MIRABEL HUNT :: DISTRICT 7 :: FINISHED

Name :: Mirabel Anne Hunt
Age :: 17
Gender :: Female
District :: 7





APPEARANCE

The piece of rope burned into my fingers as I desperately tried to pull it from my hair.

Stray bits stuck in my brunette locks as I continued to weave my fingers through it. Why did mom always insist on putting my hair up? The faeries always asked me why, they wouldn’t, no couldn’t, understand. Not when their hair was so windblown and free, not touched by the hands of another human. The purity of it was riveting. I wished to be one of them when I was younger; the life seemed to ideal, flying through the trees, not a care in the entire world. I realized after a while though, I couldn’t please mom if I wasn’t there. Her and the rest of my family, they cared for me. They were always there for me, it didn’t seem right to leave them behind while I got to go on such an adventure. No, I told myself that if I were to go the the forest, so were they. Only then would I be truly happy.

My eyes were touched by nature’s grace, that’s what the faeries told me once. They are green, like the trees that billow over my head, directing the winds to run past my being, hardly hitting my hair as it flies into the breeze. I stand there though, free of my binds and chains as I take off into the summer sky. I close my eyes and imagine that I’m flying, like some creature that I am not. I imagine that I have wings on my back, the soft translucent edging casting me higher and higher to the top of the heavens. I want to see the stars, the moon, and the tops of the trees. I want to know the world so desperately. I see the others around me; they cut down the trees with no hesitation. Their axes bear sickness and evil as they strike the wood. It is haunting, the dying screams of the trees as they crash to the ground. No longer to stand again, dead to the world. No one cares for them anymore.

In the winter time, I stand outside with my slender fingers pointed to the sky. Snow falls down and lands on my fingernails, my skin, the color blending perfectly as the ice chills me only slightly. Everyone else despises the winter. They say that it’s dangerous, that it can kill. Nature doesn’t kill anyone, it is just getting revenge for when happened to it, the way that the people ruined it. That is why it kills people, it wants reassurance that it is getting back at the things that hurt it so much. The snow is the clouds crying as they watch down and see their beautiful sons and daughters be cut down one by one. They share their sorrow with us, and yet no one can listen. The fay are smart creatures, they teach me things that I wouldn’t have known otherwise, they life for the world and hate to see it be wrecked in such away. I listen to them, it’s sad that others cannot.

I sat on my bed, my worn-out stuffed bear

clutched between my blotched fingers. My eyes bore into the sewn in eyes of the bear before me. Layla stared back with a knowing smile. She knew what I was up to, she was aware of everything. She thought she was so sly, only talking to me and refusing to say anything to anyone else, she could be a pain sometimes, Layla could. The way that she was put into a never-ending smile, sometimes it bothers me. She uses this to her advantage. Tricking me into doing things that I would never do, she is like a mean school girl. You do everything just to stay her friend, no matter the cost to you, or anyone else. Layla was always slightly different though, she always had a reason for telling me things, many times, and they come in handy later. I’m just not smart enough to see the future; no one is, except for my stuffed friend.

My wall likes to talk to me too, as well as my dresser. I believe that everything has a soul, buried within the depths of it. No matter how hidden, everything was once part of a living thing. Walls are made of wood, wood comes from trees, trees are living. It’s a cycle really. Everything goes around and keeps going. Never does it stop, just like a person’s life. You are born, you live, and then you die and slowly fade away. It’s the way that life works. Everything was once part of something living, even if they are considered ‘dead’ now, they were once alive and that counts.

I get weird looks, when children come out during play-time in school and watch me as I look at a tree. I am not looking at it, I’m asking it questions, figuring out about its life. Was it carved into? Did anyone ever sit under it and read a book, their back up against the rough edge of the bark? Did any insect ever live in it, creating a home and surviving from the tree? Everything is interesting and has a story to tell if you know how to ask. Many things will answer you, the only trick; you have to accept that it is real. You can’t have any doubts. That’s why when I seem so sure of everything; I’m thought to be lying by others. They see my steady face and clench teeth and are convinced that I’m twisting the truth in some way. They would take me to a doctor, I even heard Mo talking about it once. She thinks there’s something wrong with my head, she says I need medicine. I disagree; medicine would not be the answer, especially if it were to take me away from the world that I love.[/jusitfy]