Gainell Meryl, D1 FINISHED

I try to act beautiful, mainly because my mother says that's the way girls should behave. Easy for her to say, though, she was born pretty. With those deep blue eyes and long, straight, blonde hair, well of course it's easy for her to act beautiful. Why didn't her genes become a little bit stronger? Or rather, why do I have to look so much like my father? I want to complain, I want to shout to the world how much I hate my cat like face, how much I want to look different, but instead I act pretty. Because my mother says I am, that I should be.

When answering those pink, lacey slumbooks my friends give me, I always find it hard to describe my eyes. Is it hooded? Deep set? Again, I feel jealous of those who can easily say that theirs are almond or round. I, on the other hand, contemplate for a while, and finally decide to write my eye color instead. They look black from afar, but if one would care to come closer they'll see it's dark brown, again just like my father's. So are my eyebrows, they’re not too thick, but I always make sure to fix them every week. I'll never miss an opportunity to look good. My lips are fine, Thank God. It's the only part of my face that's close to my liking. They’re a pale pink most of the time, but that suits me just right.

My dark, bushy hair is the complete opposite of mom's. No matter how many times I try to straighten it out, it always goes back to looking like a mop. I hate it. I hate it so much I even considered going bald once, I had the pair of scissors ready, but my father caught me, and forbade me to ever do what I had been planning to. So now, I always keep my hair tied in a high ponytail. It doesn't make it any straighter, but at least it keeps those dark strands out of my face.

I used to be really fat, though it wasn't quite obvious since I was tall for my age. Now that I think about it, I probably looked like a Birman cat, the type that often walks around the rich parts of town. Ew. But anyway, I started slimming down when I turned 12, I'm guessing it must have been from the pressure of having to put my name down for the Hunger Games. So now, I weigh about 115 pounds, and as for my height... well, I wish I could say I'm still tall for most of my age, but I stopped growing about the same time I lost weight, specifically, I'm 5 feet and 6 inches tall. I'm still hoping (and wishing) to grow maybe a few inches more?

So that's it. That's all it ever was, though I'm hoping it wasn't that way. People say that I should be content with who I am, a few of my friends even tell me I’m pretty and I pretend to believe them but I know they're lying. If only I had those pills they have in the capitol, then maybe I'd look prettier, til then, I have to pretend to like myself just as I have done all these years.

I’m a quiet type... most of the time. I tend to keep to myself when I’m around my family, I love them of course, I just don’t think they’ll understand me. Around them, I try to be all lady like: proper, graceful, and respectful. My mother often teases me about it. She says I’m the exact opposite of her when she was a teen, she tells me she was a jolly one, noisy, always laughing. Somehow, I find that hard to believe. How could she, really, with all the Hunger Games going on, but I guess even then District 1 had it easy.

I get along with most people, but I never really get too attached to them, except for my few close friends. When I’m around them, I show more of my true self. I love telling stories, stories I’ve heard, stories I think of, and stories about my life. I’m pretty sure they must have been bored of it all, but even if they were, they never showed me. I laugh easily, and when I do, they tend to laugh with me. They say my laugh is contagious, but I’m afraid my frowns are, too. When I’m in a bad mood, I tend to pass it to everyone else I see. I can’t help it. I feel like the world has no right to go on laughing and smiling while I suffer from something else. I guess that’s why my friends sometimes keep their distance from me. Whatever.

I guess my biggest flaw is jealousy. It must be because my own mother looks ten times prettier than me. Ever since I was a child, visitors would praise her; they would tell her how pretty she was. And then they turn to me. They would smile, comment that I was a sweet child and turn their attention back to my mom. It seems kinda stupid but I have this belief that if I were born with an uglier parent, I would have had a higher self esteem.

I admire the Capitol; all their clothes, products, and fashion. I’ve always wanted to try the pills and dyes the people used. I’ve also seen some of the richer people in our District wear them, maybe someday, we’ll be able to afford those things too. Someday, I’d want to be able to step into the Capitol, too. Don’t get the wrong idea, though. I’m not for the Hunger Games. I know that like my brother, some of the teens here even train to get there, but I’m proud to say I’m not one of those. I fear death. I’m not strong, not fast, like some of the girls here. I’m just a girl who wants to keep on living.

My parents met and fell in love, and then they had Jake, my brother, and me. That’s all I ever knew, all I ever was told. I never considered why my mother was so against the Capitol. I assumed she was thinking like all the other districts; that it was unfair, that lives had values. I thought it was because she pitied the people who died in the arena. I never knew there was something deeper to it; like the fact that she had lost her first love to the Games.

She was drunk, more drunk than I ever saw her. She came home alone, father and brother were still out celebrating the victory of another tribute. She was singing, wobbling as she made her way to the couch. Then she told me her story. The man’s name was Eric. They had met in the reaping when she was 14, and stayed together until his supposedly last reaping where he was taken from her. He told her he could win, that they would be happy together when he returned. But he never did. She was crying then, tears pouring from her blue eyes. Then she laughed, telling me that at least he had given her happiness. And then, before her head dropped to the sofa and she gave in to sleep, she told me that he was Jake’s father.

The next day, she didn’t remember telling me, and I pretended I knew nothing. I wanted to find out if my father knows, but I didn’t have the courage to ask him. I suppose she loved my father, eventually. Maybe that’s why they have me. I saw things differently then, though. I began to realize the damage that the Games really did to our lives. I began to wonder how my mother had lived with the pain. She must have been really strong to survive something like that.

I’ve lived a pretty normal life. My parents earn just enough for our family, so that we were neither rich nor poor. It was just enough that Jake and I never needed to sign up for tesserae. I was thankful for that, but I wasn’t sure if it was the same for him. I guess he needed the chance to prove himself, he wanted glory and riches, but he was never brave enough to volunteer himself. My parents don’t want him to, anyway. As for me, I don’t care if he does or doesn’t. We never really talk that much these days, which is a wonder for most people who’ve known since we were little.

We used to be really close then. I would rely on him, and he would protect me. We played, we told stories, he loved painting, and I always cheered him on. We spent every day together, but that was before. Something happened between then and now. Something called the Reaping. Like my mother, he had lost his best friend. Everyone, even I, was confident he would win, but things never really happened how you expect they would be. The stories stopped; the paintings disappeared; he rarely talks to me now. And just as my mother had lost her loved one, I lost my brother to the Hunger Games.