kid whose parents are willing to pay me to paint your face, I'll probably be nice to you. Otherwise? Good luck. I'm an introvert. I don't like social situations, I don't like being around people, I don't like crowds or loud places. I prefer to be alone, locked away in my own room, where it's blissfully quiet. There, I don't have to worry about keeping up a conversation. I can pull out my deck of cards, practice a few tricks, maybe work on a new sketch or an idea for my face paint. I guess some people would call me an artist, in the very literal sense. I can't sing or write poetry or music, but I can definitely draw, and obviously paint.

You could also call me a perfectionist. I dislike leaving something unfinished. When I start a new drawing, I can't just leave it lying on the floor. I have to sit there and draw and if it takes me six hours, then it takes me six hours. I just have to finish it. That's probably why I haven't tackled any bigger projects: it would take me a lot longer than six hours, and I would refuse to take a break. I'm an organized, task-oriented person. I create checklists, I sort out my sock drawer by color and material, I pull on my bed sheets until they're completely smooth. I guess that's borderline OCD. I mean, I won't go completely insane if my writing isn't absolutely perfect, but I sure do appreciate it when everything is organized and in it's proper place. My room is spotless, my belongings tucked away in their correct drawers and shelves.

I believe I've mentioned my deck of cards a few times now. I'm not a magician, and I don't think it could be my profession. It's more of a hobby. I have a small deck tucked away beneath my pillow. It's a special deck, because I made it. I cut each card myself and drew on the different suits an painted the backs a nice shade of black and grey. They didn't move very nicely in my hands at first, but over time I've worn them in, so to speak.

Let's see, what else is interesting about me? I'm not very talkative, but I'm sure you assumed that from the whole introvert thing. I'm more of an observer, quite smart, actually. You'd be surprised how good my memory is. I was always good with numbers, and whenever my Mom went to buy groceries at the market, I'd tally up the prices out loud as we walked and figure out how much everything would cost. It got to the point where she'd ask me how much she was paying before she even tried to do it herself.

I've changed a fair bit since my childhood. I don't get along with my parents quite as well as I used to. Of course, I don't hate them. We have more of a mutual relationship in which they feed me and give me a place to stay, and in return I paint the town kid's faces and earn them a bit of extra cash. I'm pretty sure I got the better end of the deal.

The other difference is that I'm not nearly as friendly. I take care of myself, and that's all I need to worry about. I'm not afraid to admit I'm a selfish person. I don't give money to beggars, I won't help the kid who's scraped his knee, I refuse to help old ladies across the street. It's just a huge waste of time in my opinion. It doesn't accomplish anything. If I take care of myself, then I only have me to worry about, and I don't have to think about a bunch of other people while I'm at it.

Okay, so I guess that's the basics of my personality. I have a few quirks you might be interested in. I get allergies in the spring. I've never been to a doctor, but Mom says it's the pollen, and I take her word for it. She also says I'm depressed. I stay in my room all day, paint, shuffle a deck of cards, and read books. But I'm not sad, so I don't believe her on that part. I have a fear of spiders. I snort when I laugh. Embarrassing, right? At least not many people hear me laugh, and I see spiders more often in the house than out in the public. I have a watch, but I keep it in my pocket rather than on my wrist. It gets annoying when I'm painting or drawing, plus it's uncomfortable. Oh yeah, and I suck at lying. Mom says that's a good thing.


History:
Yes, I'm sure you're absolutely dying to hear my life story. Truth be told, it's not that interesting. My earliest memory has to do with painting. (Surprise, surprise, right?) I was maybe five or six years old at the time, and I'd found my Dad's paint in the old shed next to our house. He was an artist for a time when he was younger, and when he gave it up to become a jeweler, he never got around to throwing out all his old tools. So little me wandered into the shed, found some old paint, and promptly began working away. I ran inside a few minutes later, grinning from ear to ear, telling my Mom I had turned myself into a tiger. She was horrified when she saw the orange and black paint all over my face. Luckily, it hadn't dried yet, and they were able to get it off without much hassle. After Mom had scolded me, Dad came into my room and sat on my bed and told me about all the wonders of face paint. The next day, we went in to town and bought some face paint that I could use without harming my skin.

Which reminds me, you might be interested in where we live. It's a small house on the edge of District One, our yard right up against the fence. The big electric one that no one dares to cross. When I was about eight, I wandered out and sat and stared at the fence for a good part of the day. I told Mom and Dad I was going out to play, so they didn't bother me. They had always told me not to touch it, but I did anyways, thinking I could get out and explore the other side. I got a shock that sent my tiny body flying back a few feet, and I had bright red burns on my fingers where I'd touched it, and I didn't stop crying until both my parents had rushed outside and brought some ice and cooled my fingers down. I don't remember much of the scene, I just remember how much it hurt.

I started to become particularly good at face painting when I was twelve. I would use it in school plays, or for other kids who saw me practicing and asked if I could put some on them. I did simple things like butterflies and cats and dogs. I got better paint over time, and figured I could use it to create more interesting designs. I learned how to do fake wounds with some nice reds and a bit of glue. My Mom panicked one day when I came downstairs with a purple welt on my cheek. It wasn't until I saw she was crying that I peeled it off and explained to her in annoyance that it was fake. She wasn't pleased with me that day. Dad told me later that he thought it was pretty cool.

Year sixteen came around, and that was when I became the loner at school. I decided I didn't like people, and found them to be rather annoying. So I withdrew from social activities, only went out when I had to, and slowly closed myself up in my room. It was just easier that way. That was also when I started to paint faces for a price. I was good enough to do stage makeup, and so I would go out to the town square with my face painted like a lion or a fairy or a butterfly, and the little kids would come running. They all loved it. I learned to be nice to them, to smile and make small talk with their parents if they stuck around. I earned a pretty penny for my work; you'd be surprised what some parents will pay to please their kids.

Nothing much has happened in the past two years. I've kept up my part time job, remained secluded in my own room when I can, made as few friends as possible. None, actually. It's just too much effort. Instead I go about my day and keep my head down and avoid my classmates. Thank goodness school is almost over. Then maybe I can get a real job and do something with my life. What exactly that will be, I'm not sure yet.