Nimitziminy O'Blen, District 3

I'm not really much to look at. My brown hair falls just past my shoulders. It is slighty wavy. I don't care much about looks, but I actually think my hair looks nice. My eyes are jade green, but they occasionally appear to be darker shade. My cheeks are well-rounded, as my small family has always had enough food to go around. I'm naturally skinny, though I suppose as I get older my metabolism will decrease. I'm still a teenager, however, and have plenty time to eat whatever I want without worry of getting fat.

I don't have the abnormalities some other people do. You know what I'm talking about. The people wth missing fingers or toes and such. I have a few zits dotting my face, but that is all too common for people of my age. I often bite my fingernails, so they are rarely more than stubs. I've had this habit for as long as I can remember. My fingers are almost always greasy, and a layer of grit has accumulated under my barely exsistant fingernails. My teeth are the subtlest shade of yellow from smoking. I didn't always smoke, and I wouldn't say I'm addicted, but I'm sure plenty of people say that. You don't have to believe me if you don't want to.

I'm sure you've heard this story before. A girl starts working before she should to take care of her family, so she's a bit more responisble than others her age. Though the story is all too common in Panem, it is still mine. My father died a while ago (I'll get into that more later), and he left behind a workshop. People from factories all over Panem used to send machines to him to get fixed and upgraded. Now they send them to me. I'm a hard worker, and my father taught me well. I love working with machines, taking them apart and putting them back together, making them better than before. I'm good at it, too.

A lot of stress comes from running the business. There's times I want to rip my hair out and just give up. As good as I am with machines, there as some that just don't want to be fixed. And unfixed machines=no money. I'm the only source of income for my family, so if we don't have money, we're screwed. Luckily, I have a positive outlet for my stress. I don't cut or do drugs like some people would. I run. Every morning, first thing I do is lace up my shoes and run through the streets of District Three, choosing a path that will take me miles. I wish I could leave this place. There's a whole big world out there, waiting for me. And I'm stuck here. I would leave, but I can't leave my little sister and my Grandma. They'd die without me here to support them.

So I guess you could say I'm stubborn. I smoke, even though I know it's ruining my lungs and therefore making it harder for me to run. But smoking is a habit I picked up after Dad died, and I can't bear to quit. I'd leave this District, but what about my family? I won't give up on a machine until I know there's absolutely nothing I can do. Dad left behind these blueprints for machines, and I've been puzzling over them for what seems like forever. They don't quite make sense, but I've been trying to construct whatever they're supposed to be. I can't give up until I've done the best I can do. Unfortunately, I sometimes mess things up even more because of this. I accidently break machines I've been trying to repair.

I'm not very good at making friends. It's not that I'm antisocial; I actually don't mind talking to people. But I guess a lot of what I say comes out sounding mean. I don't try to do it. It just happens. Making friends is too much work, so I mostly just keep to myself. I have all the companionship I need with my sister.

I don't remember my mother. She died when I was two and my younger sister was born. Dad raised us with the help of his mother. When I was young, I helped Dad in his shop a lot, handing him nuts, bolts, and washers, or screwdrivers and wrenches when he needed them. He would explain what he was doing as he went so I would know how when I was old enough. I grew up in that workshop on the sound of Dad's voice and the smell of his cigarettes.

The cigarettes are what killed him in the end. He had to stop working when I was fourteen because the arthritis in his fingers got too bad. He couldn't hold his tools right. But he would still sit in the workshop an give me instuctions while he puffed away on his cigarette. A year later, when I was fifteen, Dad died. Something with lungs. I suddenly had to take full control of the shop. I couldn't ask Dad for help anymore. I missed him, missed the smell of tobacco. So I started smoking. It makes me feel like he's still here. It calms me down, and it helps me adopt Dad's lazy way of dealing with things. Sometimes it's easier not to worry all the time.

Grandma doesn't do much. Mostly she just stares out the window at the street. Sometimes, when we can afford it, I'll buy her some yarn and she knits. She's made us some scarves and sweaters that way. Sometimes she makes quilts out of old and worn clothes that we can't wear anymore. My little sister takes care of all the cooking and cleaning. Basically, she does all the things that a mother would. Sometimes, she asks me f shecan work in the shop or find a job in the factories, but I always tell her no. She should have a chance to be a kid. Go to school, make friends, have a boyfriend. I can't say I envy her. It isn't the life I'd want, but I know it's best for her. And doing the best I can is all I can hope to do.