Faye Sinclair {District 3}

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Beyond this first page are the words that even silence can't restrain: words so carelessly crafted, yet so carefully crafted at the same time to form a network, or rather, a timeline of my own thoughts and experiences from my seventh year all the way until my seventeen--a timeline that will never quite be complete. Words are dangerous, you see, which is why I hope not another pair of eyes falls across this book. Even the most dishonest of words are meant to depict a truth, and those truths are what define us.

[/i]

The real question is, what if I don't want to be defined by these truths: truths that change just as people change,[/i] truths that never stand still? I thought the answer was silence, obedience, and ambiguity, but now, I am trapped in that reality, that mindset.[/i] It's not easy to change and be someone else. My life has already been defined, just another word inscribed into the dictionary. [/i]

If you are a female, a resident to District Three, probably older than seventeen years of age at this point, and bearing the false name of Faye Sinclair, then don't open this journal. You will only find yourself ashamed of the past that is now yours and mine to share. [/i]At least, I hope you will be ashamed and embarrassed and wishing you could played a bolder part, because if you are, that means you've changed;[/i] that means I've conquered at least one of my many fears, but it also means, I'm still trapped in a paradox.[/i] I hope that everyone reads the words stored so carefully inside this book; and I hope that no one ever does.


During show-and-tell last week, Rachel Medler showed the entire class her diary. She said she named it Emma, and that it was her best friend in the whole world. But I don’t want you to be my friend, Diary. Friends aren’t always there for you: sometimes they tell your secrets and sometimes they don’t care to hear them. Even then, when you’ve gotten dull enough to slip from their memory, they accidentally forget to invite you to their birthday party. I don’t want you to be my friend, Diary. I want you to be my confidant—that’s a big word, Mother says. She asks me where I learned words like that but I don’t tell her. I don’t tell her that sometimes I like to pull the dictionary from the bookshelf, start from “a” and make my way silently through the book, letting the pages unfold their knowledge. I’m too afraid that she’ll laugh at me like the boys at recess. Even more so, I don’t tell her that I wish—I so desperately wish—that the people in my storybooks could be real, just like the words in the dictionary. Sometimes, I need something real, like those words, to stop the unending fantasy from washing me away.


My second-grade teacher, Ms. Leah, is my most favorite person in the world. Once, she told me I should talk more, and today she asked me if anything is wrong. I told her, "no," because she always smiles at me and school is the best part of my day and I don’t want anything to change. In school, we read books: books that I love, books that I go home and tell Mother about, until she can’t help but laugh and buy it for me. However, when Ms. Leah sees me during recess, hiding behind my new book, she tells me I should go play with the other kids—the kids who play football and baseball and sports that I don’t fully understand. Sometimes, I sit outside and watch them play, but I’m too afraid, too afraid to let them know that I want to play, I want to know, and I want to be. I want to be courageous enough to walk up and join the game, but I can never will myself to do it. What if they laugh at me, like the third-graders yesterday, when I couldn't make it across the monkey bars? What if they tell me I can’t play because football is only for boys or I’m just too young to join? What if the name, Faye Sinclair, suddenly has a negative connotation attached to it? So instead of joining, I open my fantasy novel, and in between words, I watch—the way Aylin taught me how to watch. And because Mother scares me: because she has always scared me, in that silent, yet powerful manner, “Mother wouldn’t like it,” I told Ms. Leah, just as content.


Lisa says I collect too many things. I don't really like Lisa, but she's my neighbor and it's not like I get too many other play dates. When she came over after school, I showed her my room. I showed her my rock collection and my coin collection and even my eraser collection. “Eraser collection?” She asked, but I didn’t know how to explain. I didn’t know how to tell her how afraid I am and how afraid I can be, of knowing my ideas are permanent. It’s why I don’t talk much. Everything you speak exists, whereas you can write something on a clean sheet of paper, and it can stop existing within a matters of a few short moments if you just so choose to erase it. I’m afraid of existing, sometimes. Do I even deserve to exist? Do my words? Do you, Diary? I hope that no one ever reads you, because what if they laugh? What if they laugh at my thoughts? What if they understand me before I understand myself? I want to know the meaning of the name Faye Sinclair before anyone else; isn't that only fair to ask?

Mother says I think too much and she’s probably right. The principal came to our house the other day and I heard my mother talking to him in the living room. He wanted to move me up a grade or two, but then he explained that my social skills were extremely low, and without that level of vocal confidence, he couldn't do it. Ms. Leah was there too, and she said I am the best student in the class: I read better than any of the other students, and I can write with absolutely no probelm, yet I barely talk to the other children. "She doesn't have very many friends," Ms. Leah said. "Yet she completes all of her assignments at an almost prodigious level."

I didn't know what that word meant, but I quickly rushed from the room to look it up in my dictionary. Prodigious: see prodigy. Prodigy: a highly talented child or youth. She doesn't talk to the other children. I couldn't get Ms. Leah's words out of my head. Mother says I shouldn't talk to the other children; but Ms. Leah says I should? Anger filled me: anger because I wanted to be in the smart big kid classes, yet Mother's ridiculous instructions on minimal association held me back from my much-wanted joy.However, I managed to put up with it, for just a little bit longer.


Some people are afraid of my brother, Logan, but I like Logan. I like my sister, Aylin, too. I still can't talk to them like I can talk to you, but they’re better than friends, even though we all argue sometimes. But today, Carly was teasing me again as I read the dictionary during recess, and Logan came over and just stared at her, that momentary glare making her walk away in pure fear. I like having a brother, especially Logan, and I think we have more in common than we really ever give ourselves credit for. We don't always need words to display our appreciation.

Aylin, on the other hand, asks a lot of questions. Mother told me that it's not good to ask so many questions. It's rude, she says. So that's what I tell Aylin every time she starts peeking into other people's business, finding answers to the forbidden. However, I only do it because I'm scared for Aylin. I'm afraid that she'll have to face Mother's disappointed face, and then, whatever comes next. But sometimes, I wish I could look for things like Aylin does, so fearlessly assertive. Still, a fearless life, I know, comes with a price.


When I grow up, I want to be Rapunzel. Mother tried to cut my hair today, but I wouldn't let her. "Rapunzel," I said. "I want to be Rapunzel!" Aylin already seems like a princess, so bold and so confident. I want to be a princess someday, too: always knowing how to manage and overcome the most desperate of times.

But Mother wouldn't take it. She said that Rapunzel is a silly story and that I should stop reading such things. "I don't want you to cut it," I cried. "I want long hair. Long long long hair." She hit me then. My cheek stung and I could feel tears forming in my eyes, yet the moment my mother's hand slipped away from my cheek, the remorse in her eyes was blazing. I couldn't help but run to my room and lock the door and ignore her as she came up the stairs after me, in attempts to apologize.

It didn't really hurt, Diary, but I've been crying. I'm sick and tired of her ridiculous rules, and I've even more sick and tired of obeying them. I want to be allowed to do the same things that the other kids do. I want to be able to take a walk around the block without being questioned about who I talked to or where I went. This life is no more fulfilling than prison. So, I've promised myself that I will be Rapunzel. I won't be the perfect child anymore. But I guess I didn't realize how difficult that would be.


All this time, and we've had so much more in common than I could have ever imagined. It must be why it's so easy for me to talk to you. Our histories stem from the same place, the same question. But because it would be cruel for me to lie any longer, I will tell you exactly how you ended up in my hands. You were stolen. Please don't be angry at me. You wouldn't have liked Carly anyways. Her words would have littered your pages with no elegance at all. Carly was laughing at me during recess again: Carly and Keri and Bridget. They liked to laugh at me every time I brought a book outside and read beneath the swirly slide. Then during lunch, Carly was bragging about the journal her mother had bought her: obviously quite ancient, with a brown leather cover, and beautiful parchment, so at the end of the day, I snatched you from her desk—all of the anger and curiosity leading me to do so. I wasn't going to keep you; I merely wanted to see what nasty things she wrote about me. When I got home, I opened it only to find blank page after blank page. Tempted, I took out a pencil, readied my eraser collection, and I wrote.

Carly was crying the next day, and it was only until Ms. Leah told her that whoever stole her journal was mean and insincere that I felt no guilt. I'm sorry, Diary, but please don't tell Carly. Don't tell anyone; they wouldn't understand. But Diary, today I found out that I was stolen too. I know what it feels like.[/color]The principal came to my house again, along with a Peacekeeper, wearing no uniform. When Mother opened the door, I could feel the tension as it sifted through the air. The principal said that the school did not have a copy of my birth certificate, even though it had been a part of the enrollment policy back since kindergarten, and so, Mother searched. She searched and she searched, but her gaze seemed to be distracted. I could feel her heartbeat from ten feet away. Finally, she told them that she would find a copy and get it back to the school by next week, declaring that they must have been the ones to lose it. I watched as she shut the door, standing there for a few moments to catch her breath.

When I asked her what was going on, she said she'd take care of it, and in a few moment's time, she was running around the house, practically mad. I knew better than to ask any more questions. She says I'm not going back to school; she says I can't, but when I ask why, she pushes my curiosity away. But I'm not stupid. Her recent worry, added to her protective rules, along with the Rapunzel incident, and now this—I've managed to piece it all together. From what Aylin's told me, this isn't her family: not her real family. So what does that mean? Maybe this isn't my family either. It isn't. It really isn't.

I was stolen.

What's that supposed to mean? Is it supposed to mean that too many people love me? Because it never feels that way. You think it'd all be more fulfilling. You'd think there would be a huge mystery plot with clues basically planted in the road beneath your feet, but this reality was nothing like the books. Fairytales lied. Maybe I was stolen for the same reason you were stolen, Diary: revenge and personal fulfillment. If that's the case, should I be thanking my parents for keeping me away from people like Carly, or should I hate them? But Diary, thing is, I told you. At least you know that you were stolen. My parents, on the other hand: they never said a word. They've lied to me my entire life, and from what I've recollected, it doesn't seem like honesty is in my near future.


Mother was right. I'm not going back to school. With each passing day, she seems more and more overwhelmed, trying to deal with situations beyond her own control. She keeps saying she loves me, but every day, I believe her less and less. She's been lying, and quite honestly, I'm ready for the truth, so for the past week, that's exactly what I've been doing: searching for the answers to either the questions my mother refuses to face, or the ones I'm far too afraid to ask.

I spent the entirety of yesterday trying to figure out how exactly I would fine these undiscovered answers. I started with the television, but Mother's got every news channel blocked, so instead, I took a short walk outside and snatched the newspaper from Lisa's driveway. I read through the entire paper, from the first page to the last, but there was no hint as to who I was. I did the same thing the next day, except I was smart enough to steal a different neighbor's paper. I've started trying to convince myself that there is some sort of hint in there, that you just have to read between the lines. However, my hope dies just a little more each day. No bold words about missing children, nothing. I read the papers in my room, with my door locked, and I keep them stacked beneath the drawers in my closet.

Today, I spent part of the day at the library, reading through old newspapers there. I went all the way back to birth year, yet still, nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. I wanted some sort of hint, but I found absolutely no reports on missing children or lost family members. I felt as though my head were about to explode. I spent hours of my day searching for answers, yet I walked out of the library with more questions than I'd had when I'd walked in. I've seen absolutely no rewards for my efforts: not yet at least.


I'm driving myself insane. I don't know where to start anymore. At this point, everything seems to be a clue: every little word in the newspaper has to be. It just has to, or else I don't know what reality is. Will I ever?

No one ever warned me of how lonely it would feel to look for answers. I'm on my own. It's me against the world at this point; me against my family, or rather, my parents. No one ever told me how empty it would feel, stuck in the middle of two conflicting realities. Aylin knows what I'm doing, but she has her own business to attend to. I've considered talking to Logan about it, but my fearful instincts have pulled me back. He wouldn't understand. This is my history I'm searching for, not his. I've put up with loneliness for the majority of my life, so why not now?

I almost want to stop looking. This obsession with finding clues has completely taken over, but it seems that the closer I get to my destination, the further I stray from the truth. I'm wandering in circles, looking for something that may not even exist.

I don't know anymore. I really don't.

At this point, I'm just hoping that the knot will undo itself.


A boy called me beautiful today. I've never really considered myself beautiful. I've considered myself pretty at some point in time, for a few small moments, but never beautiful. He told me that there's something elegant about my face: something so delicate and so simple that you can just feel the wave of complexity hidden beneath it. It made me smile. I'd never thought that my own simplicity could pull someone in so well, for most of the time, people find me dull, having a large degree of normal that most people don't strive to befriend. There's no spark of adventure in my eyes, or a devious smile upon my face. Just plain lips, plain eyes, plain hair, plain size. Then, he looked into my eyes, and for a moment, I forgot about the fact that my eyes have always been too far apart, elongated to the point where it's often difficult to read the expression within them. I forgot about their ugly hazel color, so unsure of whether they'd rather be green or brown, just like me. Forever unsure, unstable. I even forgot about the bushy eyebrows a few centimeters above my eyes, so light that it's difficult to distinguish them much at all. Because he told me my eyes were captivating, that he couldn't stop looking.

Those few moments caused me to forget the fact that I looked like an alien, the color of my skin and the color of my hair matching so precisely. Every passing person can tell that I spend my entire life indoors: it's why I'm so deathly pale, with skin whiter than snow. For a few moments, I thought the boy was going to kiss me, the boy that I'd come to know as Fabian, but he didn't, because it was a public place and he had to get back to work and because this life isn't a fairytale.

I'd met him one day in the alley next to the coffeeshop. I sat between too trash cans--the only place I knew people wouldn't see me--and I read every word of the day's newspaper. That's when he came out with a bag full of trash, and that's when I nearly ran away, until he put a hand on my arm, his eyes willing me to wait. His eyes asked the question; he didn't need words to do it for him. "Oh, I'm alright. I just like...reading here." He explained that he worked in the shop next door, then asked one more time if I was okay, and then returned to work. Intrigued by the boy, I returned to the coffee shop the next day, and then the next, just to talk to him. The few days turned into two weeks. I liked talking to him; it made me feel loved, wanted, and a little less lost. He was my little escape. My short list of defiant actions was only growing, and my world was just a little bit closer to a fairytale.



I woke up today. Fabian was kissing a girl in front of the coffee shop, and now all I can do is admit that my mother was correct: terribly correct. I don't want to be defiant anymore; I just want to curl up in a little ball and never see the world again because no one ever told me how lonely people can make you feel, and how much less lonely you are on your own. Fairytale over. Perfection doesn't exist. Goodbye, now. Leave me alone. The end.


I'm scared.

It's 1:16 AM and I'm scared.

I'm afraid of spiders and snakes and really high trees that I used to climb with the neighbors. I'm afraid of dark places and small spaces and old faces that continue to haunt. I'm afraid of speaking and letting the thoughts that run through my own mind transfer so precisely into words that every ear can hear, first impressions that never fade away. I'm afraid of writing in pen, the permanence of my own words never to be erased. I'm afraid of how people will remember me and how I'll remember myself, or even the idea of being remembered at all: just another waste of time in everyone's lives.

I'm afraid of big dogs and birthday parties and thunderstorms. I'm afraid of scissors and fire and the swimming pond down the street. I'm afraid of words spoken and words never spoken and the words that I've written inside this journal, a single step on my way to courage. I'm afraid of my parents[/color] and who they are, whether I really have the right to call them my parents at all, whether they have the right to be just that. I'm afraid that they'll find the stack of newspapers in the closet, and I'm afraid of what it is they'll do to me when they do. I'm afraid of never figuring out who my real family is, and I'm afraid of what will happen if I do.

I'm afraid of change.

Mother seems content with that reality. I listen to her, I obey her, and I don't question it. I used to do so because I loved her, but now, I'm pretty sure it's because I'm so desperately afraid of the person she may be.

I'm afraid that Aylin will leave, my last ounce of courage at her side. I'm afraid that she'll move on with her life—that everyone will move on with their lives—and I'll fall behind. I'm afraid that the peacekeepers will somehow let the evidence fall into place and arrest my parents for what they did, ultimately pulling the three of us to our separate parts of the world. I'm afraid of reality and the nonexistence of fate: the fact that maybe happy endings are only for storybooks and the fact that fantasy may always be a two-dimensional concept.

I want to ask Aylin if she can teach me how to be brave but even that, I'm afraid of. I want to conquer all of my fears by the time another human being puts their hands on this journal. Slowly, steadily, I'm getting there. My acts of defiance started with you, Diary. I broke the rules for the very first time by stealing you. Then, it was the hair that I refused to cut: that I still refuse to cut. I'm sure Mother forgot about the entire Rapunzel ordeal, yet I haven't. It was the one time when I had power over my mother. She hit me, but she never managed to cut my hair. I won the fight. My life is seemingly becoming just that: a fight. A fight against my parents, against my fear, against everything I once stood for--that's all my life is anymore.

It's a silent fight, of course, for it's always the sly, careful ones who win--ask any Hunger Games victor. But what if I don't want to win this fight? What if I want to win, but I don't want to see my parents lose? Of my many fears, winning is by far my most daunting; because with winning, you're losing far more.

<img src="http://i41.tinypic.com/16h2ibt.png">[/size][/blockquote][/justify][/color]