Re: Raptor Carta, District Eight {Fnished}

Name: Raptor Ancora Carta
Age: 16
District: 8
Sex: Female

Appearance:
Colors. That's what you think of first, isn't it? The color of the skin, the hair, the eyes. And based on that, you make generalizations. Her hair is blonde, so she must not be as smart as the rest of us. Her skin is dark, so her family has been through much worse than mine has. He has big blue eyes, so he must be so sweet an innocent.

* * * A Small Fact * * *
The colors don't mean a damn thing. Does that bother you? Does it unsettle you, make you wonder if all the assumptions you've ever made about a person were wrong? Well, they probably were. All people are the same you know, and we're all equal where it matters - in death.

But it's me you want to know about, isn't it? I tend to fade into the background. I'm always there, but you won't always notice me. Sometimes I'm the elephant in the room, seen but not talked about. That's not what you meant, is it? Let's see, you want specifics. Colors? Alright, we'll start with the colors.

My hair is brown. Not a dark shade, but not very light either. Brown is what it is and what it will always be, and if that bores you, fine. I've always been happy with it. My eyes are brown, but some say dark olive green. The bags under my eyes from too little sleep make the color seem less important, which, of course, it is. I'm not the tallest person in the room, but neither am I short, the same way I'm not skinny but I'm not fat. I am the average, as simple as that.

The defining things, hm? Birthmarks, scars, that sort of thing? Well, I don't know about that. The fingernails, of course, are bitten down to the quick, more out of boredom than any sort of nervous habit. The clothes rumpled, unwashed, a bit dirty perhaps. Would you call this my trademark? Yes, I suppose so, if you took enough time to look and observe me day after day. I would appear the same each day, and you would have to come to the conclusion that this is what I always look like. Oh yes, one more thing. I rarely wear my hair down. Such a nuisance, but people can be rather particular about the way others look. Mother wants my hair long, and I don't want to disappoint. People who look at me will think what they want.

Personality
You want more facts, don't you? Because facts are what makes the world go round and opinions don't matter much, do they? I'll tell you this: the insomnia has made the moon and I good friends. I like the silence at night, and when the stars pull me out of my slumber, I slip out of the house and wander the streets. I watch. I peek in windows and look at children and parents sleeping. I observe the moonlit gatherings of lovers in the summertime. These people like to think they're so different from each other, but I've seen the truth. I've seen what death does to people, and it's all the same.

I am a watcher. A listener. I don't tell stories, I keep them in my head. I assemble them, start to finish, and I hold them in my hands. I name them. The Flower Seller. The Girl of Wishes. The Alligator Moon. I have stories for all these people, and all these stories are mine. But they aren't all mine - I have to share them with the people I stole them from, because they're still living the stories, after all. I am not a puppet master. I don't control lives, merely observe them. I watch the way threads twist between people, tangle and break free, bind. I watch them sever.

Mother calls me a dark little girl, but she forgets that I can be hope, too. I can send a rare smile to someone, a gift that, I hope, will send a ray of sunshine into their life. When I speak, I can uplift, remind people of the good things in life. I record the good as well as the bad, after all.

* * * The Truth About People * * *
They are complex and ever-changing, and I try my best to understand them. Their stories are sometimes hard to capture, to understand.

I don't see myself as a person. I am a being, moving with the wind, collecting information, and traveling on. I do not feel emotion. I try not to. If I felt things, felt them for all these people I watch, I would be in ruins. I wouldn't be able to take a step outside my door. But it's my job to collect the world, to scoop up scattered souls in the palms of my hands. If I let myself feel, I wouldn't be able to do my job.

History
I tell other people's histories, not my own. I tell of their pasts, their triumphs and downfalls. But if you insist, I'll tell you mine. Though I'm sure it doesn't matter. I was born in District Eight, and I've lived here all my life, though I haven't been the same person that whole time. When I was born, my name was Thief. It is not the name I go by now, as you may have already guessed. My mother was quite poor. Her parents disowned her when they learned she was pregnant, so she was living on her own when I came to be. My mother worked all day, leaving me with a neighbor. I was three years old when my mother died. Or, I should say, when she was murdered.

The woman that had been taking care of me, Anita Wellerby, was into her thirties, had no husband, and no children of her own. She grew very close to me, and was reluctant to give me back to my mother when the day was done. She began to think of me as her own child. One day, when my mother took me home, Anita followed us back to our house. She strangled my mother and took me home with her. When the Peacekeepers knocked on her door the next day to ask her questions, they told her that woman had lived all alone, and that I was Anita's daughter.

And so I became. She renamed me Raptor, fearful that someone would find out the truth. Over the years, I think, she forget that she'd stolen me, but I never did. I remembered my mother, and her warm touches. I remember the soft slide of tears down her cheeks, her shoulders shaking as she recalled the family that had thrown her out. She was a warm and kind mother, as was Anita, though Anita was much more protective of me. She didn't like me going out on my own, and insisted that she walk me to school, even when I was in my teens. She never left me alone, except when she was sleeping and thought I was, too.

I'd had insomnia for a very long time, almost as long as I'd lived with Anita. I never told her, because I recognized it as an opportunity to be alone. When I was eight or nine I took to the streets at night, watching people. By the time I was a teenager, Anita had been switched to a night shift at work, and slept most of the day. She made sure she was awake to walk me to school, but she slept soundly through the afternoon, and didn’t mind when I was home when she woke. She had let her guard down enough at that point that she didn't mind me wandering about in the afternoons. She trusted that I wouldn't get into trouble.

So there you are. My life history in a nutshell. Now, could I interest you in someone else's story...?

odair