IULIANA SHEALLES - DISTRICT 05 [fin]

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twenty two . female . district 05 . heterosexual

Usually, when I walk into my old, tattered room and spot the broken mirror. That mirror brought me great joys, sadness and confusion over the many years of my life. It caused my consciousness, my personality, and the way I looked at life. From the first moment I looked into the now broken mirror, I was four years old. My hair was black and in wavy strands, flowing down to my waist. I had a plump, small face and chocolate orbs upon it. My mother told me my eyes were the prettiest she'd ever seen- but the difference is, I believed it then.

I was innocent. I didn't know how I would be looked at in the future.

As I grew up, my features started to change. My baby fat disappeared and bones could se seen stretching my skin. When the harvest time came, and I gained a few pounds, stretch marks could be seen where my ribs were. I asked my mother why there were vertical red marks down my stomach, and she just frowned and continued plucking the berries from the bushes in the garden. At the age of six, my mother chopped most of my hair off. She said they were sending it to another district to produce wigs, and they would provide money to those who donated their hair. I missed the small locks that flowed down my waist- I was left with a shoulder-length mess. I started school that same year. Some of the children were very pretty, with big blue eyes and the fairest skin with freckles. I always wished to be a redhead, but I rather had the lightest brown skin with the darkest hair.

I began to see myself as something I wasn't- ugly.

During my teenage ages, when I entered the reaping, my figure was beginning to be more defined. I had curves, breasts and my hormones were different. I would look at the boys differently, rather thinking of them as cute, rather than icky. My hair had grown back over the long days, back to it's original length. My mother still told me I had the prettiest eyes, but I questioned that statement. When I looked into the mirror once more, I saw my rounded child face had turned heart-shaped, with small burn scars from where my teacher would hit me for questioning the capitol in class. I always tried to hide a pink scar on my forehead by parting my hair in different ways.

I was always confused, wishing I was as pretty as the other girls.

By the time my chances of being reaped were over, I had fine lines across my forehead from stress, and small cuts covering my body from my childhood play. With the help from one of my neighbors, I had learned to braid my hair so it wouldn't be as hot or heavy in the summers, and easier to keep than a ponytail.

My time was over for worrying about my appearance- or was it?

I always used to think of myself as a good person. I mean, I never lie, and I always tell the truth- but in the end, I still get punished. Like at Thomasine’s birthday party- I told her that her cake was ugly when she asked me what I thought of it. She cried! My mother would later tell me that honesty is the best unless it would hurt someone else’s feelings. I never wanted to hurt her, I was just taught not to lie. This big part or my personality has had everyone avoiding being in friendships with me since I remember.

And I didn’t want that at all.

When I began attending school, my teachers always told me I was smart. I was always ahead in English and Reading class, though I wasn’t the best in math class. Numbers always confused me, and I often told the teachers I would never use the information in life- and I often got punished for it. After a few months of school, I learned not to really speak much during the school hours. I would watch the popular kids talking about how the capitol’s new look was amazing. I never really cared about this kind of stuff- I only wanted to get out of there.

And I never knew how close I was to doing that.

When my teenage years came, my rebellious personality started to show. I would question the authority of my teachers, and I would get beaten or hit because of it. Once in a while, the peacekeepers had to show up and explain to me that the capitol wasn’t anything to question, and neither was the president. A few times, my parents would be charged with questioning the authority because they thought I was learning these things from them. In all reality, I learned how to use my brain to see the real picture behind the government’s ways.

When I hit the age fifteen, popularity came my way. I appeared at school in a new outfit bought by my parents for my birthday, and everyone was amazed at how I could go from the ugly rebel to the beauty queen. Everyone began giving me dirty looks when I didn’t show up like this everyday. I began to show my dramatic and sensitive side. Ever since this event hit my life, I’ve been very self-conscious about my appearance and overly dramatic about small things. I know I shouldn’t let them bother me, but they still do.

Born to my parents in a small house in District 05, I never knew the reality that went on in the farther districts. My life was average- we weren’t rich, but we weren’t poor either. My mother was an excellent seamstress, and she often sold them at the market in trade for fresh meat or more cloth. My father was in the factory industry, but he never really came home.

I never knew he would soon be gone for long.

As a young child, I wanted to be the victor of the Hunger Games. I was very biased, not knowing what really happened behind the television screen. My mother would always give me worried looks and pat my head. From the age of five, I began “training” for the Hunger Games, climbing trees and learning how to camouflage. For a young girl like me, it was just fun and games. It wasn’t anything like how the career tributes trained. When I first entered school, I was often punished for questioning the capitol, but I really didn’t know any better. My mother and father were often punished for this, blaming them for my “crazy” ideas.

They would soon divorce, based off of my actions.

I separated my parents. I knew that. I was eight when it happened, and I wish my father had a backbone. Instead of trying to sort everything out, he just packed up his small things and signed a divorce paper. The saddest part is, he left my world the day before my ninth birthday. Depression was brought over me as I tried to decipher reality from just imagination, but I couldn’t really accomplish that.

The reaping came a short few years later. My best friend’s brother was forced into the terrible games, and I often mourned with her. We watched it live on TV, and surprisingly, he lasted a while. He was the fifteenth one killed by another boy from district two. I never forgave the capitol. Ever since then, I can’t imagine how real it could be to live in the arena during the dreadful Hunger Games.

Now that my chances of being reaped are over, I'm not really sure what my future holds for me. I spend my time working in the local market, selling small nick-knacks that I've made over the years. I've never been the craft sort, but luckily, some people see my work as art. These people give me faith for the future- the faith that I'll get somewhere in life. I want to grow old and see my children have children, sit in a small rocking chair on the porch with the small animals and children at my feel. And most of all, I want to live.