Cecily McClain - District 4

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What you see is what you get...[/color]
Standing at a mere five feet, I have always been considered to be on the more petite side. Am I complaining? No. But at ninety eight pounds, the lack of meat on my bones could be considered my own fault. I'm not much of an eater, despite the abundance of food in District 4. Only once in my life had I ever cut my hair; I was ten years old and my mother refused to let me do so. So what do I do? I cut it myself. A-Line, angled to about my chin in the front. Even as a child, I was a master with scissors, and no one could tell me otherwise. Well, with the exception to my mother. And when she found out... Grounded. For one whole month. What the hell is that? I counted the days until I would be able to see my best friend again, at least outside of school. In the mean time, I never spoke a word to my mother.

I can remember clearly, nearly dancing the entire way home from school on the day before my grounding was to be lifted. The weather was perfect for the upcoming weekend, and I could smell the spring flowers blooming, the salty aroma emanating from the water just a few blocks away, and the thick scent of melting paint and scorched wood. Wait... what? The image is still engrained in my memory, the dense black smoke that billowed from the sixth house on the left, on one of the streets that populated the district. My house. I didn't even bother with my schoolbag, dropping it at my feet and breaking out into a sprint to where a large group of citizens from the district gathered to stare in awe as my house, my home, the place where I live, burned from the inside out. I could hear my father screaming my name from within the crowd. It wasn't difficult to pick out his face, contorted with misery, apparent streaks from tears washing away the dirt that covered his skin from a long day at work. It was then I knew, my mother was still inside.

Every ounce of anger I felt from my mother lifted at that moment, and my only thought was to save her. Without a second thought, I had pushed my way through the crowd to the front door of my house, ignoring the jumbled cries of fear for my life. Smoke had poured from the doorway as I swung it open, distorting my vision and keeping me from barely being able to see my hand in front of my face. The house was silent, other than the intense crackling from the fire that seemed to be sprouting from the kitchen to my immediate right. No cries for help; I assumed my mother was already dead.

As the smoke continued to roll out the door and into the air of the district, the rooms began to clear just enough to see the silhouette of a hand hanging over the arm rest of the love seat in the living room to my left, just a few steps from the kitchen. The flames were inching their way across the small hallway that separated the kitchen and living room, closing in on the chair my mother was in. It all happened so fast then; I could hear my father's voice nearing me, but my feet continued to carry me into the living room to the chair where my mother lay unconscious. My body had a mind of it's own at that point, my arms hooking themselves beneath my mother's and attempting to hoist her out of the love seat. Although my mother was just as petite as I am, my ten-year-old self had no strength and the smoke that was filling my lungs made it harder and harder to breath. It was then I saw my father's face through the smoke, his arms easily lifting my mother as he cradled her against his chest. By this point, the smoke was too thick to be able to maneuver myself out of the house. My body was beginning to feel weak and there was a faint burning sensation along my lower back; it was then that I noticed my long, flowing tunic had caught fire, singeing away, thread by thread. I knew there was no way to save myself unless I made it out of the house. I could hear my dad calling my name once again, and within seconds his hand found mine, as he towed me out of our burning house with my mother now slung over his shoulder.

The relief from the burst of fresh air hitting my lungs was not enough to override the pain the was spreading across my lower back as the flames from the shirt I was wearing licked at my flesh. Shouts of help filled my surroundings, and it felt like an eternity before the fire was put out by a generous onlooker. I have faint recollection from anything after that besides waking up, laying on my stomach in a small hospital with bandages draped across my back. That was also the day that my father told me about my mother. The smoke inhalation was too much for her, and she was gone before he had even saved her from burning to the ground along with our home. That day would not only remain a constant stab of guilt and grief in my mind, but also a physical scar; the bright pink delicate patch of skin apparent on my lower back, from my right hip bone to my bony spine would never look normal again.

Since that day, from when I was ten years old to the thriving sixteen year old that I am today, I wouldn't dream of cutting even another strand of my hair, as the reminder of my last month with my mother is not a pleasant one. Today, my hair falls in gentle waves, just below my ribs. Just as my mother's did. I hope for it to one day reach long enough to cover the ugly flesh of my lower back.

My father says I look like my mother, although I have difficulty seeing it; straight nose, thin lips, cheek bones that lie slightly too low for my taste. All with the exception to his eyes: almond-shaped, pale brown, with flecks of green and gold. My skin - that of which has not been damaged - is a light ivory with minor imperfections: a few faint scars from training on my hands and a few freckles here and there. Nothing to cry about. As for my clothes, I like to be creative. My father and I have enough money to afford decent attire, but I would much rather stick to ratty old t-shirts and a few of my favorite pairs of jeans or shorts. Maybe the occasional body contour mini-skirt. But I have taken my cutting skills and, rather than hair, I've learned to cut those ratty t-shirts into intricate shapes and designs; something I've grown to love doing on my free time. [/size][/font]


Sheltered in her own mind.
Cecily - Origin: Feminine variation of Cecil; Meaning: Blind
My parents had no knowledge of the meaning of my name upon giving it to me; little did they know, it would come to suit be perfectly. Blind. Of course, not physically. More like.. blind to the world around me. Tunnel vision. It hasn't been easy, since my mother's tragic death. The guilt eats me alive at times, probes at the back of my mind at others. She was always so happy, so full of energy, even when she was busy parenting her only child. Seldom did we ever get along. I loved her to death, but we never seemed to agree on a single thing. I constantly find myself wanting to take back those first ten years of my life, to not take her for granted.

Now, with my father, I have never really been a hassle. Stubborn, yes. But nothing that isn't manageable. My entire life turned full circle the moment I knew my mother was gone. Simply put, I strive to be what she was, what I know she would want me to be. Every decision I make, I think of what path she would have taken. So much unlike my old, ten-year-old self. The only thing I want out of life is the satisfaction of knowing she would have been happy.

Since my mother passed, others don't exist anymore. The only other individual I share my life with is my father. I feel threatened by others, thinking that if I let myself get too close, I will be pulled in a direction that wouldn't make my mother happy. She was a cook, and a hell of a good one, at that. Until the day she unknowingly fell asleep while she had her famous stew cooking on the stove: the cause of the fire. Every day, other than when I'm at school, I find myself flipping through her wide array of cookbooks, picking out good recipes to make. I used to be able to have fun... running around the district with my best friend, fishing with my father... I now only see my best friend during classes, and stay home to prepare the meals for dinner while my father does all the catching.

I don't allow my decision of a more sheltered life to put a complete damper on my life. My goal is to be happy, but as my mother would be happy. I take care of my father, of my other family members. I keep myself busy at home coming up with new recipes, or cutting up old t-shirts; my mother always complimented me on my outfits. Over the past six years, my skills have improved, granting me compliments from even strangers throughout the district. Of course, I thank them with a mere smile and scamper off before they can engage in any sort of conversation.

I can still feel her, deep within, the girl I used to be. More outgoing than the usual child; adventurous to the point where it was dangerous. A rebel. Then again, I was a child who was still one hundred percent dependent on her parents. The loss of my mother forced me to step up, to be the one to care for my father, just as she did. What a hell of a reality check it has been. The thriving, cheerful, sociable girl that once possessed this body disappeared the moment she was gone.. and I don't think she's ever coming back.


History is herstory, too.
Beau and Sophia McClain never wanted children. Their opinion on the Hunger Games was nothing short of hatred. Typically in District 4, the parents are more focused on raising a potential winner than they are with their own lives. This is why my parents made it a decision before they were even married that they would not have to put themselves in that kind of position - no children, no worries. Until an incident that rocked their world, merely six months after their marriage. It only took them nine months to realize that, deep down, they had wanted to be parents. My father tells me that the first time they laid eyes on me, they knew they would be fine. My "cheeky smile wiped away all of the potential heartache of the future", or something like that..

For as long as I can remember, I have been astoundingly close to my father. He taught me how to fish when I was three years old, allowing me to perch atop his knee as he helped me cast my line. He held my hand when we took walks, keeping me close to his side and telling me stories of when his own father would take him fishing in District 4. The death of my mother only brought us closer, to have each other to hold onto. Along with my mother went our home, burned to the ground along with our belongings.

My father and I had no where to turn to but my uncle, his eldest brother, and his wife and two sons, who lived on the other side of District 4. Rarely did we ever even speak to them before the tragedy, usually only for holidays. They were generous enough to take us in during our time of grief, into their home of decent size. Their wealth was greater than ours, always had been, but only because my uncle devoted his entire life to being a fisherman, bringing in a much greater deal of goods than many in the District. When we first moved in, I barely saw him for days at a time. My cousins, his sons, shared with me their thoughts on their estranged father. The only time they ever saw him was when he was putting them through training.

My whole life, my parents never even brought up the possibility of me being sent to the Hunger Games when I became of age. It wasn't until we moved in with my uncle and his family that I realized, in as little as two years, there would be a single slip of paper with my name written on it in that damn bowl. Whenever I brought up the possibility of the situation to my father, he would quickly change the subject, or walk out the room entirely. The closer my twelfth birthday came, the more my father seemed to smother me with his love. His worst nightmare was not only having to send his only child to the Games, but more than likely losing the only thing he had left.

It was one night, precisely eight days before my twelfth birthday and several months before the first reaping in which my name would be among the others, I heard the shouts being thrown back and forth beneath the floor boards as I lay in bed; my father and my uncle's voices. Their words were clear, as they didn't hold back the intensity of their anger. My uncle was demanding I be trained alongside my cousins. Of course, my father disagreed, and his colorful language that night made certain of it. I lay defenseless in my small bad, a hand-me-down from when my eldest cousin was younger, unsure of my own feelings at that moment in time. My mind wandered to what my mother would be saying about the whole matter. She would most certainly be alongside my father, begging for my innocence. My father was in denial; no matter how much he argued, screamed, prayed... my name would still be in that bowl.

I acted as if I had never heard the quarrel for weeks. It took that long for my father to break down and allow for my uncle to start me off with a small amount of basic training. He spoke to me about it, the first time he ever brought up the Games with me in my entire life. He told me my mother would want me to be prepared for the possibility, and if my mother would want it, I wanted it. It was strange at first, learning things I never dreamed of having to do. Tie knots, climb trees and other structures, use a knife.. I only wished I could use my scissors. Fire building was the one bit of training I requested to pass, as I was still too shaken to relive the memory of mental and physical pain. I came to learn a lot about myself during the first few weeks of my training. My small frame gives me better agility, and I find myself to be a lot more flexible than I even knew. The one down fall, I tire out quickly, finding it difficult to catch my breath at times; most likely a result of the slight smoke inhalation from that day.

Four Hunger Games later, I still have yet to see the arena, to mine and my father's relief. Despite the training, which I still to this day am involved in, I can't imagine myself in the Games. The thought of even harming the life of another frightens me to the bone, as my mother used to punish me for stomping on a spider that inhabited our home. Now that both of my cousins are over the age of eighteen, I am the only one left for my uncle to train; this means, longer hours and three times the intensity. My uncle expects entirely too much from me, and I often skip out on training to cook dinner for my father or help my aunt out around the house. Hey, if he's never around otherwise, he's never around to scold me for it. As the years go on and the Hunger Games and the training continues, the more I grow to hate even the mere thought of them and everything associated with them: my uncle included.

So all I have to say is:

screw training, screw my uncle, screw Careers, screw the Capitol, and screw the Hunger Games. My mother I do not approve.

Codeword:
Face Claim: Shailene Woodley

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