SALT REBIO // DISTRICT TWO

here i start
to define it
as a sign
on my skin
that i just try to wash away

( N A M E ) salt rebio
( A G E ) fifteen
( G E N D E R ) female
( D I S T R I C T / A R E A ) district two

reminder
infected
it’ll be
painful
to me

( H I S T O R Y )

hard to think that only two years ago, i was living what most would consider a life of luxury. i had a home, with a bed, a four poster no less. i had clothes, money, hopes and dreams, a mother and father who doted on me. all i have left from that world is one dream. and my brother. pepper. more about him later. for now, i want to tell you about who i used to be. who i hope against all hope i can be once again. my name is salt rebio. i sometimes wonder if my parents knew quite how coarse i would become. but myself and my brother were in fact named after fairly common condiments. flattering, i know. but i'm sure it was well meant.

if i still lived how i was brought up, i'd be happy that all i have are my middle class problems like what my name symbolises. our parents were part of the group of merchants, specialising in aesthetic masonry to the capitol. good money if you knew what to sell. one thing i was always told by my parents was that the capitol were the best customers. they flit from trend to trend, meaning that anything with pure aesthetics is always going to be in demand. that was how my parents made money. selling flashy columns and such to the various architects who make the lavish designs over there. i can't say i know much about the fineries of what they do. i just accepted that it made a substantial amount of money.

i've always been attracted to the idea of singing from the very first time i heard music. there was something delightful about the power of the voice. being able to change people's moods with sound alone. it was empowering, beautiful, something to cherished and celebrated. and in it, i saw a way to escape the mundane life that it appeared my parents lived. i pleaded for weeks to be allowed to learn how to sing. i evidently proved quite insistent for someone who was about to turn six. i remember constantly pestering, tugging at shirts, begging. my grades went through a stage of plummeting, then skyrocketing.

eventually, on my sixth birthday, i was taken to a place i had never been before. turns out my ceaseless requests demands and pleas for singing had eventually worked. or possibly worked to start with, and they were just waiting for my birthday to come about for the 'right moment'. to me, it didn't matter. i was going to learn how to sing. not only that, but she was apparently one of the best tutors in the district. i couldn't have been happier that day. it didn't matter that i left that building with a huge stack of things to learn, and techniques to practice. i was on my way to the one thing i'd really stamped my foot about.

my singing became something of the centre of my life from that point onward. every performance at school, in the district square, at home for guests. i wanted to be part of them all. i got to lead in some, and more frequently as i got older, and more proficient. my first lead part in the square came when i was ten. i don't actually remember it that well. all i remember were the nerves, and the song. a capitol approved song. not that pretty, i can remember vaguely some odd notes that didn't seem to fit. but my mother cried with joy nonetheless. i performed well apparently. a couple of stumbles. but from a ten year old as cute as i was? that was part of the charm. i think what got them was the tiny little curtsey at the end, before i scampered off into my mothers arms. doubtless, no-one else really remembers the day quite like we do. we being my family. and my tutor. who complained about my duff notes. but that was her job.

i think though, that the oddest time in my life probably came about two years later. anyone who's a teenager or has been one will know what i'm talking about. that horrible time known as puberty. seriously, who does enjoy it? i am, or was at least, what is commonly referred to as an 'early bloomer'. i prefer the term 'unlucky'. not only are you struggling to come to terms with the whole plethora of changes to your body, but suddenly, guys older than you start making advances. and once, a girl did. that was odd, but flattering at the same time. truth be told, i can understand why. i shot up in height for once. i've always been pretty, but suddenly, i became gorgeous stop looking at me like i've sworn, modesty's no good in here boyo. my face lost it's girlish roundness, became more defined. my voice adopted a much more melodic, alluring tone. not like how guys suddenly go from high-pitched to earth shattering bass. just a subtle shift. i suddenly developed an interest in clothes, the way i held myself became more confident, more mature.

so, anyways, that year was a bizarre one. it was the first time i'd been to a reaping as well. i remember singing whilst i waited. it calmed me. like it calmed the others. i don't remember our tributes from that year. or any year. i can't say the idea of bloodshed entertained me all that much. so me and pep continued to muddle along. we both looked out for each other, he more so than i. but i do remember this one girl burning him pretty badly. rejection was something neither of us were accustomed to. something about his allergies apparently offended her. i think he was allergic to the replusive perfume she wore. i think anyone would sneeze or retch at the smell of that abominable odour. one of the benefits i guess of having a big sister, in terms of build and height if not age, is that there's a lot more leeway for vengeance. not that he strictly needed it. but i was angry at how she treated him. i mean, he's my brother, we look out for each other, right?

like we looked out for each other this past year or so. or at least, that's what he thinks. in truth, we've become a little more distant. call it what you will, but talking to the person you might well have to kill next is a harrowing thought. and if tiltoo sees it? well, you might as well flip the coin to see which of us dies next. i still remember us being abducted. somehow, he got into the house. i still don't know how, but i suspect forced entry. i was a little busy trying to get him to let go of pepper. my pepper. who i'd beaten a girl up because of her rejection. who diverted the guys from trying it on with me. who sneezed at anything. who i loved almost as much as my parents. i've never felt so powerless in my life. i don't know what he did, but i suddenly went weak. unable to do anything but scream at him. my beautiful voice contorted into piercing shrieks of rage. until he got so fed up of my wailing he knocked me unconscious.

i woke up in a cell three days later. or at least, remember waking up three days later. apparently i'd been so inundated with rage that i was seething in there the day after they brought me here. i don't remember any of it. i only remember the bars. and the smirking face of ms deltri, offering food to me. only for her to take it and eat it right in front of me as i came to the bars, before strutting away, laughing sadistically. altair came to size his latest two up shortly afterwards, mr kelt in tow. the sight of him sent me flying into a rage. altair only looked on and smiled. i was doing everything he wanted. pepper was much less compliant. where i slammed at the bars, spitting oaths, insults and threats, he remained silent, trying to calm me down, as he used to when i would fret about a performance. eventually, through his words and exhaustion, they managed to get me lucid enough to tell them my name, age, get my weight, height and other details that i don't remember. i haven't resisted their cataloging since then. there's little point. sedatives are rather effective at subduing anyone after all.

we were both given fairly rudimentary instruction with weapons. something i flew into with vigour, just in case i got myself near enough to one of them to take a swing. axes and swords became my thing. this seemed to impress them. after all, most girls don't have the strength to swing a battleaxe about. or even a regular axe, with any hope of their intended strike doing much more than tickle. throughout my life, i had been graceful, beautiful and a joy to watch. with weapon in hand, i was brutal, terrifying, and shocking to watch. my first fight was over in just over two minutes. i put it down to wanting it more than her. she danced around, not really doing a lot. i will never forget the horror of when the axe split her skull. nor the ease of how it happened. it was sickening. what sickened me more was how ready i was to do it again.

pepper was worse. he fought the day after i did. after all his chastising of me for my anger, hatred and resentment, he turned into a complete animal in there. the boy he fought against cut him. not even a serious one. but pepper. boy did he lose it. i've seen what they attributed it as. 'environmental kill'. so cold a categorisation. pepper beat him to death with a candlestick. i've never seen anything so brutal. and truth be told, i've never been prouder. it wasn't just me who wanted to live. pepper wanted it to, even if on a much baser level. but afterwards, i can remember sitting, calming him down. i've never been so grateful to be separated from him by bars before. it was the wild eyed look that got me. as though someone had taken away pepper and replaced him with a monster.

i've been in four more fights since then. same result each time. i wanted it more. i barely even feel a pang of remorse any more. i'm beginning to wonder if this is what it feels like to be a career. to not care about anything but victory. deep down, i'm appalled. but on the surface, i barely bat an eyelid. i want out of here. i want to get pepper out too. but i have to get out. have to. i don't want to end up like fanta. tormented by tiltoo, in a prison of the mind as well as of iron. or like chato, who seems to want to talk to me all the time. don't they realise they make themselves targets?

we've all been told the same thing. that this is so we can become the best tributes possible. so we can follow in julian bryze's footsteps. so he can train the last one. i wonder if he'll ever find this 'last one'. since we keep killing each other and all. sonnet seems to be the favourite. but i'll be damned if i don't give him a run for his money. after all, the underdog has nothing to lose. and this underdog has one thing and only one thing in mind. freedom. whether by blood or through escape, i will rid myself of this harsh existence. if it's the last thing i do...

life is so short
close to the edge
of another back door
life is so sure
life will be ready to twist up your world

( P E R S O N A L I T Y )

i've always been somewhat independent. goal driven. part and parcel really of living in a middle class family, we, by which i mean myself and my brother, have always been encouraged to do as best we can. i embraced that more so than he did. where others run from adversity, i confront it. i stare it in the face, grab it by the horns, and rattle it about to show it who's boss. some say it makes me quite an abrasive person to be around. that's only partially true. i can be quite nice. not so much nowadays, of course, but who in this forsaken place has much to be nice about? but before? i used to be a perfectly amicable girl. i just knew what i wanted, and i wasn't afraid to stomp my feet and throw my weight around to get it.

i suppose that i'm also quite a shrewd person. intelligent might be stretch. i'm certainly not dense, but i'm not some bright spark who'll invent the wheel mark two. but i have enough smarts to keep grades up. and more importantly, i learn very quickly in adversity. i mean, how else do you survive in here? adapt or die. some would say it's natural selection, but nature would firmly put me and pepper at a distinct advantage. siblings and all. there's nothing natural about being in here. but i digress. as evidenced by the fact i'm still alive, i'm definitely smart enough to adapt. something i think people overlook in the games, and in here. killing with intelligence and purpose is far better than indiscriminate, wild bloodshed.

i get my manner after mom, she was always very strong-willed. i heard her negotiating prices with an architect once. i couldn't help but smile at her adamant refusal to cow down to their hard-lining. i took after her particularly in that respect, as well as my looks. i have the same no-nonsense attitude, the same acceptance of the fact that if you don't grab it for yourself, nobody else with, and the primacy of one's self. a flash way of saying 'i am number one, myself for me.' it's served me well thus far. well, taking away the fact i'm a prisoner forced to fight for my own right to life. it's this fact, this inheritance of attitude from my darling mother that has kept me alive. and not just alive. thriving. by comparison to others, my sheer grit and determination make me shine compared to others.

i've learned very quickly when i first got here that violence was going to be a very intrinsic part of keeping myself from death's icy talons. i didn't like the idea of killing. who does, aside from the deranged or the evil? but needs must, y'know? after all, numero uno, right here. i have no doubt i would kill even pepper to get out of here. he'd probably try and do himself in for me anyways, the poor sap. no. i don't mean it like that. i do love him. dearly. we've been joined at the hip for so long that talking about him is a bit like talking about myself. weird huh? how someone so genuinely nice as him can be so closely related to a selfish survivor like myself.

that's what this place does to people though. it changes them. pepper's inner demons have come to the fore. it's actually pretty scary, the way he reacts in the arena. but i'm sure he can tell you more about that than i. i became bitter. sharp. catty. opinionated. violent, isolated, more independent. and definitely not afraid to reveal that this pretty kitty's got claws. tiltoo knows that all too well. if there's one thing i have never been able to stand. it's bullies. i don't care what sort. physical. emotional. mental. tiltoo is all three. despicable piece of work. weak because she cannot prove herself on equal terms. deplorably simple minded to think whoever gets out of here will be anything less than violent toward her. cowardly, that she has to hide behind that loathesome bone and the equally repellant altair.

they all have one thing in common. they try to crush our dreams. obliterate our hopes. immortalise our fears. you only have to look at fanta to see what happens to someone who succumbs to them, or their antics. i refuse to let go of mine. it's the only reason i do what i do. why i will kill, and kill again to get free. revenge has nothing to do with it. freedom and success. that is all i want. not much to ask, right? heartless you might say. that i would kill my own brother to save myself. tell me, when you were last in this position, what did you do? if you can answer that question, you are just like me.

here it starts
to enlighten
there’s a frame
i can’t change
that i just have to watch again

( A P P E A R A N C E )

people have told me, on ocassion, that in have the makings of a true beauty. high cheekbones, slightly rounded, but well defined features. long, multi-tonal brown hair that cascades down to rest at the small of my back. most just say i'm a very pretty girl. i personally can't see it any more. all i see is the face of someone who has seen and done things that under any other circumstance, would be deplorable. pale skin that while holds no visible scars, bears the marks of violence. my hard expression upon the lightly tanned skin. the sharpness of my hazel eyes as they bore into you. the slight frown that seems to have a permanent fixture on lips that spout harsh words. beautiful i may be, but a caged beauty is still a caged animal.

my physique is something that i take some measure of pride in. truth be told, i am extraordinarily tall for my age. i mean, how many girls do you know of fifteen that are five foot eleven? not many i wager. and it's not just my height that's something to be intimidated by. i'm also pretty well built. hardly a juggernaut by anyone's standards, but certainly big enough to make you think twice. densely packed musculature line my limbs, while not glaringly obvious in the sense that i don't have over-developed biceps or anything, you can definitely tell that i'm a powerful girl.

despite this outward imposing physique i've forged in here, i still possess the gifts nature gave me. benefits of being so tall, i have legs that go on for miles. so if you like legs, i'm your girl i guess. if you can stand the blood that i feel has permanently stained my hands. but if you want curvy girls, look away. i mean, sure, i still have curves. but my height, and my natural slenderness, coupled with the musculature that seems to have piled on my frame this last year, masks much of it. my hips swell out enough to catch the eye, but not to hold it. my bust is compact, at least, for my height. i mean, they're there all right, but they're definitely not going to drop any jaws. the small bit of luck i seem to have, i can't imagine the nightmare i would have if i had a pair of grapefruit strapped to my chest while in here.

my weight? rude much? i suppose i ought to let you know though. one sixty-eight point two to be exact. altair weighed us all last week. just over twelve stone. what can i say? i'm blessed with something of a unique physique. strong, but still very much feminine. i mean, i still have curves, my limbs aren't grotesque slabs of muscle. i'm just very much... toned. like a gymnast actually. or a dancer. fitting really, since i used to do it so much. maybe that's where the career's are doing it wrong... instead of learning to kill, they should be taking dance. you do have to be pretty strong to dance well.

it's when they pretty me up that what people tell me is 'my natural beauty' begins to scream for attention. i might as well be a mannequin, for virtually any clothing seems to suit me. well, that which fits. you'd be surprised how little clothing there is for girls my height. and i'm still growing too. woe betide the tailor who gets me as a customer. blouses, crop-tops, dresses, trousers, jeans, skirts, mini or otherwise, everything that fits, suits. i have something of a fascination with clothes, predominantly shirts. tailored of course. with fitted trousers. black. or blue. the colour doesn't matter so much. just as long as it fits, and it's stylish. if i'm going to be on show for their entertainment, i refuse to look anything less than my best.

that of course means makeup. something that, like my clothes, i refuse to be anything less than perfectly made up. foundation, blush, eyeshadow, eyeliner, the works. everything there simply to make me look as best i can. i have two main reasons for this. the first is that if i'm to be presented, i had best make damn sure that they remember me. the second, is that if i am to die here, i'd hate to die ugly.

reminder
repressed
inside me
it keeps
repeating

( F A C E C L A I M ) pauline grossen

life is so short
close to the edge
of another back door
life is so sure
life will be ready to twist up your world

( C O M M E N T S / O T H E R )

to the edge by lacuna coil

salt in the this is what it takes plot

this character template belongs to lalia. yes, this time, it actually does.