Re: //Frederica Junsoma\\ {District Seven} [FIN.]

We are not going to start off with, "Frederica was a very slender girl," this time (although the girl is pretty thin). In fact, we are not discussing her physical features yet at all. Our first stop on her masterpiece of a body, is just below her right rib. If you examine the flesh closely (although must will/do not), you can make out two small marks. If you were to accidentally spot these, she would hastily cover it up, saying they were mere birthmarks. But, weary reader, birthmarks these are not. The examiner will notice upon further investigation, that the marks seem to have been made by knuckles, as if two had been driven into her side with a ferocious force (see section three;History). Farther along the body, there are several cuts along her thighs. A long one runs just up the side, whereas about five small ones clump around it. They all seem to have been made by the same blade, at the same time, but by whom, is unknown (see section three;History). Traveling further, you will have reached her feet. They will have looked normal from afar, if she has thrown on a pair of cheap sandals, but if a passerby were to look closely, they will have noticed that part of the girl's big toenail were missing. Such injury could have come from a stubbed toe, or a stomped feet, either very likely.

Ah, now onto the part you want to hear. Well, let's start at the top. Which would be... her hair! It is a rather sleek black, smooth to the touch and glossy all over. It seems as if it has been taken good care of. Conditioned regularly, perhaps. But if, say a friend ran her fingers through the strands, the fingers would catch in the twists and tangles of the hair, and sometimes, upon yanking the entrapped fingers out, you could fine a clump of dirt, or a shower of dandruff. It would be most unpleasant, for this particular friend, if he were to touch the stuff at all.
And although we have seen the bad side of the tangles on her head, it can actually be quite beautiful, if prepared right. Sometimes she chooses to let it be, and these are the times it is in a disarray, with the dirt and the dandruff and all that junk. But if she took the time to mess with it a little, like she does most Saturdays and Sundays, you could catch her with long, delicate curls handing from her petite head. Or, on a rare occasion, she might even have it hooked up into one of those fancy ponytails her mother had used to make before setting off for school.

Frederica's face greatly resembles those in those ancient comic books. What was it called? Menga? Mangie? Well, whatever. The rounded scalp, the square-looking cheeks, and the pointed chin, even her big, slanted eyes resemble those cartoon characters greatly.
Her forehead is smooth and rounded, sometimes giving off a glossy shine if she decided to moisturize right the previous night. There are few blemishes on her face, and even when they do pop up, she does everything she can to get rid of them.
Her eyebrows are almost nonexistent, due to her taking a knife to them, trying to make them more feminine-looking. They curve over her eyes a little unbalanced due to the cutting session, and end just slightly over the corner of her eye.
Ah, her eyes. How they sparkle in the light! How they are just the right shade of blue! How she wishes this was true! In reality, her eyes are about as boring as bricks. They're a very pale green color, and sparkle is the last thing someone would choose to describe them. Although the two look as if they could see right through your soul, they are in fact, regular. Bland. Non flashy. And it only adds on to her irritation.
The nose. The one thing she can actually take pride in, and what a small thing that is. It curves down her face, ending in a slight point at the end, coming in at only about an inch long. There are little to no nose hairs hanging from the nostrils, and there's not a booger in there she doesn't know about.
And finally, the lower half of her face. The mouth, cheeks, and chin! The cheeks have almost no fat to them, and protrude few centimeters from the rest of her face. The skin, stretched slightly over her protruding cheek bones, sloped down to form her lips. They are high and arched, and are a very pale color, when not applied with the meager amount of makeup she has in her possession, and they are often chapped from the harsh winds and scorching heat.

Slightly below the girl's pointed chin, the skin curves down around her throat. The skin is sometimes red from the countless hours spent in the sun, chopping lumber and repairing buildings. There are three moles to the right of the neck. The first in the middle has a defenite shape, a solid brown color, with one prick of hair. The other two are a little more pale, the ends blending with the rest of her skin. There are several faded lines of wear in the bend, which is completely natural, yet she tries to hide it anway, covering it in the shadow of her hair.

Moving along down. You could say she has a rather big chest. Another thing she takes full pride in (better than the damned nose). She calls them her "apples," and loves the fact that, although they are large, they look more natural than the ones stitched on to the their chests.

Her stomach is rather finely tuned up, thin yet muscular. Although she will not deny she is getting a little chubby, her figure is to die for, and just ask her, she would do just that.
A waist larger than the stomach, some people would say she has a bit of a Thunder-Thigh. Although she will deny it, you could see the plentiful shapes from a large distance away.
Legs like toothpicks, it's a wonder the things even hold her up. Thin as her torso, she couldn't wish for a better shape. Desperate for perfection, she is immensely proud of this little feature.

And, last but certainly not least for Frederica, the clothes! She will never stray in public wearing grubby tee-shirts and faded old jeans, for her it needs to be top-notch style. Well, as much style as District Seven allows. She will change about eight times a day, and will literally rip her clothes off in public if someone says it doesn't look great.
Soft blouses and tight pants (especially tugging around the buttocks) will suit her just fine on any old regular day. Black, gold, red. Her favorite colors adorn her torso, revealing more than a little cleavage, and slightly showing her midriff. She loves the looks she gets as she strolls down the drab school halls. The awed gazes, the jealous glances. The very thing she lives for.

People, upon meeting Frederica, will imagine she was born in the wrong place. She surely should not live in District Seven, if she has a flare for the Capitol! If her dreams are filled with fashion runways, and designer clothes. Well, that's half true.
In reality, Frederica Junsoma's dreams are filled with gore. She enjoys repeating the sound of ripping flesh in her head, so she often finds images of death and destruction filling her sleeping head. She has always had some sort of grim interest in the cause of death, but it has turned into a full-scale obsession.

If asked, Frederica will tell you the truth. She hates the Capitol. White-hot rage fills her when she thinks of its gleaming buildings, and glamorous cars. Hates it because she so desperately wishes she were there.
Spite fills her when she imagines President Snow, lounging in his luxorious bedroom. She hates the fact that she was born so far from where she so desperately wants to be. She hates her mother for bringing her up in sucha dreadfull place. For conceiving her at all.

A disease Derica has no name for hides within her body. Well... within her brain, more like it. She has no idea how to describe it, only that she hears voices some people don't. In her own head. And, not just any voice. The voice of her axe. She loves it dearly, and it tells her the same. Sometimes it tells her to do things she wouldn't normally do, but it guides her through life, and she owes it greatly. She carries it around on her belt, so that even when she's alone she has someone there to help her.

Derica doesn't mean to be evil. Really, it's her axe's fault, although she doesn't realize this. She thinks killing comes naturally for everyone. That pouring vials of poison into someone's drinking cup is a pass of ritage. That sticking a knife in an eye is a cherishable memory. She does nothing wrong.

And, although we are making progress down the iceburg of horrid disfunctions, Derica's problems are far from over. Because, in addition to the talking axe, and the hateful attitude, everything must go Frederica's way. Some people call it OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder), some people just call it strange. But, if something in her everyday life were to go horribly wrong (example: she wasn't served ham and cheese sandwiches at school every thursday) a meltdown would be inevitable. It's not her fault, really, just something she was born with. Half the time, she doesn't even notice she is being obsessive or compulsive, or whatever word would describe that disease best. She beleives it's just part of everyone.

Alas, the disfunctions stop there! Aside from being a bossy, murderous, hateful, compulsive little bitch, she is also very upbeat. She is an optomistic person... only in a strange kind of way. For example, if you were to call her a name, keeping a pleasant tone, she would casually threaten to rip your heart out with her teeth, and stomp on your head untill it combusts upon itself. While others find it disturbing, she finds it amazing how she can remain happy in even the gloomiest of times.

On April 19th, of the 39th Hunger Games. She was born on the fourteenth hour of the fourth day, to be exact. Overjoyed parents, and compassionate grandparents wishing the family well, Derica rode to her new home nestled in the crook of her mother's arm.

Or, this is how it should have happened.

Instead, the moment she was conceived, a fight broke out. Being slightly retarded, the father declared the baby to be a boy, and claimed the name Fredwardo. The mother, having checked over the female parts twice, told him off, and named her Frederica. The father grew angry, and stomped from the room, swearing revenge upon the woman. The mother, having grown weary of the man's random outwardly behavior, had resigned to her room, with the help of her father. While sleeping, the father sneaked his way into the room, and took the baby from the crib.

On the way out, he ran into his mother-in-lay, who had demanded him to return the baby to her mother. His anger sparked, and he quickly snatched up a large knife, and stabbed her in the stomach. The woman fell, and he saw it as a chance to escape. He fled with Frederica, leaving the woman to die.

Upon arriving at his house (the mother had gone into labor halfway through dinner with her parents), he packed a bag, and fled to the woods, Derica nestled in a small carry-on. He only stopped when he passed the district gates, and was well into the forest. Setting up camp, he retired for the night, his bed made of a single dirty sheet and pillow from the house.

Back at the house, the father stumbles upon his wife's body. Seeing his son-in-law is nowhere to be found, he woke his daughter, and grabbed a gun, hidden in one of the low cupboards. He had raced through the district, his daughter at his heels.
Coming to the house, the mother told her father her husband had enough common sense to stay away from here. He insisted on checking anyway. Barging into the bedroom, he saw the room was in a dissaray, and knew the husband had fled.

The mother took her father to the district gates, and told him sometimes her husband liked to take breaks, always coming this way. Both scrambled under the thing, and raced through the dense foilage, coming to the spot the husband rested in minutes.

The husband was started, having woken when heavy footfalls approached him. He quickly found a sharp enough stick, and stood ready near the fire he set up, ready to fight whatever was coming. When his father-in-law raced through, unable to stop, he raised the stick, lodging it deep in the old man's throat.

The mother lost it.

Picking up a large rock, she ran to her husband before he could react, and repeatedly beat his head with it. She watched in grim satisfaction as the skull cracked, and the brain was punctured. She held him in her arms as he died, rocking him gently and promising him everything was going to be alright.

Five years later, Frederica was diagnosed with Schizophrenia. Her dear mother began to worry about the girl. She would, instead of running around outside with the neighborhood girls, coop herself in her room and converse with her building blocks. At the dinner table, she would tell mommy about how the fork didn't want to eat meatloaf that night, but raw steak. She would tell dripping snow it was being rude if it fell on her, and would tell off the tree for allowing it to stay there.

As the years passed, she began to get better. Less and less voices spoke to her, and even then only on occasion. It wasn't untill she dropped out of school (her junior year of highschool) and took up work in lumber that she met Blade the axe. It was love at first sight. It was a beautiful tool, a finely curved handle and a manually sharpened blade, she took to it at once.

After meeting Blade, other voices stopped talking to her. She began to spend more and more time with him, dropping her responsibilities, and becoming rash and dangerous. She would sneak out at night under Blade's bidding, and perform theft, or other severely punishable crimes. She trusted him, and he took advantage of that every time he could. As years progressed, so did her attitude. She became antisocial, yet at the same time, she wanted everyone to love her. She began throwing herself at men, begging for attention.

And, one day, she got it.

School had just ended, and she had been on the way home, a short walk to her house. She made it about a block before a man stepped from around a buidling and called her name.
At first she was flustered. The man had taken time to find out her name. And she had no idea who he was. A complete stranger calling out, maybe hoping to become friends. But she learned very quickly that he was more than a stranger. When she started walking the other way, he stepped in front of her. When she tried to turn around, he grabbed her shoulder. He knocked her down, and dragged her into a shadow-filled alleyway.

She tried to fight, but she was no match for him. Out of energy, she gave up, closed her eyes, and prayed it was over soon. After about fifteen minutes or so, the man stopped, and threatened her against telling anyone about what he had done. He left her laying there, weak and faint.

When she finally managed to return home, she desperately wished to talk to her mother, but held her tongue in fear. She went straight to bed, and refused to get up in the morning. She faked sick. Poured hot water over her forehead, gave herself a cough, even placed her fingers down her throat once to vomit. Her mother, convinced, allowed her to stay home, but only after taking a double dose of the apothecarie's cough syrup.

Life flashed by for her, the memory of the rape still vivid in her mind. She told only one person in her lifetime, and found this was a mistake as well.
Her uncle (her mother's brother) Luke Banyard had asked what was troubling her, being able to read her very well. She didn't mean to say, but the words poured from her mouth before she could stop them. A waterfall of truth. It had felt good to get it out, to know that someone else in the world knew her secret.

Untill she found him dead.

And dead he was. A knife in his throat, her name painted on the wall with her uncle's blood. She was forced to clean the mess before calling the Peacekeepers. If they had seen this, she would have been arrested for sure.

And so the secret never came out again. She refused to speak it to another soul, besides her faithfull Blade, who the rapist was unable to kill. She was never comfortable with her life again, and deliberated killing herself on numerous occasions. But she forced herself to remain strong, if only for her mother, whom deserved at least that much from her.