{Calista Dawn} {District 13} {Finished}

Calista Dawn

I don't see why you want to know a thing about little ol' me, but whatever... maybe we can be friends. Anyways, my name is Calista Dawn, but you can call me Cal if it's easier. I am eighteen. I am female. I live in District 13. I am heterosexual. I work at men's bedrooms. My favorite colors are Perfect Purple Plum, Uy9, Shirt on Babe, and Starry Night.

Appearance

My hair is normally the neatest hair in Thirteen. Then again, I'm probably one of the richest people in Thirteen, but that's a story for later. Anyways, my corn silk colored hair falls just past my shoulders. The ringlets that spiral down from the end are completely natural, but nobody believes it. Only on occasion do I leave it in its natural state. While it takes a lot of time and a lot of contraptions, I sometimes force my hair into straight strands. Making my hair wavy consumes more time and requires more contraptions, but it's usually how my hair is.

My hair is parted delicately on the far left side of my head. My bangs aren't the choppy kind that have strands of several different lengths. The strands that make up my bangs are all the same length. I normally pin them up, keeping them from falling in front of my eyes whenever I walk. Of course, I forget my bobby pins from time to time and have to tuck the hair behind my ear.

At the top of my head are my lovely beauties. My eyes are large pearls drilled into my skull. They are a shade of blue on the lighter side, a color I can only describe as ocean blue. They are framed by thin eyelashes that are a color that reminds me of sand. I try to coat my lashes with a thick, pulpy, black substance whenever possible so people can actually see them.

Between my eyes is a nose I despise. It is bumpy and has little red dots circling the bottom half of my nose. My nose is very large in my opinion, and sticks out awkwardly. Resting just underneath my monstrosity of a nose are soft lips the color of bubblegum. I normally leave my lips alone, only coating them with a flavored substance when my lips are chapped. My lips are quite thin and are stretched farther across my face than most people.

My skin isn't tan at all. Considering I've lived under the ground for quite some time, I haven't experienced much sun. My skin is quite pale, only occasionally getting darker with age. It's not a ghostly white of most of the citizens of Thirteen; it has some pink and red tones in it. My skin doesn't have any textures to it, such as brown freckles, fleshy red spots, or stretched birthmarks, nor is it stretched and wrinkled from the age of time.

Threaded to my upper body are quite short arms. I guess they could be normal length for somebody my height. They reach just a little bit past the upper half of my thighs. The hands connected to my arms are quite small. The fingers aren't pudgy like a man's, nor long and skinny like an elegant woman's. They are more like a young children's, short and a little chubby.

My shirt's vary from day to day, depending on what's clean and what's not. You could say I'm one of the rich people of Thirteen, considering my job, which I'll tell you about later. Anyways, I sometimes can been seen spotting a dress, but I normally stick to a nice blouse and tight jeans. I can't ever really tell what the temperature outside is, so whenever it's freezing outside I'll probably be wearing a tank top and shorts. Like I stated earlier, it really just depends on what is clean and what's not.

Just like my shirts, the cloths that cover my leg vary from day to day. I normally wear dark, tight jeans. More rare than seeing me in a dress is seeing me in a skirt. I own only two skirts; both are pure white and lacy. Just because I wear jeans more often than not doesn't mean I'm a tomboy in any way. Jeans are just easy and cheaper to purchase for me.

My legs aren't skinny, nor are they chunky. My legs aren't very long at all, considering I'm very short. I've had to run a lot down here. The people down here are always afraid somebody will attack us, and we have to be able to run, fast. I guess that makes my legs have a little bit of muscle. I mean, I can flex my legs and stuff, but it's not noticeable other than that.

I guess I shouldn't complain about my legs being shorter than most people my age, considering they make up most of my height. My legs boost me up to 5'5". I'm pretty short for my age, considering most girls my height are about four years younger than me. I also don't weigh much for somebody my age. I'm not underweight, but I'm on the smaller side of normal weight. I weigh only 115 pounds right now.

Personality

I'll go ahead and admit it; I'm a brat. I never had enough money or food or really anything back in Twelve. I have way more money than I ever would have had back in Twelve. I definitely take advantage of my money. I can be pretty rude, too. If you've been through what I've been through, you wouldn't see reason to be nice to anybody.

I was only ten when my parents died. It seems so far away from now, but that's another story I promise I'll tell you later. It scarred my heart, hearing their screams, seeing their blood. I wasn't able to look at their cold, limp, lifeless bodies. I was so scared and hurt. I think about them all the time, of course, and that's what makes me so rude. The scars on my stone-like heart have never healed, leaving me emotionless.

Obviously, I don't have scars on my heart; I'm pretty sure I would be dead if I did. Either way, I'm practically emotionless. The only emotions I really feel are pleasure and pain. I know I should be more sensible and try to be more nice to people and admit I feel all kinds of emotions. I know it's not realistic of me to say I only feel two emotions and that it's because I saw my parents die. Maybe I tell myself I'm emotionless so I won't get connected to my customers.

I have no shame at all. Ever since I was thirteen I've sold my body to men who can't get a woman their age. I was nervous at first, trying to get men who were still in their teens to make it easier on me. It didn't take long to realize most of teenagers had their own girls that could us, and that I had to work with older men. The older I got, the more of a routine it became. It didn't take long to shed my shame.

I guess you could say I'm ungrateful. Like I said earlier, I've never had so much stuff. Most people in Thirteen can't afford to have a lot of items, and I definitely take it for granted. I can't say I regret my attitude, because I don't. I just have a "job" that pays better than most.

I can't say I'm shy, but I'm not a socialite either. I don't have many friends, nor do I try to make any. I can't be shy when it comes to my "job" though. I can make conversation with any people who happen to need talk to somebody, but I try to avoid most people on all costs. I just don't want to get too close to anybody.

Since I don't really have "friends", unless you include some customers who remember my face, I'm quite lonely. I know it's what I want; it's what I prefer. I really just need one person to care about me. I need one person to need me, to love me. I think if one person could love me, maybe I'd have a better life down here.

When I'm not working or wandering around, I lock myself in my "room" and draw. I've loved to draw since I was a little girl. I can draw still life and I can sketch portraits. I haven't ever tried to draw scenes of nature, though, but I'm sure I would love it. I haven't been blessed with a glorious set of paints yet, and I feel I can't sell anything that isn't a painting. Art isn't art without color.

History

I didn't have a happy childhood back in Twelve, I'll go ahead and tell you that. Once I started school, my parents were always so protective of me, telling me to be careful who I interact with, telling me to stay out of trouble. After school and on weekends, I was not allowed outside of the house when my parents were at work, nor was anybody else allowed inside. To make it worse, I had no siblings, so I had to cope with playing with my stuffed animals and plastic toys.

We lived in the Seam, and it was hard for my parents to shield me from all the people dropping on sidewalks from starvation. Both my parents worked, so that everybody could be fed. My father worked in the mines like most Seam males did. My dad started working there when he was eighteen so he could keep the family of his parents and three sisters fed. My mother didn't start working until she married my father. She worked in a floral shop as as deliverer. Not too many people in Twelve ever needed flowers nor had the time or money for them, but my mother's boss still pays her as if they do. Sometimes when flowers were wilting or petals were dropping off, my mother's boss would let her bring the flowers home to us. This is what inspired my passion for drawing.

When I was seven, I first asked my mom to buy me paper for drawing and a pack of colored pencils. It was a lot to ask for in our financial state, and my father agreed that it was too much. My mother, though, insisted that I was their only child and that it was their duty as parents to please me. At first, I would draw the flowers my mother would bring home or the ones in the store. I began to draw a more variety of inanimate objects, though, and by the age of nine, I was selling still-life paintings.

My paintings never sold for much, but any extra money I made, I gave to my parents. They always spent their money on me and my ever-changing desires. I thought it was a nice way to pay them back. While they still limited my interaction with other children, I was quiet content with sketching, drawing, and painting. I did have a few friends, but I never really interacted with them outside of school.

It was right before the tenth reaping I would experience when my parents died. Extra Peacekeepers had been sent to Twelve to help with the reaping. Some Peacekeeper's knocked on the door, and after looking through the peephole, my father calmly told me to go in my room and lock my door. I saw something different on my mother's face though. Concern, pain, worry. I did as I was told, though, without hesitation.

My room was close to the front hall and the front door, so I wasn't surprised when I peeked through the curtains of my room and saw my parents and a trio of PK's. They talked for a long time, but the words mostly came from the trio. My mother looked like she was about to burst into tears, and my father looked very shocked. They began to touch my parents all over, as if they were looking for something hidden in my parents clothes. They found nothing, but they still reached into their pockets for the feared circular silver objects. That was when I ran.

I unlocked my door and flung it open, racing to the front door that was cracked open a bit. I flew out onto the concrete in front of our house, landing a few feet to the left of the group of adults. My father must have tried to resist they silver circles during my escape. The PK's had brought out something I never had seen before. I would later find out that they were called guns.

A small, black sphere was shot out of the strange machines, lodging in the center of my father's forehead. Sticky, warm blood leaked out around the sphere and my mother began screaming. I quickly turned my head away, hoping the same thing would not happen to my mother."Run Calista Dawn, run! Run and hide and don't you ever come back!"

My mama told me to run and hide, so I did. When she used my middle name, I knew I couldn't change her mind. Dawn was my actual last name, as far as my parents were concerned. They told me it was safe if we didn't share the same last name. It didn't keep me going very long. She was screaming more words at me, telling me things to remember, when suddenly the screams stopped. I had only made it to our neighbor's yard when I knew she was a goner too. Once the PK's had cleaned up the mess and left, I knew I couldn't just leave without anything from my parents. I remembered hearing the word 'table', so that was the first place I looked.

Taped to the underside of our kitchen table was a letter, envelope and all. I ripped it off, and knew it was all I could afford to take. I fled once again.

I don't know how long it took me to get to Thirteen, but I was immediately welcomed into their citizens arms. They asked me if I wanted to live with a childless couple, but I told them no, I could take care of myself. I remember that I would take care of small children when their older siblings were still at school and their parents were still out and about. It was a meager supply of money, but it kept me going. I knew when I was thirteen, I would be able to make much more money, but for a price.

It wasn't until my thirteenth birthday that I decided to read the letter. The first line read If you're reading this, it means our past has caught up to us. After that, I knew it would be that kind of letter that explained everything, and I also knew it would be my last memory of my parents. I knew once I read it, the words, the meanings, the feelings would be gone. I could read it again and again, but I would never experience the same emotions.

I've already told you about selling my body. How I was scared and nervous, only trying to tackle teens. Whenever I was unsure if I could do it anymore, I would sketch faces that had made and impression on me. It helped me slip out of my shell, though. Soon, my services were better and I was raking in the money. I know what the looks mean from the men I pass. I know my name is not a stranger to their tongues or ears. All the guys know my name; it doesn't shock me.

I make sure that there is only one service per customer, that way I never have to met the same guy twice. I don't want to get close to a person because of my work. I do want to grow close to somebody, but I just don't want it to be from a customer. One-night stands are the way I prefer my job to work. No strings attached.

Other

And every magazine tells her she's not good enough
The pictures that she sees makes her cry
She would change everything, everything, just ask her
Caught in the in between of beautiful disaster
She just needs someone to take her home
She's giving boys what they want
Trying to act so nonchalant
Afraid to see that she's lost her direction
She never stays the same for long
Assuming that she'll get it wrong
Perfect only in her imperfection

632383-Main text
C4AB2D-Thoughts and lyrics 9F2467-Others speech 422B87-Speech

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