River Styx | District Nine {FIN}

eighteen, female, district nine, asexual

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appearance

What do I look like? I suppose that may be an important thing to share with those who want to get to know me but haven't actually met me yet, too, rather than just telling you what it's like inside my head. My dark eyes and dark hair, as well as my pale skin and skinny body type don't seem to be what intimidates the other people in my life that haven't woven themselves in all the while ignoring their possible fears of befriending me. Instead, it appears as if the aggressive expression sketched upon my face nearly all of the time is what deters most other humans in my presence. My knuckles are scarred from punching the wall at home in anger all too many times for my own good. They've broken and bled, never quite fully healing. Even if it hurts me, though, I'll still use my fists to fight, despite the stage of damage they're in.

Aside from the scars on my knuckles and the rest of my hands, I'd consider myself to be rather attractive. Unfortunately, I find that this draws those who think the same to me. They always want love, but I'm not interested. My hair is sometimes kept brushed, neat and tidy, but it doesn't bother me if it's a mess. The clothing that adorns my body is usually dark in color, often black or gray. I don't try to dress 'pretty', as I feel that my natural appearance and the small amount of makeup that I put on regularly does enough to show that I'm not some ugly beast lurking around the District that I live in. Again, I don't try to make myself stunningly attractive, but some people still see me as such, no matter how I dress.

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history

I suppose knowing a bit of background information about me is rather vital, as well. Although wealth is something I possess a plethora of, I don't use it to boast. I don't find my existence to be important whatsoever, and therefore, would rather someone who desires a life where they are financially well-off to possess the excess amount of currency that I have in my possession. Money isn't an important thing to me. Then again, neither is my own life. The only lives I truly care about are those of the very few friends that have squeezed their ways into my everyday life. I don't care about myself or my family, like most people do.

Many individuals tell me that I should just forget my past. Unfortunately, for me, that's an action I'm rather incapable of completing. My history is important to me, so I don't want to brush it away from the surface. It's what's truly shaped me, and therefore, shouldn't really be forgotten. My life has been Hell, but I've learned to live with it, even if I don't want to. I'd never kill myself- no, that's not the way I want to go. I'd rather die fighting in the Games, which is something I've dreamed of for a long time. The Games don't scare me, and I don't want to win them. I want to die in the Games, and I want my family to mourn me as a result. They deserve the pain of losing me, because they've caused me so much pain during my lifetime.

The things my family has put me through truly seem to have begun when I was six years old, after my older brother moved out of the house. He was nineteen, finally safe from the reaping, and wanted to get away from how our parents treated him. Now that he was old enough to live on his own, he did just that. Although, this means that the distress he went through was passed onto me, and I began to feel the wrath of my parents. Now, I despise my brother, as it's like he abandoned me when he knew perfectly well that it would only hurt me.

(please note: the following two paragraphs have a trigger warning attached to them, due to the topic of abuse, so skip if need be. they can be skipped and still have the bio be able to be understood.)

Now, the chores that I did day in and day out, all day, every day until my parents let up a little bit when I became of reaping age are not what I'm complaining of. No, it's more the emotional torture that they'd caused me throughout the days I've been alive and living in their home. They call me names, telling me I'm an idiot, that I'm insane, that I have problems and that I need to get over myself because I'm too confident. They tell me that I have 'mental problems' and that my panic attacks need to stop, even though I am completely incapable of controlling such things.

When I had panic attacks, my parents would lock me in a cage in the basement, up until I was about fourteen years old and found a way to break out of it in my rage. After that, they began hitting me whenever I had panic attacks. Both of these things purely made my life worse, and made my urge to go into the Games even stronger. I wish I could show them how terrible they'd been to me during my lifetime and why it's harmed me so much, but I'm not sure I know how to do so.

(end trigger warning)

Eventually, my parents were punished for what they did to me. I was taken away from them at the age of sixteen and given to a foster family until I was eighteen. On my eighteenth birthday, I moved out of my own, and I now live like that. I'm rather disconnected from my family at this point, but I wish I had a way of telling them how much they'd changed my life for the worse. One of these days, when I volunteer for the Games, however, and die in them, they'll mourn me, I'm sure. I'll just have to wait for that day to come, and hope that, even though I won't be alive to see it, they'll start to feel the pain of what they'd done to me.

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personality

I know I have informed others of the fact that my life has been Hell, but, in all reality, it's been worse than Hell. Hell is where I want to go, in the end, as it'd be a relief from what I deal with now, but not as peaceful as Heaven. After all, I've never been all that fond of peace and silence. I like chaos and destruction, just not in the way my parents brought it onto me. Nowadays, I have become rather chaotic and destructive myself, but I try my hardest not to take it out on other people around me. Instead, I've become a slight criminal, breaking into abandoned homes and vandalizing what's inside. I've yet to get in trouble for it, but wouldn't be too concerned if I ended up getting punished. As long as I wasn't turned into an Avox for it, it wouldn't concern me, no matter what the punishment was. Even death wouldn't scare me as much as losing my ability to speak my mind.

I've always been the talkative type, just not the friendly kind. I like to tell people what I'm thinking, whether it's good or bad. I'm more likely, however, to tell people if I hate them, than if I want to be their friend. I'll tell of people for being annoying quite frequently. Despite this, though, I do have a few friends. I can be a nice person if I need to be, and my best friend, Persephone, has learned this. She is the one person I truly open up to. Her boyfriend, Hades, is someone I've spoken to from time to time, but I find him to be rather cruel, and tell Persephone she needs to get away from him. Unfortunately, she refuses to leave him, and it concerns me, as she won't tell me why she sticks around with him.

My violent tendencies generally just surface when I'm angry. Although, I do get angry quite often, so I suppose it's not all too uncommon. I'm sure that, when the day comes that I volunteer for the Hunger Games, I will fight and kill, only to be killed in the end. That's what I want for myself. I want to fight. I want to kill. I want to die. I want them to mourn me.

Persephone doesn't deserve to see me die, though.

Maybe I should live, just for her, but I'm not sure.

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1397 words