Evelyn Roving || D8
Dec 15, 2023 15:10:20 GMT -5
Post by minnethxthemin on Dec 15, 2023 15:10:20 GMT -5
Evelyn Roving
16-years-old
Female
District 8
Utterly Certain.
Evelyn was not entirely sure of when exactly it had happened, though she had a strong suspicion that it had always been there, that feeling that swept across her body every time she had watched the games, the reaping, the bloodshed. Every year, without fail, it had come, enamoured and encapsulated her in a fiery ball of spite.
Of Envy.
The resentment was perpetually apparent upon her face during those fateful times for her district. It was not a pity, as she had once mistaken it back when she was too young to truly comprehend herself, nor an empathy, as she had hoped for it to be, back when she denied herself of this. Certainly, the girl had sincerely hoped that the family was not suffering. Certainly, the girl had logically understood that the games were a suicide mission.
But logic and compassion were not enough to overwhelm the monster that lurked within, and every time Evelyn’s name was not announced she found herself sighing, not out of relief, but rather with frustration. Being objectively aware of the danger of the games had done nothing to ease the growing fury, the emerald green that threatened to take over, that threatened to make a scene and to scream that she deserved it far more than any of the little kids around her.
She knew better than that. It would not be valuable for her to perform such an act; not for her life goals. The middle Roving child had long since deluded herself into high aspirations, ones which she could not allow any little blot to tarnish; which meant no outbursts, no fights, no outspoken opinions. Certainly she had plenty, but they were to be kept entirely between herself and the diary she held so dear. A notebook of sorts, bound in offcuts of denim, and which held the unyielding depths of her rage, as well as the plan.
It was a simple plan, really, far simpler than most. She was to win the Hunger Games, and use that as a platform for her innermost dreams, the ones that were trapped between those two scraps blue. The superstitious type, she dared not say them out loud, as once verbally spoken, even in whispers, they ran the risk of not coming true– which meant they were a secret best kept to herself.
Evelyn did exactly that.
She kept to herself, or at least tried to. Her free time was little, and the youngest Roving was convinced that she spent the majority of it coughing (always, coughing) over the fumes that seemed to leak out of her sibling’s clothes– their home insisting upon emulating the factory that had become the centre of their lives.
She would never speak of it, but Evelyn had far greater ambitions than the factory.
Beyond the curse, it would be hurtful to speak of it, and the darling of the family had long since decided that she would not hurt those closest to her. It was for the same reasons that she did not speak of her little monster, the one that she had managed to keep oh-so restrained all these years, lest it upset her darling Ma that she even consider such a thing.
It helped, of course, that she kept her lips sealed within the home.
Instead, she favoured practising her embroidering under the watchful eye of her Ma. A silent, yet unequivocally important activity, one which excused her from the mindless chatter of those whose brains had long since been melted by the fumes. She did love them, she often reminded herself, as a fourth threaded daisy appeared on the scrap of hessian– one that would be strategically unpicked within the hour– she just wasn't one of them.
It was a strange comfort, the reminders:
You must love your family.
Seemingly obvious, yet easily forgettable as she had found. Evelyn concluded that this was clearly the fault of the smog that seeped into her brain like dye into cloth and caused such reliance on her reminders.
You must offer sympathy to the tribute’s family.
She gave them The Glance, it felt easier. The head down, eyes up one which conveyed no real emotion. It allowed her to offer a form of sympathy, and to bury her true emotions beneath a glaze of sorrow.
You must appear glad to not be reaped.
This one she had always found to be oh-so difficult. It was easier now, her siblings escaped the reaping-age, leaving only her in the pen awaiting her fate. It was far easier to seem glad from a distance than when stood right beside her older sister. This one, she had considered crossing out a few times. But, as it was still applicable, she had elected to maintain it.
You must do needlework every night.
It allowed for silent contemplation away from smalltalk, and to hone her skills, the ones that would be necessary when she was a Capitol resident after being crowned Victor.
You must study.
This was twofold. Of course, Evelyn had aspired for the best grades, the best opportunities lest she, much like her older siblings, age beyond reaping. Certainly, her Ma would release the breath she had been holding for so long, after watching so many children pass through, waiting for her last little baby to survive, but such a misfortune would force Evelyn into the longer route. She studied for school, and she studied hard in those moments of peace without the jabbering that deafened her.
She also studied the Capitol. Their fashion primarily, what was trending, what changed, each year she silently judged the representative, and obsessively watched the pre-games and the commentary with bated breath– just hoping to see some new, extravagant gown. Her parents had long since chalked it up to nerves about watching her friends fight.
Evelyn was not one to disagree.
Her surname is one which means unrefined thread, though Evelyn is anything but. She keeps herself perfectly clean, occasionally slightly too clean– with red stripes from over-scrubbing as she refuses to even present as slightly grubby. Her clothes reek of bleach, and her hands often are reddened from the washing, or from needle pricks, something which stands out against her pale skin. Despite the constant coughing, which emits an unattractive sound and puffs her cheeks out, Evelyn could be described as ethereal. Sharp, intensely defined, the dark haired girl seems slightly unreal– though she is not satisfied with this. Evelyn wants to look like someone from the Capitol, with all their modifications, that is her dream.
She is not there just yet-- hopefully, soon.
