Phaedra Romare -- District 11

Dark. That's how most describe me. Not in color, of course, but rather my atmosphere. But, of course, it's not the truth. I mean, what is nowadays? My hair is jet -- well, more raven black; the same color streaks above my eyes as eyebrows. My face is slightly rounded, with a straight jawline. In my opinion, my nose is my worst feature -- it's slightly crooked and too rounded for my liking, but others seem to like it for some reason. It seems to "fit my face". I always question this, but of course, I couldn't get a straight answer.

Out of all though, I love my eyes. They match my hair, eyebrows and eyelashes with a black color to them. In the bright sunlight, they have a blue tint to them, exactly like my hair. Sometimes, I can see why others think I'm "dark." It's because, in reality, I am. My skin contrasts heavily from the rest of my facial features, at a slightly burned, peach color. It seems light most of the time, except when the sun decides to burn my delicate layers of skin.

Another thing I dread about my appearance is my weight. I'm horribly thin, under a hundred pounds while standing at five foot five inches tall. My parents always see to it that I get some extra food, but my stomach can't seem to handle it. Because of my lack of body fat, I have stretch marks to where my skin has stretched from my ribs. They're burning vertical lines that result in dreadful scars along my torso.

When I was younger, I was diagnosed with Urticaria pigmentosa. It resulted in small lesions and scars appearing down my neck. They detract from my basic appearance, but other times, people are intimidated my them.

Let me just say that I'm not like everyone else perceives me to be. I'm not dark, depressed or upset -- I'm not even shy for all that matters. In all reality, I'm just a bit of a loner. Actually, I have a small number of friends I prefer to hang around with. I can be very sensitive to criticism, so I know my friends won't criticize me if I make a mistake. Being popular isn't about having a certain number of friends; it's being a role model to those are true friends.

I can admit, I have some downfalls. I'm sort of selfish when it comes to some things -- well, possessive is more of the right word. If something is mine, I don't want anyone touching it. Also, I have a heated temper. I may not be strong physically, but I can torture others mentally -- how else would a small person do it? And even sometimes, I can have mood swings. It makes sense because I'm bipolar.

While we're on the topic, I'm overly defensive, I'm not good with change, blah blah blah. I get it. I'm not perfect, but at least I'm not nasty like the people from the capitol and the richer districts. Though, I have a good side too. I'm very opening to new friends who I learn to trust over time, but I can be picky about who I want to make friends with. I have a strong backbone -- I may not be able to defend myself with fists, but I can stand up for myself without any problems. My creativity is what I think my best feature is. I can always think of better ways to accomplish things and I have musical talent as well.

I was the only child. Of course I was. I grew up in a large district, with no one to relate to or to share it with. My parents both lived together, with me in the middle. I loved them to death, and I knew I would risk my life for them if I had to. When I began school, I knew I wasn't like the other girls. Rather than wanting to play with dolls, I wanted to go outside and get all dirty. I remember going home everyday barefoot with brown spots covering my blue dress uniform. Surprisingly, my mother was never mad, and actually, she laughed at me. I found it amusing most of the time, but when I slipped and fell into the mud on the way home it wasn't very funny.

When birthdays came in my family, they weren't always a big deal. I always had a piece of corn bread and maybe a carrot or two, and a new dress sewed by my mother. When I turned eight years old, I was diagnosed with Urticaria pigmentosa. The doctor told me it could cause leukemia, but I wasn't worried. I could get by without any help. My life didn't change much with my diagnosis, but it was always in the back of my head.

By the time I was twelve years old, I was just counting down the days until the reaping. I knew I had to be entered, no matter how badly I didn't want to. Following the directions the day of the reaping, I gave a blood sample and stood with the other girls my age. Luckily, I wasn't called -- a girl named August Millory was. I went home later that day, feeling happy that I wasn't picked, but upset that the other girl was. She died the first day in the arena.

Ever since that day, I haven't taken life for granted. I have to love who I have an hold them close, and never ever let them go. I await for my future to come jumping straight into my open arms.