INGRID EXCITARI | D10

NAME: Ingrid Excitari
AGE: Sixteen
GENDER: Girl
DISTRICT/AREA: District 10

APPEARANCE:

When I was younger, I thought that I was pretty. Pretty like the roses that my dad would give to mom and the grass that the cows ate. It wasn't because I was conceited, though, it was because of what the other people would tell me. They would say, "Oh, you are just so cute with your freckles!" and I would smile brightly back at them, taking in every word as if it were the complete and honest truth. But how can stringy hair and a large forehead be pretty? It can't. That's the reason why I have no friends. Or maybe the reason why I have no friends is because no one deems themselves worthy. At least, that's what mother said. I think it's just another one of those cases where people say things to make me feel better but only make me feel worse.

You heard me mention my hair, right? Pretty sure you did. I didn't stutter when I told you about it, so you had to have heard of it when I said it. Either way, my hair is nothing special. It's demeaning, to say the least. When I was littler, it was perfect for the image of a cute little 5 year old, with the curls and ribbons, but now that I'm older, I can't really say I like it. It's alright though, because I've never really cared much about what I look like or whatever. The color is more of a reddish color, but like the red has been bleached and caused a whiter-orange. It's not amazingly red, but it does make me stand out. The length of my hair is average for a 16 year old girl. It's just a bit below my shoulders, just enough to bug me when it slides over them.

My eyes are a bit weird aren't they? Most people in District 10 have eyes to match their cattle, mainly brown or grey, but I have blue eyes. They are similar to the grey, but I think if I was next to someone with grey eyes, you could tell mine were predominately blue, rather than grey. My eyes are thin, so sometimes people think I'm squinting when I'm really not. The little parts toward your nose, the part where your tears come out, dip down some, so when I cry my tears fall fast.

My nose is regular. You could stick it on anyone and it wouldn't look strange, as long as the skin color matched the person that the nose was put on. But, maybe.. maybe the end of it is just a bit too flat. Either way, it's about the most normal part of me.

Lips are thin. They are pink. They are slightly wider than most. The teeth that hide behind them, though, are unfortunately yellow in color and are covered in weeks worth of plaque. The milk the I drink must not do any good either, because I'm always left with an aftertaste and my mouth is covered in a thick layer of whatever it is. "Ew, my mouth is so gross!" I say to no one in particular on certain days where I'm not being communicated with. On those days, I'm normally left alone.

Overall, my head is larger than most. Or at least, my forehead is. If you didn't notice, it's very tall, and when my hair does not cover it, it looks like there is another head on top of mine, just without the eyes and nose and mouth and ears.

But if you don't care about my face, just like my friends, you'll probably have seen that I'm pencil thin. Like, seriously thinner than a piece of paper thin. It's probably because there's a refusal that burns deep within me that tells me to never eat my friends, and whenever I'm at dinner, I stuff the meat down my shirt or spit it out when the parents are not looking. Never in my life would I resort to eating the thing that I am closest to. And anyone that would needs to be Avoxed. Their tongue needs to be taken out and put on a skillet with the sun shining right down on it. And then the Avoxed person needs to see their tongue shrivel up and be cooked. If their tongue is the one thing that made them do what they did, then their tongue should be the thing that is not usable anymore.

Anyway... sorry... I tend to get carried away occasionally. Like when something makes me mad or something. When that happens I tend to ramble on and on and make no sense. At least, to others I'm not making any sense; I'm making all the sense in the world to myself. My arms are long and lanky and my legs are long and thin. My hands, in all of their invisible glory, are boney the fingers on them are very long. When I was younger, I'd be told that they were "hands for a piano," or, "with hands like those, you'll be writing the most wonderful stories in all of the land." Of course, when they'd say that, I'd have a flashforward and imagine how it'd be if what they'd say was true. I'd be in the Capitol, sitting with the walls that change colors with a pencil that wrote in five different colors and smelled like home controlling my every move. I would write word after word and I would send it in to my publisher and they would make it into a book and they would give every person in Panem a copy of it. But if I were to play the piano, I can see myself playing each key at a different time, different rate, creating the most wonderful music that you'd ever heard.

When I pick out my clothes, I make sure that there is never ever a usage of those that are close to me. If leather is involved, I am not. If even the very pattern of their coat is on one of the articles, I would most definitely close my eyes and say to myself, "When I open my eyes, I will be away from here." But then, of course, I would open my eyes and the clothing would still be there. In which in that case, I would scream at the person wearing it, or turn and run away. That is why the clothes that I wear are wore very often, because not very many clothes are able to people in District 10 that do not involve the skin or parts of my friend's: the cows.

PERSONALITY/HISTORY:

I've found a paper of something we had to write in school once. I remember vaguely, but we had to write 2 pages of what we thought we were like. There were the impartials that didn't know whether to like the assignment or hate it, then there were the obvious ones who obviously had no interest and then there were the silent ones who didn't want to admit they enjoyed it and then there was me who smiled. I've always been quirky.

Now, a lot of people groaned as they pulled out their pencils and began to write, but I've always been one to have a game plan. Or at least, I'd like to think that. I listed a few of my traits (and I slightly remember half of them including some sort of cattle word) and after daydreaming for a millisecond I began to expand on them. Now, I can't remember much of what I wrote, but I do remember one thing.

Aggressive; I don't like to think of myself as this, and I'm still a bit hesitant to label myself as such, but I probably am. Not towards anyone, at least. If there's a benefit out of it, it'd be that. I don't want anyone to touch what I've claim as mine, and if I have any say in it, I guarantee myself to send a slap their way. Even if it's petite and my fragile arms aren't capable of much physical pain, I would at least hope it'd cause emotional pain.

It's all I remember, I'm sorry if I lead you on.

My mother is perfect and my father is filthy, every time he lays one of his murderous hands on her a little knot in my stomach forms. I know of the bruises he's caused, the pain and tears. But she can'twon't leave him because he's the only reason we're still living. After all, no one can live off of corn. It would mess up your stomach; I know all too well. The one week I'd only ate corn, (nothing else was growing in our garden, I suspect some sort of beetles were behind it) I was left with a stream of yellow vegetable grain every time I'd use the bathroom. I'm politely defiant. That's how my mother raised me.

It's December, I think nearly Christmas.
Dear Diary,

We've been poor for what's nearly forever. Before I was born, mom and dad were fairly fine. I see myself as a burden, mom says otherwise. Dad doesn't, he never says anything. I've caught his dirty looks.

I don't know what to do, snow covers the ground and sometimes I walk on it with bare feet, the more numb I am, the less I can feel. It likes to soak into my sensitivity.

Mom tells me to be nice, and I am. I walk with white dresses and my hands loosely cling to each other in front of me, the dresses are stained so maybe they're not white but at least I try.

No one speaks nowadays. I've lost touch with the cows, they don't speak either. The sky is so bright but it's still dark outside. All I want to do now... is do something new. I need it.

I've always known that one day I would lose feeling, and it happened. But I recovered it and now I'm stronger than ever. My philosophical mind is no match for my immature self! The cows are much more than a blind friend, they're my salvation. They will save me. They've thieved me but I can't go just yet. I'll go sometime else. Now I have to stay with my mother.

The filthy pig that's my father can rot.

I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do with myself now. Most time is spent sitting in a pasture with grass running through my fingers, blades being split time after time while their low groans tip me into partial ecstasy. But some time (and some time is growing to a lot of the time) I sit in my room and think.

CODEWORD: odair
OTHER: [bringing her back from my last account, if that's okay?]