Cassandra Freya Larker -- District Twelve

“ s o s h e r a n a w a y i n h e r s l e e p ”

Vulnerable. That will be the one trait that Cassandra always seems to be, despite the walls that she put up around herself, and even more when she was naive. She couldn't help it. It was as if that disgusting trait has been instilled to her since birth, digging down to the very depths of her heart. So weak, so hopeful yet always crushed by pointless expectations and promises that were clearly to be broken. Why does it never learn? Albeit the apparent thick, solid walls she surrounded herself with, it was difficult and took all of her willpower to crush the remnants of the inner child within her. She's never going to come back.

She was certainly a lot more happier during her childhood. Everything was in full color back then, with rainbows and butterflies and storybook stories. Wonderful, absolutely wonderful. Cassandra was a child, who wouldn't blame her? Everything was so innocent back then, possibly perfect. She believed in fairy tales and happy endings. She believed that everything would be alright in the end. Everything would be okay. Mommy and Daddy will always be there.

She had lots of playmates during her innocent days, for she was open and lovable. She went with the merchants' kids, since she was basically like them, and a few Seam kids. Others would ask her why, when they could afford living in the town, chose to live at the beginning of the Seam area. Cassandra was always a contented child and never questioned her parents' choice of residence, so she replied, "We're happy there," complete with a smile. But she was more comfortable whenever the day would end and she would come back to her home, back to her parents.

The inner child took over her body until the day she turned thirteen. Everything shattered, and she scrambled hopelessly and aimlessly to fix the broken pieces together, even hurting herself in the process. No remaining memories of Mommy's soft lullabies and kisses, Daddy's protecting hugs and his reassuring words and even Grandmother's stories would heal the wounds, the cuts, the scrapes. The damage was done. Game over.

Only her Grandmother remained with her, her only family left. She was paranoid about it sometime in her life, even refusing to go outside of the house for it means leaving her Grandmother. But then she got over that, slowly gravitating towards the outside world. It relieved her by bit, breathing fresh air. She still had her friends, who knew very little detail about what happened, but her protective force field remained. She went with them, but never spoke that much. Soon, she discovered a place of her own in the Meadow, beneath a lone willow tree. With her new place of discovery, she started to grow away from her friends. It was her safe haven, the very place where her parents used to take her for picnics. Now, it was her place of tranquil, perfect for a book or two. Joyous laughter and squeals no longer echo in the place, instead it was replaced by thick layers of deafening silence. Even the willow seems sad.

“ a n d d r e a m e d o f p a r a d i s e ”

Cassandra's parents weren't really of the extraordinary. Just merchant children, in the same school with mutual friends. Her father always had that vivid imagination, with the ability to immortalize words on a piece of paper, a flourish on this and that. Her mother was the one always finding something, but can't quite put her finger on it. She was indecisive and the very least flighty. It took his enchanting words to bind her to him, marking his stamp on her, leaving her flabbergasted with his effect on her. He was a natural; she couldn't believe someone had tamed her.

The words led to another story, the one that made them a family. They were both tired of the town, and so they decided to live at the boundary between the town and the Seam. She wanted to run away, to the woods, to explore what was really outside the chain-link fences. But he was rather scared, because, after all, it had all been in his imagination. He wasn't quite ready for it, his words on paper, coming alive and living what he had conjured up on his mind and written.

But there was something about their marriage. He knew she couldn't stay still forever. A woman like her wouldn't settle that easy. She thought she had so much more ahead of her, and they both knew it. But they both kept it as a painful secret, as if thinking that it would solve itself on its own. They were wrong.

As fast as she said yes to his marriage proposal was as fast as her eyes had found another one. The other one was his cousin. He, Cassandra's father, was desperate now, being perceptive, knowing she can leave him in the middle of the night. He strained himself to create masterpieces, all weaved to bind down that bird of a woman. When all else failed, he gave her something. The gift of life. She was pregnant with their child.

She couldn't escape now, can't she? It did bring her back to the ground, and her eyes to her child. It filled her with laughter, joy, compassion, tears, and sleepless nights. Motherhood was an incredible gift, thought the mother, to which the father happily and gratefully agreed. It was picture perfect when Cassandra came. Both treated her like their own angel sent from above, which she actually was. When he wasn't busy with his trading business and she with her dressmaking business, they were always together. The three of them would make pretend play — he would create the stories and she would create the dresses and both of them would make it alive with his realistic narration and her mother's wonderful voice and graceful moves. Her father would help her read and write stories, while her mother would teach her how to sew, sing and dance. Every thing they taught her with love she absorbed with nothing but eagerness.

Then, all of a sudden, her mother started going home late. During evenings, Cassandra would sit by the window, waiting for her mother to come home. No amount of coaxing from her poor father would get her to the dinner table. She wanted her mother, with her and they would eat together, then play pretend again. Her father was getting worried, and he was afraid he knew what was coming. Poor Cassandra was confused. What was going on? Daddy, Mommy? Her father succumbed to drinking every night, and drunken fights would occur almost every night. A shatter here, a bump there, black ink spilling everywhere. This was when Cassandra's Grandmother, from town, came in. Cassandra had no idea why, but it was a lot better when someone was actually taking care of her. "It's going to be okay." Her Grandmother enclosed her in her own arms, cradling her to sleep, trying her very best to shield her from the disaster surrounding her. Now those arms — the arms of the only loved one she had remaining — was slowly fading away, with Death leading it.

The wreckage that was called her home was coming to a predictable breakdown. It was midnight, and rain was pouring hard, with loud thunderstorms to accompany it. Her mother had her bags packed, and softly kissed the sleeping Cassandra, and slowly tried to go away. But Cassandra, sensitive to her mother's touch, woke up and was bewildered with her mother packing. Her father woke up, just as Cassandra's mother was going out of the door. There was a man waiting for her, and it was his cousin. Who knew he had loved her? Cassandra's father tried to stop her. He was begging, pulling her to him, crying, speaking desperate words. Well, his cousin certainly wasn't fond of him, and wasn't a patient man either. Unfortunately, he also had a knife, to which Cassandra's father met his death.

One swift motion in the abdomen. Screams. A clap of thunder. Her father landed dead in the ground, with his blood seeping to the ground. Her mother was screaming and crying, visible even through the heavy rain, and started to punch her dead husband's cousin — her lover. "How could you? How could you?" she started shrieking, rather inaudible from far away. Which was good, since Peacekeepers were only going to make the matters worse. He ignored it, and half-hugged and half-carried her, all while running. All of that Cassandra saw, blurry through her crying eyes, through the window. The death of her father. The infidelity of her mother. If her weeping Grandmother weren't holding her shoulders so hard, she would've ran away and kicked at that bastard of an uncle of hers. Her father wouldn't be dead. Dead. Dead. And her mother... Cassandra didn't know what to think of her mother. She ran away, yet she didn't want her husband killed. Until now, Cassandra has mixed — very mixed — feelings towards her mother.

It was traumatic, too much for a little girl. For weeks she remained silent, staring out the same window, with all of it replaying in her head. The body of her father remained no more, to which she didn't bother asking on what happened. There wasn't even any turmoil within the Peacekeepers. How she managed to get through with her life was rather blurry in her point of view. Her Mother taught her to make dresses, embellished with beautiful yet worn decorations they can afford, but the old rusted sewing machine lay there in the corner of her eyes, gathering dust. But it wasn't for long, since it seems that the inanimate object was luring her back. Old habits die hard, Cassandra. Old habits die hard.

Her Grandmother supported her for as long as she could remember. But we all know that nothing lives forever. I mean, look at her parents' marriage.

“ e v e r y t i m e s h e c l o s e d h e r e y e s ”