malkin rosebrough ❁ d11 ❁ wip

When I say that I am from District 11 with a smile on my face, some people may find it strange. Patriotism is not common in the lower districts, after all. But I am still proud — I have to be. It's the only place I have ever known and the only place I am allowed to know. I am not proud of my district for what it produces, I am proud of it for what it is. It is the necks of orchards craning over the horizon, the warm nights that have borne golden days, and the people that inhabit every home on my street. It is the universe.

Maybe there is something larger out there, but in all my sixteen years of life, I have learned not to worry my head about it. Possibly the only way to leave is to be reaped or die — but those things are synonymous, aren't they? In District 11 you're always worrying about the future (of your crops, of the weather) but this is not a future I want to focus on. I want to focus on the words left for me by authors from epochs before me, the words which quench whatever wanderlust I have and can not express in this world. Maybe I'm selfish for believing that any book, any aspect of life was made for me, and maybe that's why I am so angry when it's stolen from me. I want too much, my father says; ironically, he obsesses over science, material things, the assets of the Capitol more than anyone else I know. He says they shouldn't hold any power over us, which I agree with, but I know deep down he wishes he had that power too. Who doesn't?

I may come across as standoffish sometimes, but I don't mean to be. I can talk with people about all sorts of things once I get comfortable. But sometimes I can be "poisonous", as my family says. Clingy. Uncomfortable. You feel my influence wherever you go. Most importantly, I focus on what I think people want to hear rather than what I feel or what they need. This can be encouraging; sometimes I'm being manipulative. I'm not cruel, of course, just a bit... inimical. But I still smile, and I laugh, and I try not to be crude with others. I've even fallen in love before — with people, with my flowers, with nature. I have yet to fall in love with myself, but I've got centuries to do that. Maybe there's some sort of afterlife where the earth rejects our caskets and turns them into trees. I'd love to be a tree; at least then, there would be no question about my roots.

Now, what does that mean? I know my father, but I don't know my mother. She's alive, just not here. I know my sister, Georgiana — I know the rest of my family. We all have dark hair and skin tones ranging from beige to russet brown. A few of us have lighter eyes like myself, but most have dark eyes. I'm on the taller side, but I was not granted the grace to go with it. I am rather flexible, though, and I've got stamina. Some of my family members are bulkier, and I can lift some stuff but I'm nowhere near the muscle mass of those I see walking around the orchard. Georgiana is like my mirror, save for the birthmark on her cheek and her neuroses compared to my surrender. We get along until we don't. We're a bit odd, but we're mostly happy. Happiness may be fleeting where we live, but temporariness in itself is temporary; if we are happy for a short time, we will be happy again later. I must remember that. When I forget, I go to my garden. I contain my need to be reckless because I have a world that needs me. Anger or temptation is not worth destruction. My family needs me to hold it together (everyone has to hold it together in the case that one of us crumbles), and my garden needs me to give it life.

And so give life I shall, for this is the upshot of my experiment life.