The World Through My Eyes - {Spesh}

Marisa Penelope Alonso

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For the time of year in District Twelve, the day was nice, there was no way anyone could deny that. Yet Marisa was cold, cold because she had not had a meal in over a day. She was due for one that night, but that night seemed far away. Too far away for her to even think about managing to make it without something to distract her mind. That thing was poetry. She was out on a walk through District Twelve, notebook in one hand and pencil in the other. Each step pained her, but she kept going, when it actually hit her, all of the pain would be worth it.

The hard part was knowing what exactly 'it' was. Whatever she was going to write about was 'it', but what was she going to write about. She felt like everything in all of District Twelve had been written about, whether that be her family, the nature just outside the fence, or to coal dust covering everything around her. Everything was done already, what more could there be to write about? The answer to that question was nothing, and that bothered Marisa. She needed something to write about, needed it just like she needed food and water. Without anything to write about, Marisa was nothing, she had no purpose, no will. Thus, she continued walking, even though the air bit at her body and every step jarred her stomach painfully.

The path she was on had been traveled many times, as it is the path from the Seam to the fence. Most do not go over the fence, it is too risky, Marisa is one of those people. Nonetheless, the nature just outside of the barrier intrigues her, she always seems to find one more detail that she was unaware of before. There always was something new for the misfit of the Seam to write about when she got to the fence, so there really was no reason for her to think that this time would be any different. She was sure that, despite all of the things working against her (most notably hunger,) she would be able to come up with a masterpiece.

There always was something, always. Why was she even bothering fretting about something so obvious. Whether that something was the footprint of an animal or dew on the grass, she would always find it. Always. The eye of the artist. All of the little details were hers to find. Others did not see what she saw, it gave her a sense of importance. How did she know about these little things outside the district, well, it was rather simple. She just looked harder than everyone else, she wanted to see the beauty in everything, not just the obvious. It is why Marisa is so good at poetry, she finds the beauty in things that others are just not able to.

When she came up on the clearing with the fence, she noticed something was different about it. The fact that the electrical current of the fence was off was not a surprise, but the fact that somebody else was sitting on her stump was. Maybe they were at the fence to write too, or maybe they were just sitting to think about things. Either way, it was best not to distract whoever that person was, because they were at the fence for alone time, not time with other people. If they were lost and wanted help finding others, then Marisa would gladly direct them to the town square, but she doubted that anyone would ever need help with that. Instead of asking she sat down, notebook in right hand pencil in left, and like so many times before, started to write.

Marisa Penelope Alonso

No matter how hard she tried, Marisa was not able to take her eyes off the person on her stump. She had no idea whether the person was male or female, she only sensed her presence. It was not that the person was doing anything wrong either, just their presence set Marisa on edge, made her Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder act up. The fact that she could not focus made it hard for her to write. The simple process of putting words on paper, a process that was normally so easy for Marisa, was nearly impossible. It was frustrating to the utmost extent, but she refused to let it get to her. Something so little could not bother her, it could not distract her.

Without the distraction of writing, hunger pangs started to bother Marisa. How annoying they were. Though normally not one to pass the blame, Marisa could not help but think it was this persons fault she was felling hungry. Until that moment, there was always writing to turn to, but this time she was distracted. It was the other person that was setting her out of her element, she knew it. Instead of trying to fight through the inability to write, she put her pencil and paper down. She tried to lay down in the grass and clear her mind of everything, but quickly she got bored. Instead, Marisa sat up and tried to focus on the person on her stump. It was not hard for her, not in the least, a very surprising thought for her.

Suddenly, the person sneezed and fell backwards, but caught themselves. For a second or two, Marisa saw someone whom she recognized, but she did not remember where she had seen this person. Marisa felt that she should know who this was, and she surely thought that she would figure it out. The name was on the tip of her tongue, but she just could not remember who this was.

Once the person saw her, they quickly sat upright quickly, turning towards Marisa while speaking, “I didn’ hear you get here.” As she spoke she put her hood back on. Why somebody would try to be secretive in District Twelve was beyond Marisa; everyone knew everyone else. After a few more seconds she finally realized who it was, and it seemed so obvious to her once she did. The person who was on the stump she normally sat on was Heron Kimberling, the Victor of the 56th Hunger Games.

It made sense to Marisa that a Victor would not want to be seen, everything they do is constantly watched by everyone, even the victors of District Twelve. She understood why Heron would want to get away from it all and just relax for a little while. Somehow the poet was able to keep her cool and not have her mouth gaping open. It was true she hated the games and hated killing in general, but there was something about seeing a Victor in person that called for admiration, possibly their grit and survival instincts.

Marisa thought she was doing a good job of showing indifference on her face, she never had been in a situation like this before though. It seemed improbable that a girl like her would ever meet a victor, a girl like her from the Seam. "Sorry, I thought you didn't need to be startled. My bad." Though she did not mean to, Marisa was not speaking in the way she would address someone not of importance, hopefully the victor would not notice.

Marisa Penelope Alonso

Unlike some of the others in the Seam, Marisa never knew Heron Kimberling before she was reaped and went on to win the games. Maybe if she was good friends with the far older girl before the games life would have become better when she won, even the optimistic Marisa doubted that. She had seen the recent Victors return home, the influx of them, they all seemed so different from when they left. Hardened she might say. The truth is no victor ever shares their wealth for no reason, they worked hard enough for it that they deserve it. Besides, all of them appear to be unhappy except when making public appearances, it is not hard to tell that they are scarred by their experiences.

For a girl who never had met a victor in person before, it seemed weird to not show her respects obviously. But in a way, she was showing respect to the Victor by not saying anything, just the way that Heron would like it. She was trying to get away, much like Marisa, she deserved time to do as she pleased, without the constant eye of the nation on her. How she made it out of the village without being noticed is surprising enough, but Marisa assumed that because District Twelve did not have a Victor in the 59th Games, nobody was paying attention to her. Maybe she was not even the mentor this year, the job could have fallen on Aranica and Arbor.

Honestly, Marisa knew she was speculating far too much, so she tried to keep the thoughts out of her mind. She could not manage to do that, her attention deficit hyperactive disorder was preventing her from doing so. She could not curse the thing that gives her creativity, but if there was a time to do so, this is it. There were an endless amount of possibilities of why Heron was able to leave the Victor's Village without being seen, and there were also an endless amount of possibilities of why she should be seen. Clearly she had managed to not be seen, other ways she would not be here at this time. The real question in Marisa's mind changed, why did any of it matter?

All of the questions in her mind did not matter, so she was able to force them out for the meantime. She had come across as harsh to a Victor, at least that is the first thing that crossed her mind. Heron was saying, nicely albeit, that she would move. That is exactly the opposite of what Marisa wanted, but she assumed she had caused Heron to think that way. Her need for that one spot was a simple one, it helped her write. Heron, on the other hand, probably needed that spot to relax, to calm down, to feel like she was still part of District Twelve and not a pawn of the Capitol. If those reasons were put on a balance, clearly, Heron would have the better reasons to sit on that stump.

"Oh no, it's fine. Stay," the girl says weakly, not trying to over step her place in society, "It's just I sit their when I write, and I'm struggling to do so right now..."