Amelyn Gathana, D11 [FINISHED]

Amelyn Gathana, D11 [FINISHED] Feb 23, 2012 2:47:57 GMT -5

Post by vee on Feb 23, 2012 2:47:57 GMT -5

AMELYN GATHANA
Seventeen years old,
Female,
District Eleven.

I try so many times, but it's not taking me.[/font]

APPEARANCE

I've been taught not to tell lies, so right now, I shouldn't either. What do I look like? Well, I-I guess you can consider me good looking. Not to pretty, though! B-but not too bad on the eyes either. I'm pretty slim, though I eat a lot. All I eat are vegetables and fruits with occasional meat, however, which might be why I never grow all that fat. My fingers are slender, but once you get to touch them, you'll know they're very rough. I guess it's caused by all the work from the plantations, like harvesting, planting, and the such. Y-you shouldn't take me wrong, though! I-I love my District, and the way we live.

Contrary to what most people believe, not all of us have dark skin, like me. I'm tan, but not too dark. How? Well, my mother always warns me to wrap myself up before going to the fields. I wear a large hat, sweaters, and long pants when I go to the fields. You can always take a bath when you get sweaty, but you won't ever bring back the complexion of your skin once it grows darker, my mother says. If only we had those pills and ointments of the Capitol, I'm guessing I can prove her wrong. B-but we're just a... a poor family in one of the poorest Districts of Panem, so maybe I shouldn't be dreaming too much.

I love my eyes. They're green, like the long, carpet like grass that cover the plantations. Mother tells me I may have gotten it from my grandmother, since neither she nor... nor... F-father have g-green eyes. They're not really all that noticeable when you see me, though. People often notice my dark eyebags first. M-maybe I really shouldn't have stayed up all night all that time, but... I still believe that even if I didn't I would still have them. I had them ever since I was young, but maybe it was just worsened by always staying up all night.

My hair is dark brown and wavy, it falls just past my shoulders. It was really long once, reaching up to my waist, but little brother accidentally cut it with his sickle once. And so my mother cut it all off. I was crying really hard then, but she said I had to reason to. She told me I should be thankful it was only my hair that was severed. I've got a pretty decent nose, and my lips are pale pink, and thicker than others. As for my ears... well, they're really big. The people in school and even my own family often tease me about it, so I hide it behind my hair. Now that I think about it, maybe that's why I hate tying it up, even when it gets really, really hot.

And it seems so long ago that I used to believe.

PERSONALITY

They say I'm shy, too shy. And... I guess that's true. I just can't help it, whenever I talk to strangers, my face grows really warm, and my hands start to shake, and I start to sweat. And then, when I start to talk, my tongue seems to go to the wrong places and my words come out all wrong, too. It's not that I want to, it just happens. I stutter when I get nervous, so when I'm in the presence of a crowd, I figure its best to keep my mouth shut. By doing that, I don't have to talk and embarrass myself. You shouldn't think that's always the case, though! As you may be observing now. The stuttering just seems to disappear when I feel comfortable, when I'm not threatened by the person I'm talking to, when I don't feel scared. I wish I could feel like that all the time. So my words could always come out right.

I love nature. I love the birds, the leaves, the dry, rough, earth that sinks beneath my bare feet. They're the only ones I can talk to without feeling so different. Maybe if I die, I would become a part of the forces of nature. I love the sky, too. The way its always beyond my reach, the way it seems to call out to me, pulling me into its deep, endless, blue space. That's why I love going out at night. When my mother and brother are asleep, I often make my way out of the house. The peacekeepers are easy to evade at night, so I always reach the middle of the fields safely. I just sit there, with all the plants, and stare at the sky. It often takes hours, but I feel so content afterwards that I can finally walk back to our house and fall asleep.

I love my mother and brother, since they're who I've grown up with. They're the people who accept my quietness, they don't question me, probably because they know why I was like that. If I had f-friends, I might have loved them too. I like taking care of people, I like it when they depend on me, instead of the other way around. When someone needs assistance, I always feel the urge to go to them, but something holds me back. It's like I know that when I offer to help them, they would never take me seriously. I, the girl who always blends in with the crowd. I, the quiet one who only ever talked to the birds. I, the stutterer.

And I'm juggling all the thoughts in my head.
I'm juggling and my fears on fire.

HISTORY

I-I... I really wouldn't have wanted to talk about this... b-but they said I-I have t-to. So... my mother got pregnant at a very young age. Sh-she got married to f-father, and had me. I was really young then, b-but I remember how my father came home with a frowning face every night. I remember how he would curse at the top of his voice, b-but mother couldn't do a thing. Nobody heard his screaming, a field separated our house from the next. And if anybody heard, they didn't care. Why would they, if they had food and the Hunger Games to worry about?

And so the fighting continued, I grew up with it. And I remember how, when I was six, a night before the Reaping, my father came home even more drunk than usual. My mother and I cowered at the corner of the room, and he just looked at us. His glare is what I would forever remember of him. Then, father walked out of the house again, and returned with a long, thin, piece of wood. He started shouting, his words a jumble of letters that I never understood. I could see the spit flying from his mouth, sticking to the wooden floor I had spent all morning wiping.

He came to me, and beat me with the long stick. My mother cried, and shielded me, so he beat her instead. The next day, I started stuttering. Two years passed, and every night before the reaping, he would repeat what he had done, and my mother could do nothing. The third year came. My mother held me tight as we waited for the door to bang open and for him to come stomping in. But the night passed, and light seeped through the windows. He never came again.

They say he's dead. They say he ran off. It doesn't really matter to me.

A month after he had disappeared, my mother found out she was pregnant, and a few months after that, she had Charles. That was when she told me about my father. He had lost his first love to the Games, and when he had, he turned to the woman's sister--my mother. She fell for him, and could only say yes when he asked her hand in marriage. She looked at me then, her blue eyes locking into mine. She told me I looked like her sister.[/size]

Lyrics: One Fine Wire, by Colbie Caillat
Face Claim: Ana de Armas[/font][/center][/color]