Re: ELLORY FAE HIGGINS | D6 | FEMALE | WIP

I want you to look. Truly, I implore you. It would be my first inquiry for another pair of eyes on my face, critiquing my physique, making mental notes to store under the file Ellory. Generally, I don't like the feeling of eyes on my face and scanning my body. Regardless, I promise you that I won't shy away from your curious eyes. You would be the exception; for you must understand me entirely, and to do so, you have to take a good look first. Go ahead, stare. I'd much rather you glimpse the windows to my soul than see my spirit and exterior deteriorate with each passing day. Can you see it now? Can you see the sadness that lurks behind my hazel gaze? I find it hard to miss whenever I pass myself in the mirror and take a look at my reflection, but maybe that is just me.

Of course, you haven't come here for a sob story. That would be located in my history, really. You have come for my appearance, a physical description, so that is what I will give you. Where to start? Perhaps with all the official information, with everything that my mother keeps a record of in her diary entitled 'My Children.' I have a noticeably svelte physique, with few overall curves, much unlike the woman who birthed me. The bones in my body constantly jut out in my skin, a sign of my battle with anorexia and obsession with unhealthy weight. I am 5'6 approximately, and show little signs of ever growing any taller. This is precisely where I wish to remain at; I am content with my height. I have been 5'6 for awhile now, since my fourteenth year, though I have fluctuating weight. For now, I am 120 pounds even, several pounds too heavy for my rigid standards. The idealistic weight, in my eyes, rests somewhere around 105 pounds. It is my unattainable goal, that I know I will never reach yet strive towards despite that. Managing my weight is much easier with weekly goals. This week, and for a long time, it has been to lose 2-3 pounds. If I continue doing that, I should safely reach 110, and then work my way down. Big loss all at once will upset my stomach and disturb my eating habits greatly. Little by little, I cut my portions. And if that doesn't work, I force myself to regurgitate. It is the only way for me to look beautiful.

Oh, beauty. It is a virtue that I do not posses. My face is very plain, without a hint of the factor that provokes sensual thoughts and a world of compliments. I have a heart-shaped face, with a round forehead, sharp jawline, and a short, stout chin. My hair, which I detest, parts with sweeping side bangs in the middle of my face, not exactly flattering its shape. I have always longed for curls, all to no avail. My hair has always been, and will likely remain, stick straight. Its hue is that of a golden walnut, and the hair itself is very stringy and weak. Split ends frequent my tangle-prone locks, and though I desire to claim otherwise, my hair stops just above my ribs. I have always wanted it shoulder length, but the thought to cut it has always frightened me. Suppose it were to come out looking terribly? What if I cut it, and then I seemed foolish and conceited for wanting to change its style and length? As a result of these thoughts, I do not cut it. I will not. Not for a little while, at the very least.

Before, I did not give a complete description of my facial features. I will continue with that now. I have thick eyebrows which turn downward and leave very little space for the space above my eyes. My eyes. I have mentioned them before, haven't I? There is no true way to describe them. Just trying has me flustered, but I must at least make an attempt. For your sake, if not for anything else. I suppose they would be classified as gray-hazel, two seas alive with murky waters and stormy weather. They are a pure gray rolling with emotion, cloudy and clear, a reflection of the sky. Very often, my eyes betray whatever emotion it is that lurks in my heart. I have thick, long, jet-black eyelashes that bring startling, beautiful contrast to my ivory skin tone. My nose is flat and heads straight down, without any slope or curve upward...unfortunately.

And now for my mouth. My lips are cracked and bow shaped, naturally tinted the color crimson. The upper one is thin, and although not quite to the point of non-existence, unattractive on its own. Paired with my full, dangerously beautiful bottom lip however, it creates a curious visual. What else is there to say about me, to notice about me? For one thing, there is the so-called beauty mark that is just below my left cheek; I hate it. Then again, there are my dainty feet that have yet to be mentioned, as pale and small as my hands. And I suppose there is the fact that my thighs are like twigs, thin and breakable. And that my arms are weak, completely without muscle. This may, however, be due to my anorexia. Anorexia. I have always detested the word, yet it is the one that truly embodies what I am. I can barely lift half of my own weight, and tire easily when running. I can't climb, either. When it comes to survival skills, I am an utter failure.

I have a girlish sense of style, and have always been told so. The frocks and other various items of clothing that I wear reflects this greatly. People mock me; I am rarely seen wearing anything other than a dress, truly. I have casual ones and ones made for evening events, A-line dresses and halter dresses. I even have one skin-tight black dress that gleams once exposed to the light. It is a seductive, look-at-me, midnight tryst sort of dress, one that does not seem appropriate for me at all. Nonetheless, I keep it, picturing the day I could wear it without generating stares and whispers. On Reaping Day, I always wear something different, but my hair stays the same each Reaping Day; curled almost to perfection, but not quite there yet. I braid it the night before and sleep in it to get the look desired. It is the only time every year that I do this. After all, if I am reaped and to die, I must look attractive in representing my district, must I not?

People have said, ever since I was young and long before I transitioned into that awkward phase between childhood and adulthood, that I am a perfectionist. Who am I to argue? It is true. What I do, how I express myself, and when I go about getting things done...all must happen in a timely matter, with a certain procedure, and the proper dedication. I take an endless amount of time to complete most tasks, attempting (and often succeeding) at making them the best they could possibly be-- perfect. Being obsessed with perfection as I am is a dangerous flaw. What I would give to make myself feel proficient, to fill myself with confidence. For so long I have struggled with insecurity. It has been my personal predator, gnawing at my insides for a nearly an entire decade now. I live miserably, the unsatisfactory discontent with myself buried deep in my belly.