Camellia Vilanelle, District 12 (Finished!)

Named after the beautiful pink flower, camellia, I can't help but think my parents must have had a different image of me in mind. I'm the epitome of average. Brown eyes, brown hair, no distinguishable features. My skin is a light brown, although sometimes it's impossible to tell whether that's because of dirt permanently stained on my body, or the sun's rays. My hair falls to the center of my back, dark brown and matted from roots to ends. My eyes are wide, sometimes described as piercing, framed by thick eyelashes. Except for the occasional freckle, my skin is relatively free of anything special. Standing at about 5'5, I'm average height and of average weight... around 120 pounds on a good day. My waist is thin, which I'm grateful for, and my hips and bust aren't too wide or too small. Just, average. As far as flaws go, I can't complain. I have thin lips, and a small gap between my front teeth that makes me self conscious when I smile. I know my hygiene isn't exactly top-notch, and my eyebrows are like caterpillars.

If I had to choose one thing I loved the most about myself, it would be my hands. Blessed with long, nimble fingers, I use them to my advantage. I use them to create things of beauty - jewelery and clothes with intricate designs - when I have the free time. Speaking of clothes, my style is unlike the style of most others in District 12. Whereas most citizens are adorned in clothes of warm, natural hues such as greens and browns, I'm always on the lookout for things to make my clothes vibrant - flowers, spare ribbon, anything. However, I stay as practical as I can. Pants, leather boots, and tunics are the most formal I wear. The appearance of myself is something of little concern to me - my primary concern is finding the beauty in others and accentuating it with my own hands.

In my humble opinion, I have no particular attributes that define me as a person. I smile to those I like, and ignore those I don't. I don't go out of my way to stay out of trouble, or to get in it. I simply do as I feel is right, while still attempting to stay inside the guidelines the Capitol has set for us all. I'm not particularly loud, though that isn't to say that I'm shy. I'm outgoing enough, eager to make friends, but just as eager to leave those that hurt me. Which seems to have become a trend in my sixteen years of living. I wouldn't say that I'm any kind of hopeless romantic, probably because I've never had anybody to be hopelessly romantic with, but I will admit that I sometimes drift off into my own world full of strapping young men waiting to sweep me off of my feet and onto a white horse. Preferably a horse that is headed in the direction of the capitol. Anywhere but here.

I hate being hungry. It puts me in a foul mood, just like it does to my father and older brothers. Unfortunately for my family, though, it seems to be a constant trend living in District 12. I try to complain as little as I can, because I know my father and brothers work as hard as they can to keep me fed - me, before themselves. I'm the youngest, so some might call me spoiled. But really, in District 12, are any of us truly "spoiled"?

Living with only men my whole life, you'd be surprised to know that I'm not all that manly myself. I'm actually known to be quite feminine. The sight of any bug makes my breath catch in my throat, and I immediately remove myself from the vicinity as quickly as I can. I keep our house adorned with flowers, which I keep strung together, and I'm basically the maid (not complaining, however. I can't stand a dirty house). In fact, I think I keep the house cleaner than I keep myself. Bathing ourselves isn't exactly a necessity in my family though.

When I was younger, I always wanted to follow in my brother's footsteps. I wanted to be tall, strong, and well-loved like them. But instead, I learned to be well-loved by them, which has turned out to be a much better feeling. Given the fact that our mother has been absent nearly our entire lives and our father has been sick on and off, many would assume that we would be bitter and hostile towards the world, but instead we accept other with graciousness and respect, love and compassion. I can't imagine every having better role models.

The first three years of my life were probably my best, and sometimes I wish I could remember them. In my mind, I picture myself at two years old, toddling around with a beautiful mother, a healthy father, and a four and seven year old brother. Playing in the fields, walking around the market, being sung to sleep. But if any of that ever happened - I don't have any recollection, and focusing on the past for two long only causes me pain. My mother left when I was only three. My closest brother, Aster, was only five. My older brother, River, was eight, and my father was thirty-two. Still so young, and I imagine, still so healthy.

He tells us that my mother had a wild streak, that it was impossible to keep her contained. She talked of leaving District 12, making a new life for herself in the Capitol. Adorning herself with the tattoos and reconstruction that was so popular on the television. My father knew all of this about her, and yet he never expected the day that she would actually leave, gone, without a trace. My brothers and I figure this is the reason he became sick. Fatigued. Tired all the time. For as long as I can remember, my father has been quiet, borderline mute, with eyes that only speak of pain. And a soft affection for my brothers. And how could he not love them so much that it's visible even in his silence - they turned out to be everything any father could ever want. I feel like around my father, I mostly stay out of the way. I try to make him better, but to no avail. I try to make him happy, but my efforts go unnoticed. So I've always turned to my brothers instead. Those who raised me, those who I know love me unconditionally.

Except for my mother's absence, my life has always been fairly uneventful. I went through school obediently and intelligently, usually at the top of my class, though it didn't matter much. My brother, Aster, received top marks always in his school career, and that still didn't matter. School was only a necessary distraction for him from putting bread on the table.

I have always had friends, and those that I have now I've had all my life. Growing up in such a close-knit community does that to you. But my closest friend is my older brother Aster. He's the one who taught me sew, though he would never admit it. Though he was only five when my mother left, he tells me he remembers watching her adept hands weave the sewing needle in and out, in and out, making blankets, clothes, everything she could to provide for her family. He also tried teaching me to throw knives, which he is exceptionally skilled at. Me, however, not so much. My history is one of average affairs, but one that I imagine many others would love in comparison to their own. And it is one that I can't help but love, watching my brothers and myself blossom from being lost as children, and proficient as young adults, has given me the ultimate happiness.