Callidora Reed, District 8 {FIN}

Callidora Reed, District 8 {FIN} Oct 26, 2011 7:51:15 GMT -5

Post by ali on Oct 26, 2011 7:51:15 GMT -5

White Lips Pale face
Breathing in the Snowflakes
Burnt Lungs Sour taste

History

My name is Callidora Reed and I am from District 8. Times have been hard for me, you see I have some- well, problems. I’m just 16 years old and I am already addicted to one of the cheapest drugs on the market. Not that 1g is in my price range, with working in a workhouse on weekends for below minimum wage along side 100 other girls. That's why I also sell my body to others. Crazy I know, whats a girl like me, 16, doing selling her body to strange men and doing drugs when shes struggling to pay her way? Well, I can tell you if you like, though I can’t promise it’ll have a happy ending.

It didn’t begin when I was born, things were normal then. When I was born, my parents were some of the richest people in District 8 owning a chain of small clothing stores. They still have that all- its just, I’m no longer in the picture. So, my story only truly began when my sister was born. I was 5 at the time, and I was excited. Excited to see my new baby sister, but when I tried to go see Mama, I was pushed away. I really couldn't understand why I was being treated like that, who would at such a young age?

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Lights Gone Days End
Struggling to pay rent
Long nights Strange men

Anyway, Slowly as me and my sister grew and I began to understand things more, I realized why I wasn’t getting the attention I deserved. My little sister, was vastly different from me. She wasn’t pretty or smart like me. Mama, said she had something called Down Syndrome- and that my little sister would be...would be...well, I can’t remember what she would be- oh well. Mama and Papa spent so much time with my little sister that they seemed to forget me. Instead of my sister getting the hand-me-downs, it was I getting the too small clothing that had previously owned. I felt so alone. Until I met Mark.

Mark was in the year above me, he was 16. I was 14 at the time- see I’m the youngest girl in my year at school. He seemed so kind and caring, he listened to whatever I had to say. I looked up to him for advice- for help. It was this friendship that sparked the problem with Drug addiction. It was summer vacation- and I was going to a part with Mark. I had no idea where it was going to be held, who was going to be there- the only thing I knew was that Mark was going to be there. And that there was going to be alcohol. When I arrived at the party I had no idea that people were going to be smoking Crack.

One of Mark’s friends, upon our arrival at the party, offered us both- what to me looked like a cigarette stuffed with too much Tobacco. Thinking it were just harmless smoking tobacco, I took a drag. I coughed, and spluttered on the bitter sour taste of the Crack. My head began to spin- and ...and I don’t remember much after that. I remember arriving home to a dark house and passing out on the sofa. The next day I took nothing of the drugs- thinking that the urge to take another swiff of the drug would fade; but I was wrong.

They say shes
in the class A team
Stuck in her day dream
been this way since 18

Slowly the cravings got worse and worse- I needed more of the drug. I’d go with Mark and his friends to smoke crack in the back streets after school. All the time my parents sat at home clueless that their eldest daughter was doing drugs at the age of 14. Well they were- until I came home one night absolutely stoned. There was shouting, scuffling and crying from my little sister- next thing I knew was that I was being sent to the work house to earn a life. I worked on the weekends and I was schooled during the week- away from Mark and his druggie friends, but the walls of my work/living place was not enough to mute the cravings.

I found it hard- at first, to purchase drugs. I wasn’t paid enough at the work house to buy the drugs I oh so desperately wanted. After the first few months of life in the work house, I was so desperate for the taste of Crack in my lungs- that I turned to drastic measures. It wasn’t hard to find a Brothel- they’re easy to find if you know what to look for. When I first told the owner of the one Brothel I wanted to use my body for other men’s needs- she laughed and sent me away. The second Brothel was much more kinder, and let me in. A couple of nights later, there I sat in one of the bedrooms- waiting for my first ‘client’. It wasn’t really how I wanted my first time to play out- but I couldn’t change that now.

That was 2 years ago- and I am still stuck between a rock and a hard place. I see no means of escape- my family are no longer there- they disowned me. Obviously. So turning to them for help won’t work. I don’t earn enough on both my wages to afford rehab- and even then, would I be able to get off the stuff before its too late?

but lately her face seems
Slowly sinking wasting
Crumbling like pastery
And they scream

Personality

When I am not high on drugs, or suffering a meltdown because of lack of drugs- I am a very nice person. It was a trait of mine that was more often seen before I began doing the stuff, it is now a stuff of almost myth. I had been kind to my friends before I was cursed with the wrong choices- and I was always empathising with others who seemed upset or hurt- I even at one time comforted my little sister when she was being bullied by men in our street. It is harder now to understand people feelings, the drugs really messed up my brain. I can see people are sad or angry but I can’t understand that feeling anymore- not unless I feel it aswel.

Since I began abusing drugs- my memories have become have become, well, disjointed in a sense. They’re not in order anymore- sometimes they’re not there at all. It is why I can’t remember my sisters name. I remember her- or do I? I am not even sure if I had a little sister- maybe she was a figment of the drug abuse and my imagination. Memories just powder like dust now- if I’m not careful they go all together. Well I think they go- I just can’t find them sometimes. Most of my remaining memories are blurred anyway- so aren’t real use to me. They might as well be gone as well- I might as well be an empty shell.

When drug supply has been low- I have often slipped into a state of depression. Not that its just when I can’t get hands on drugs. The state of depression is always there. It never goes. It’s like a rain cloud bearing down on me, and I can’t run from it. I feel hopeless against it. The depression hurts, I try to sleep it away. It doesn't t work. It never works. Sometimes I wish the sleeping would last forever. Sometimes I look forward to nights with the men who come and go- pick and choose. It distracts me from what goes on in my head- from the grey rain cloud above it and all the wrong in this world which I just wish would go away.

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Worst things in life come free to us
And we're all under the upper hand
Go mad for a couple grams
and she don't wanna go outside tonight

Appearence

My hair is the only thing that hasn’t changed about me. It has still stayed a brilliant red colour. My skin is pale, from head to toe. People often comment on my ghostly complexion. My lips are pale too- thin and pale. My nose is quite long and medium sized- it sometimes looks like it shouldn’t belong to my face at all. My cheeks have become concave since I started drugs- they’re not as full as they used to be. My eyes, are always tired and dreary, yet have managed to maintain their pale green colour something I’d missed if they were taken from me.

I am quite thin- but that's thanks to both the drugs and the current living conditions. I don’t get enough to eat at the work house most days and the drugs take away any ounce of fat I manage to accumulate. I am quite short- standing at only 5 foot 2 inches. My arms are thin- like match sticks. My hands are often dry and flakey, with my thin and nobbley fingers. I keep my finger nails short so because if I allow them to grow, the white bite grows a horrible yellow tinge to it. As for my clothes- I wear whatever I had in my bag the day I left home. Which I can tell you- isn’t alot. Mainly shirts and skirts- some too big or small for me. I took one coat with me, which is starting to see its worse days- with tears and holes forming.

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And in a pipe she flies to the mother land
Sells love to another man
It too cold outside
for Angels to fly, Angels to fly

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