Nova Warner (District 1)

Depending on your ability to observe people, you may either notice me immediately or never find me in a crowd. I’d suspect that many people would happen to notice me right away and then pretend they didn’t. I’ll tell you why, later. I’m not exceedingly tall--only about five feet and seven inches--and at first glance, may seem not so muscular. In actuality, my arm muscles have been somewhat developed due to my practice of knife throwing. You can see them if you decide to look long enough, which many people do. My hair is long and black; it rolls in gentle waves down to the middle of back. The part changes when I sleep, and everyday it’s slightly different than the day before, but I make no moves to fix it. I don’t particularly care where it is; it always looks fine to me.

My eyes are green. That’s all there is to them; they are not bright green or deep green, but only pale green, the normal kind. I don’t mind that though because they are also the beautiful kind. My skin isn’t thoroughly pale; it has a little color from the time I spend outside practicing. Generally I’ll wear anything that’s comfortable and fits me. My usual attire consists of some solid color fitted t-shirt with some jeans and sneakers. Occasionally if it’s cold I’ll wear a jacket and maybe a long-sleeved shirt. I’m not big into dressing fancily. I wouldn’t say I need to, anyway. On the topic, I don’t generally wear makeup either. I find it to be illogical; makeup gives you skin problems. I like to keep myself natural on top of brushing my hair every morning and night. I don’t need to be artificial. I’m one of those rare girls who’s beautiful and she knows it. At least, no one has ever told me otherwise, so of course I could be mistaken. But until I receive such feedback, I’m beautiful and I know it.

I suppose this is the more complicated side of me to discuss. I’m intelligent. I know so, because I have a point--two points--of comparison. My parents. They are definitely not intelligent, but this is about me, here, and I can bring them up later. Earlier I said I’d explain as to why people pretend not to see me around. I’d suspect it’s because they’re afraid of me. I’m not outright unpleasant or unkind, but I believe what intimidates people is my ability to read them. I know more about body language than most simply because it interests me and I’ve paid special attention to it. With my intellect (not factually so, of course) comes wittiness. I enjoy wittiness, I like people who can speak well and challenge me. There aren’t enough people around who like mental conflict, these days. Speaking on conflict is where we come to another trait of mine: I enjoy a good fight. I don’t see it as a flaw, however, because my life is too boring without something to spice it up. Most of the time I’m the one who starts little skirmishes and doesn’t exactly finish them. I’ll usually just evade and evade until the other’s tired out and I can get on with my day.

I don’t get scared easily; I believe that fear only exists when we want it to. Why would we want it to? So you can get help that you don’t need. Fear is lazy. If you put your mind to it, any situation becomes easy to solve. It’s because of my views on fear that allow me to conquer it so easily, but the only issue is, if anything successfully does scare me, I shut down. Once I get scared, I become virtually useless in all respects: I can’t think, I can’t speak, I can’t move. And for this reason, I’m afraid of fear, I guess. An ideal situation, I don’t believe so. However, when I’m in control of myself, I’m usually on top of everything else, too. I’m generally easy going and laid back when it comes to peacetime. Times like these, when I can keep a level head, are the best.

The only issue with this easy going-ness is that it gets me into “trouble.” I don’t know much about morals beyond the general ones that I’ve learned through observation. You’ll find out why later. I often find it difficult also to back off when a situation becomes challenging. Interestingly enough, I’m a determined and dedicated person when I want to be, on top of maybe a little ambitious. There are no realms which I cannot overcome. And by all that I’ve said so far, you probably gathered that I’m not exactly humble. I’m overconfident, I’ll admit to that, but it’s very rare that I take my overconfident-ness too far. Self-esteem is never a problem for me, and I see no reason as to why a little belief in myself isn’t healthy.

There are things that are supposed to happen for a reason, but I am not one of those things. I was not supposed to be born. I was an accident. A mistake. I was not loved. My parents were cold and distant; they pushed me outside of their circle of warmth and acceptance. Cold, cruel and stupid is what they were: too full of lust for each other to even consider the possibility of creating a new life that they would be obligated by society to care for and nurture. Unsurprisingly, the phrase “new life” has a negative connotation from my home. Even though the people here are privileged, any child born was at risk of death, and any child born lived in fear of that ever-present threat despite the money. So new life meant nothing but endings and darkness and cold, silent eyes probing you in the streets. Marking you. Almost challenging you to forget that you may be the next to die with a knife impaling your heart or beaten to death by other children who were once fascinated by the sights of everyday now only want to see you bleed. For most, this quiet agony existed only in public places, for in their homes, children were shown endless quantities of love and affection from their families. Children were temporary. The possibility of limits is what drove them so closely together. They valued the time they had, and the children were happy as far as money would allow them to be.

This was not true of my parents. The challenges, the observation, the scrutiny did not cease in my house. Ariana and Don Warner are their names. The pair met at an old tavern like any other couple of mindless people. Both, it seemed, were lonely and in the ne’er-do-well corner of society, so Ariana and Don were not monitored closely enough by their superiors and parents to know right and wrong, morally just and unjust. Being ignorant of these things led to drunkenness, and you can best infer the story after that. The only different thing, however, is that Ariana and Don decided to stay together. I can only guess why; neither of them are pleasant nor have many redeeming qualities about them that would make anyone want to be near them for an extended period of time. My best guess is that they both enjoyed themselves so much on that one-night stand that once wasn’t enough.

I wasn’t conceived on the first night, nor the second or third. I don’t know my own birthday because of them. It utterly shocked me that they didn’t leave me out to die. They asked many people to take me in and get me off of their hands so they could go back to their “routines,” but no one wanted to support another child. So they kept me and didn’t bother trying to raise me, and it was for this reason that I did not know right from wrong when I was younger. Often times I would get in trouble at school simply because I was never taught “correct” behavior. Though I speak in past tense, the lack of proper ideals has given me a unique perspective on the world. As I grew, I realized that I didn’t want to learn to be a parrot and live mindlessly like all the other kids. I wanted to be different, stand out. And I could achieve this by being wholly imperfect. The idea of getting in trouble seemed favorable; it wasn’t boring, like following rules and regulations.

The countless disciplinary actions taken against me only taught me where the fine line was and when and how it could be crossed. They taught me the minds of man and woman alike; they taught me how to invade and conquer them. I realized that all the tools I needed to meet my own ends were in my own head. I like to think I’m rather gifted with words, and I exercise them whenever and wherever I see fit. My brain is hardwired for analytical thinking. In short, I like mindgames. I can manipulate people.

In one particular instance, I can recall one interaction between myself and my parents, actually. It was on Tuesday. Or a Saturday. I don’t know, nor do I care. I don’t usually make a point of remembering things concerning my “family.” A tidbit of fact: interestingly, with all of the “activity” engaged in by my parents, I am an only child. Either they got smarter or they’re having some issues. I believe the latter to be more believable, although I can’t say stupidity runs in the family. I’m not stupid. But I’m nothing if not a little cocky concerning myself. Going back to the story. To make the explanation behind this somewhat brief, I needed an out. Some weapons. I wanted to get my hands on some knives. At the time, I was thirteen. Everyone else my age had long since started training, and I wanted in.

Of course, my parents, not bothering with the fact that I could very well die before my eighteenth birthday, didn’t feel like paying for training, so they didn’t, and I didn’t get to train. However, this carelessness and complete disregard for my actions also allowed me to leave the house whenever I wanted, so I got to watch the trainees every day. If they had any foresight at all, they would have known that I would immediately go to the training center to learn all I can from the kids whose parents were actually concerned for their well being. Yet, I overestimate them all the time. Anyway, after observing the trainees for several weeks, I decided that I’d like to get myself some throwing knives. They seemed the most versatile of weapons to me: projectile, close range in a pinch, and they could be used for other purposes besides fighting. Briefly, they were perfect for me.

On that Tuesday or Saturday or whenever, my parents were preoccupied with themselves, and I took the opportunity to liberate some of my parents’ funds. When asked where I was going and why I actually possessed some money, I told them that I was going to get some stuff for them. They didn’t care. That’s how you do things: appeal to selfishness, and you can be selfish with other peoples’ things. I don’t know if that’s exactly manipulation, but it counts for me.

After I left, I poked around here and there in the training center and got myself what I wanted. I left the money on the counter. I’m sure they didn’t mind; I paid for them, anyway. Since training myself for three years, I’m getting pretty good. Solid sticks, level with the ground, anyway. Spin, no spin. I’d advise meddlers not to get on my bad side.

A knife in an eye doesn’t feel overly pleasant, I’m sure.

If there's anything I need to fix I'll get right on it