eve rosewood {eleven} fin

eve rosewood {eleven} fin Mar 28, 2017 20:43:20 GMT -5

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Post by solo on Mar 28, 2017 20:43:20 GMT -5

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( A P P E A R A N C E ) Beautiful, is what Mama called me when I was born. Of course she did. Isn't that what all mothers do? They bring a child into the world, and no matter how many different faces they see, she's always beautiful. It doesn't matter that we're all red and wrinkly, it doesn't matter that we're screaming and crying, it doesn't matter that all we are is a mess. She will always, always say we're beautiful. I used to agree with her. When I was little, I would look in the mirror, smile, and feel like I was on top of the world. I was beautiful. I always loved the color of my skin, the dark tan that turned it a warm shade of brown. I loved how much hair I had. The corkscrew curls, the way it framed my face and bounced above my shoulders. There was a time, I remember, when I didn't pick out my flaws.

Now, they're all I can see. I don't like looking in the mirror, but at times, I feel like it's all I can do. I shuffle over, stare at my feet, and then look up and all I can see is how wide my nose is. All I can see is my ribs, glaringly obvious, pushing against my skin until they're visible to anyone who looks close enough. The two freckles on my neck, the tangles in my hair, the muddy color of my eyes, the cracks in my lips from not drinking enough water. All I can see is the exhaustion, and I hate it.

Mama still calls me beautiful. But I've stopped smiling when she does and instead I've started to laugh. Because after all, who would think of me as beautiful? Even I don't like to think it. Besides, worrying about something like appearance takes time away from things that matter, like work and school and surviving. I don't have time to worry about the knots in my hair or the dark circles under my eyes. I don't have time to look at my bony hands and wish they were elegant. I don't have time to look at the creases around my mouth and wish they would go away. I have other things to worry about.

( P E R S O N A L I T Y ) I have been called a snob more than once in my life. I can understand why people draw this conclusion, but I can't say I agree with them. I'm not a snob. Yes, I'm controlling, stubborn, blunt, and proud, but I don't believe that makes me a snob. I think I'm simply a little more confident than most of the people in my district. I'm confident in my words and what I say, and I don't like to hide what I'm thinking. I've never been afraid to tell the truth. I've always valued honesty, always placed it above any other formality when it comes to socializing. If people aren't honest, than we can never be entirely sure of what's true and what isn't.

Mom tells me I was proud even when I was younger. Ever since I was a child, I've refused to ask for help. I always had to do things independently, I always had to learn how to accomplish it on my own, I never asked for or accepted assistance. Asking for help always made me feel incompetent, and I hated it. I prefer to figure things out on my own, even if it means trying and failing multiple times. That's partly where my stubbornness comes in. I don't like to give up. I don't like quitting.

Despite everything about me that people call "flaws", I'd say I'm a fairly decent person. Growing up in Eleven has taught me to be a hard worker. Once I start a job, I have to finish it, and I will do it as efficiently as I possibly can. Of course, I prefer being in charge of a job, but I don't mind working for other people. I just have to make sure I have a complete understanding of how everything works and exactly what everyone else is doing. I like to keep things on track, I hate being late.

I also like to be prepared for anything. And when I say anything, I mean anything. I have a box under my bed with everything I'll need when the apocalypse happens. Mom tells me over and over again, it's already happened, but I can't help it. It's the first thing I do every morning: check to make sure everything is still in that box, in it's proper place. I guess some people would call me crazy. But really, when you think about it, no one knows what's going to happen next. Perhaps I'll be the only one who's prepared for it.

( H I S T O R Y ) "Are you sure you don't belong in District Three?" These are the first words I have any real memory of hearing. I can recall my teacher, looking at my work for math and smiling faintly. I don't remember her name. I just remember she was nice, and that she was always impressed with my problem-solving abilities. "No ma'am." I said with a shake of my head, brown curls bouncing around my shoulders. "Pretty sure I belong here." I can remember entering mini math competitions at my school, competing and winning more often than not. I spent my nights under the sheets of my bed, a flashlight in my hand, poring over the homework I'd been given. Mom says I got it from my father. He was always good at math.

I started working in the orchards when I was nine. I had always been mature for my age, aside from the fact that I was a little bossy and disliked being ordered around. I would scale up the trees to the thinnest branches where no one else could reach, and I'd pick the freshest fruit from the treetops and bring them back down in my little basket. That earned us a pretty penny. For the most part, I think everyone enjoyed working with me when I was little. Now I've just become another worker.

I don't mind being 'just another worker'. I like the normalcy of it all, the routine, having a job to get done. School in the day, work in the evenings, preferably before the sun sets. I never liked working in the dark. I always felt alone, even when there were other people around me. I couldn't see them and they just seemed farther away. Regardless, I always do my best to focus on my work, to get the job done. I suppose some people might find it boring. I like boring. I don't like when something unexpected happens, when the course of events changes. Sure, I'm prepared for it, but that doesn't mean I enjoy it.

We moved homes when I was twelve, so we could live closer to the orchard and wouldn't have to walk quite so far. It took me ages to re-adjust. Everything was different, my room, the kitchen, the sitting room, the yard, everything had changed. I had to learn a new route to get to school and work, I had to get used to turning left instead of right to get to the kitchen. Fortunately, we haven't moved since then. I don't think we could afford it even if we wanted to.