ada mahadeva-goravich / district 3 / fin!
Feb 19, 2024 11:17:44 GMT -5
Post by d8 🐀 setta furey on Feb 19, 2024 11:17:44 GMT -5
Ada Mahadeva-Goravich. 16. District 3.
You're a pretty girl, yes, but that's not what you want to be known for. Your parents worked hard all their lives, climbing their way up career ladders all the way to the top, never taking no for an answer. Throughout all the years (not enough) that you spent with them, you never saw them falter. When the Rose Plague swept through District Three, everything changed. Mr and Mrs Mahadeva were social creatures, interested not only in hard sciences, but the softer sort too. They wanted to understand more so they could do more, to the point that it became their undoing. Volunteering to help the sick just landed them in hospital beds of their own, where they withered away in isolation from the thing they'd worked the hardest for, the one they'd loved the most -- their little girl, you. Ada.
You try not to take their short sighted decision to delve into the heart of the infection too personally, but it's something you've internalised all the same. By some miracle, you never got sick, and were taken in by your aunt and uncle. They spoiled you rotten, but in a different way than your parents had. They were always looking to distract you. Where your parents brought you to places, gave you things to study, to take apart and put back together again; your aunt and uncle dangled them in front of your face, rattling them about to keep your attention away from what they were doing behind your back.
Your parents' money was plundered by them. All they worked for, all they put together to give you a better life, was gone. Is gone. You've never seen a cent of it. With their nice new house, and improved social standing, your aunt and uncle didn't need you around anymore. You'd been happy to help, pleased to imagine new life breathed into your childhood home, excited to be apart of it all. Through your grief, one long grey shadow, it was the only light you could see.
You're discarded as thanks. You make new homes out of stoops and awnings, moving frequently, a ghost of your former self. In your reflection you see your hair has become dull, your pretty, round face has deflated. You're not just a ghost relative to your own life; you're invisible to everyone. It's convenient for them to avert their eyes, to pretend not to see. It's hard not to be bitter now when you think of how many of these people your parents knew, and how many of them they worked for. They were peaceful, hard working people, who loved unconditionally, and what had it done for them? What had it done for you?
The months you spend on the streets change you irrevocably. With the kindness you'd been shown by your parents, you'd never been much of a cynic before. You were close to becoming one, nearly being dragged down by your circumstances. Then, the right person saw you.
You're taken to Goravich House, where you're reminded that at the end of the day, it does just take one person. One person to see you, one person to set a place like this up. One person to win the Hunger Games, your mind supplies, though you push that thought very firmly to the back of your mind. This is the type of place your parents would have supported, if they could've. Being there doesn't feel good, doesn't feel remotely like being home, but you feel closer to your family, and closer to yourself than you have in a long time.
Your pretty face will just be a boon to aid you. It won't take you all the way -- you haven't got the body to match, but that's alright. You don't want your face to be the focus of things anyways. People will just have to accept the poor posture that's been bred over countless nights bent over a desk or a keyboard working. You're short, shorter than was projected, which you feel slighted over, but are working to accept. You've seen what greed for glamour can do to a person's heart, have felt the consequences first hand. You're not looking to rise above your station, necessarily, no. You're just interested in recuperating your parents' losses, in becoming somebody they could be proud of.
So you work hard, and you don't fuss... much. You speak out for what's right, and you look out for the other kids at Goravich House. After all, they're the closest thing to family left to you now. Maybe one day, when you're older and when you've reached the top, you'll come back. You'll work here in your old age, or donate, or engineer a new wing, or... something. You'll give something to the place that returned you to yourself.
You're a pretty girl, yes, but that's not what you want to be known for. Your parents worked hard all their lives, climbing their way up career ladders all the way to the top, never taking no for an answer. Throughout all the years (not enough) that you spent with them, you never saw them falter. When the Rose Plague swept through District Three, everything changed. Mr and Mrs Mahadeva were social creatures, interested not only in hard sciences, but the softer sort too. They wanted to understand more so they could do more, to the point that it became their undoing. Volunteering to help the sick just landed them in hospital beds of their own, where they withered away in isolation from the thing they'd worked the hardest for, the one they'd loved the most -- their little girl, you. Ada.
You try not to take their short sighted decision to delve into the heart of the infection too personally, but it's something you've internalised all the same. By some miracle, you never got sick, and were taken in by your aunt and uncle. They spoiled you rotten, but in a different way than your parents had. They were always looking to distract you. Where your parents brought you to places, gave you things to study, to take apart and put back together again; your aunt and uncle dangled them in front of your face, rattling them about to keep your attention away from what they were doing behind your back.
Your parents' money was plundered by them. All they worked for, all they put together to give you a better life, was gone. Is gone. You've never seen a cent of it. With their nice new house, and improved social standing, your aunt and uncle didn't need you around anymore. You'd been happy to help, pleased to imagine new life breathed into your childhood home, excited to be apart of it all. Through your grief, one long grey shadow, it was the only light you could see.
You're discarded as thanks. You make new homes out of stoops and awnings, moving frequently, a ghost of your former self. In your reflection you see your hair has become dull, your pretty, round face has deflated. You're not just a ghost relative to your own life; you're invisible to everyone. It's convenient for them to avert their eyes, to pretend not to see. It's hard not to be bitter now when you think of how many of these people your parents knew, and how many of them they worked for. They were peaceful, hard working people, who loved unconditionally, and what had it done for them? What had it done for you?
The months you spend on the streets change you irrevocably. With the kindness you'd been shown by your parents, you'd never been much of a cynic before. You were close to becoming one, nearly being dragged down by your circumstances. Then, the right person saw you.
You're taken to Goravich House, where you're reminded that at the end of the day, it does just take one person. One person to see you, one person to set a place like this up. One person to win the Hunger Games, your mind supplies, though you push that thought very firmly to the back of your mind. This is the type of place your parents would have supported, if they could've. Being there doesn't feel good, doesn't feel remotely like being home, but you feel closer to your family, and closer to yourself than you have in a long time.
Your pretty face will just be a boon to aid you. It won't take you all the way -- you haven't got the body to match, but that's alright. You don't want your face to be the focus of things anyways. People will just have to accept the poor posture that's been bred over countless nights bent over a desk or a keyboard working. You're short, shorter than was projected, which you feel slighted over, but are working to accept. You've seen what greed for glamour can do to a person's heart, have felt the consequences first hand. You're not looking to rise above your station, necessarily, no. You're just interested in recuperating your parents' losses, in becoming somebody they could be proud of.
So you work hard, and you don't fuss... much. You speak out for what's right, and you look out for the other kids at Goravich House. After all, they're the closest thing to family left to you now. Maybe one day, when you're older and when you've reached the top, you'll come back. You'll work here in your old age, or donate, or engineer a new wing, or... something. You'll give something to the place that returned you to yourself.
