Avalon D10 {Finished!}

I'm always worried about my looks. What if people think I'm ugly? What if I'm not pretty? What if I'm not enough? These questions run through my head every minute of the day. Mother says my looks don't matter, that it's what's on the inside that does. But how can this be true? People never see what's on the inside. They only see the outside. The odd thing is, I never put on make up. I just worry, never doing anything to fix it.

My hair is made up of light brown ringlets, stopping just below my shoulder line. Underneath are streaks of lighter brown, almost blonde. I never dyed it, that's just the way it looks naturally. My eyes are a dark hazel color. My younger sister, Carnation, is always telling me they are the color of mahogany. I'm always telling her they look like dirt.

My face is round, almost child-like. Some say it makes me look innocent, and on rare occasions, I agree with them. This is about the one thing that would be of advantage to me in the Hunger Games. Maybe one or two tributes would take pity on me and give me a bit of protection. That's the most I can hope for: that someone will show a little compassion.

I'm a normal height, if anything, a little tall. Around 5" 4', I think. My legs are long and skinny, built for running. I can run fast, and over long distances. When father worked with the livestock, I would run messages from farm to farm. If one of the animals were sick and we needed the local doctor, father would get me to run. Over the years, I've built up fairly strong muscles in my legs, and it shows, since I came first in the school's track and field.

I'm skinny and very light of weight, with little to no muscle on my upper body. This would give me a huge disadvantage of strength in the arena. Though, it does give me the ability to climb. I could climb higher than many of the other tributes.

Other than that? I'd probably die.

My father used to go on and on about how it's the inside that matters...until that stupid mut shut him up. I don't pay much attention to my personality, so this may be a challenge.

I'm very shy, I know that. I have a serious problem with starting conversations. I can never think of a topic to discuss, or a question to ask. And even when I am asked a question, I always give quick, short answers. Carnation, who's two years younger than me, is always telling me I need to give longer answers. She can be a pain in the neck, sometimes.

But most of the time, we get along quite well. We both love horses. When farther was alive, he owned three of them, and he named each one after the two of us and mother. Carnation, Avalon, and Lillian. I loved grooming the horses, and riding on them. Bare back, mind you. I used to ride Carnation out into the prairie, and we'd gallop around the fields for hours.

Another thing I enjoy is reading. I could read forever. I love taking a book and hiding it under my pillow till nighttime, and then I'll read by moonlight. I'm always swept away with the plot and the characters.

I was born August 23, 12 years ago. Both my mother and father were born and raised in District 10. They never went anywhere else. I can't remember anything that happened between then and Carnation's birth, two years later.

The first time I saw her, I asked, "What is it?!" She was little, scrawny, and had a pale yellow color. I nicknamed her Lemon, right there and then. I still call her that today. I didn't understand it then, but Carnation almost didn't live. She could only take little breaths, and she wouldn't eat anything. It took her almost a full year before she started to look like a normal child.

I started taking her out to the barn with father when she was four years old. I could already ride a horse with a bit of help, so I took great pride in teaching her. I was seven when the dog came.

Father, mother, Carnation and I were out working in the fields. We were taking the cows out to get some food. We owned five cows, I believe. The stray came out of nowhere. It was a little big to be a dog, but what else could it be? It was foaming at the mouth, and it took father a moment to register that it must be rabid. He told us to run, and we did. I still regret doing so. The dirty little thing jumped at his neck, and he was dead only a minute later. Mother had screamed, I remember. Carnation and I were crying.

It took two more years before we got back to our regular routine. All the horses and cows father had so easily cared for...they were now dead. But we survived.