{Roslin Pendergrass} {District 10} {Finished}

Name: Roslin Pendergrass
Age: 18
Gender: Female
District/Area: District 10
Appearance:
Short blonde hair bounces above my shoulders, always brushing against my cheeks. My hair rarely ever makes it far down my back, and I like it that way. It's normally quite messy. I mean, it is Ten after all. I try to force my wavy tangles into long, straight locks occasionally though.

My skin is a little tan, since I'm out and about a lot. It's still mostly considered cream, though. The creamy, smooth skin that hugs my face shapes it into a heart-shaped face. On that heart-shape face are two eyes that don't belong to a blonde like me. Most blondes have blue or grey eyes, but not me. Mine are a rich dark brown. Framing my eyes are lashes that are darker than anybody's I know.

Under the dark half of my face lays my nose. I think my nose is pretty big and odd, but then again, I try not to look at my nose. Normally bothering me is the back of my neck, where large patches of pink skin that never seems to heal. Luckily, most people don't see it, nor do I feel it. Back on the other side of my head are my lips, my plump, long lips. My lips aren't the perfect shape, not at the least, but they get my job done.

My body is pretty thin an lean. I have a pretty tall demeanor at five feet and ten inches, and I only weigh 135 pounds. Both my arms and legs are long and skinny. Contrasting to my arms and legs, my hands and feet are quite small. All of this contributes to the cause though.

My wardrobe is sort of pricey for my district. I have a good amount of blouses, but I have many different styles. When I'm trying to lure in a customer, I'll obviously wear a blouse or some girly top, but when I'm just being me, I dress kind of tomboyish. I wear tees and jackets when I'm alone. I try to brush away the fake things I have to put up with in the afternoons and evenings, and try to be me.

My jeans are basically the same. Some are tighter than others, and some have rips and holes. Normally it doesn't matter what I wear in the lower area when I'm with potential customers, but sometimes I put on the only skirt I own to rake in the dough. My appearance is nothing like my personality, though. My appearance is like a mask.

Personality:
I love the job I have. I'm a prostitute, to put it plainly, and I let people know that I love it. Taking on the job I have has given me so many qualities though. For one thing, I'm an extremely patient person now. I used to not be able to wait for my customers to slip me some cash so I could pop out, but now I linger with my customers, often wasting time and fooling around for a second time.

I'm a pretty happy person. You can always find me smiling or laughing. I guess this makes people assume I'm a ditz, which I can be sometimes. People always assume I'm high or on drugs, but I'm clean when it comes to that category. There are many words that could describe this small aspect of my personality. Bubbly, ditzy, outgoing, friendly. All of them can describe me.

I'm a rambler. I spew out my sentences, and my words often run together. I speak really fast, so sometimes people can't understand me or have to tell me to slow down. Once again, this causes people to think I'm a ditz. Sometimes the things I say, I don't even understand. I usually end up saying nonsense anyways, so people will think those exact thoughts and leave me be.

I can't say I'm intelligent, but I am knowledgeable. I know secrets around this place that practically nobody knows. I obviously have my ways of enchanting strangers, or friends, so that they will spill the beans to me. I know how many people want my secrets. They have to pay a price, though, just like anyone else that wants something from me.

I'm a good listener. I mean, I have to, so I can see if there's a secret hidden in a normal conversation. I know what I should look out for in even the most normal of conversations. I can also hear conversations from far away. That's normally how I get my secrets.


History:
I was born and raised in District Ten. It's not like I really have a choice. Wherever your ancestors from the beginnings of Panem settled, you were pretty much destined to live there, unless you had a risk-taker somewhere down the line that became a runaway and then settled somewhere else. I've always wanted to be that person, The person that changers their children's lives, and their grandchildren's lives, and their great-grandchildren's lives, and so on and so on.

I was a pretty neglected baby. My mom would leave at about six in the morning and my dad left at seven. They didn't tell anybody to come and watch me. So for about ten hours a day, I stayed in a small crib in a cramped room. I don't remember much from the age of always being in a crib because they weren't happy times.

When I was about five or so, my parents finally had enough money to support us without both of them working, so they were stuck with the decision of who could quit their job. They both agreed that mom's paid more, so it would only make sense for her to keep her job. From then on out, my dad spent my days at home with me. He took me out around town a lot, trying to spend as much time together as possible before I had to go to school the next year.

I remember whenever I came home from school, my dad would give me a great big hug and take my stuff to my room and ask me about my day. We would have a snack on the porch together and just talk. I obviously had a better relationship with my dad than I did my mom. She was rarely ever home, and when she was, she was in a bad mood.

She hated that she had to work instead of my dad. She came home angry and frustrated and tired. My dad always tried to make her happy and always tried to comfort her, but she pushed him away. They no longer had a good relationship. One night, I was sneaking around the house, trying to make it to the kitchen to get some water, when I heard screaming in my parent's room.

My mom was yelling at my dad, but he never said anything. Night after night, I heard her scream for years. The days when I came home from school became less and less enjoyable. My dad tried to keep up a cheery appearance, but it was obvious he was hurt from my mom. It wasn't until I was ten that he left us, or really, she left him.

My mom was the one that filed for divorce, and it was decided that I would be living under my mom's care, never to see my dad. He wrote me letters, though, and because I was always the first one home, I got them. We wrote back and forth for about two years until one day I got a letter saying that some big company in the Capitol offered him his dream job, and he told me it was something he couldn't refuse. He apologized and said he was so sorry that we would never see each other again, and I swear I saw wet spots on the paper.

I was so upset, but I couldn't let it show. I couldn't let my mom know me and my dad had been communicating. The years that followed were awful. My mom had a drinking problem. She would come home mad, drink a bottle, and the smash things or hit me. I tried not to tell anybody, though. Even though me and my mom had a terrible relationship, she was the only family I had.

When I was fifteen, my mom had gotten demoted to a low paying rung on the ladder of the company she was working for. We struggled so much, with her always wasting our money on alcohol and me using some on my ridiculous amount of needed school supplies. That was when I took on the job I have now.

It was awkward at first. I had no idea how to bring in the men. One day , though, a girl who looked to be my age was on the same street as me, trying to get men as well. She saw me struggling, and came to talk to me. She asked me how long I had been trying to get men, and I replied that I had been trying and failing for a month. She told me there was something you could consider as a school that taught girls the techniques for getting the men they needed.

She told me it was for girls like me and her, ones that needed extra money to support a family. She took me to an abandoned warehouse on the skirts of the district. There weren't many girls there, maybe ten at the most. I was told of how they would train us. They would provide me with the things I needed once I was ready, appropriate clothes and makeup, and every girl even got her own abandoned house for her and her customers to use.

Training didn't take long. After about another month, I was out on the streets trying once more to grab the attention of men. My first attempt that month was successful. Soon, I was bringing home money practically every night. My mom never asked where the money came from, which was good. We had enough money to sell our small two bedroom, two bath house and buy one that even had a second floor.

My mom and I grew very distant. When she would come home, I always made sure I was upstairs so we wouldn't fight. I pretty much live in the second story. There's a bedroom up here, a bathroom, and even a small kitchen. My mom lives downstairs, and never comes up to see me. I guess you could say I live on my own, considering I only go downstairs to leave out the door.

The last time me and my mom when in the same area together was the reaping, when I was forced to walk to the square with her. Neither of us said anything. We both like it that way. I don't need her, but she needs me.

Codeword: odair