Kelsey Ceallagh, District 2

K e l s e y   C e a l l a g h
A g e   1 6
D i s t r i c t   2

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The insubstantial paper handed to me by my trainers says, "Kelsey Ceallagh. Five-Seven. Hundred-Forty-Five." And that is what I am, according to the specialized scales used on us. Nothing more, nothing less, nothing in between. They can't see the scars I've accumulated over years and years of spars and fights. They can't see how those scars glow over my deathly pale skin. These things, they aren't important to contraptions such as these, but they are important to people. People know when they see you walking down the street. The mighty posture, the swagging ego, they can spot Careers a mile away. They can also spot a broken Career with drooping eyes, a bruised and beaten face, an empty pocket. That's what people see when they look at me. Kelsey, the girl with tattered red hair and sickened green eyes. It wasn't always like that, though. Once before there was a little girl who yearned only to be with her parents and sisters. That was before a bitter cold day nearly 10 years ago.

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"Race you girls home," I had smiled devilishly at my sisters. Even as a little kid, I was faster than my sisters. From the schoolyard it was only a half mile run, something I could do in 6 minutes at my young age. My sisters on the other hand, they took 9 minutes, easy. My little body had exhausted itself by the time I had abruptly slammed the door, peering through the window, looking for a sign of either of my sisters. Satisfied they were no longer following me, I sauntered into our living room. I was no where near mentally prepared for what I saw, not even the Games had prepared me. The blood that was coursed from each of the 8 stab wounds in my dad, the blood that pooled around my mom's head where she smashed against a wooden table... Only managing to make it to the dining room, vomit spewed deep from my stomach. Once, twice. Then there was no more, no more anything. Suffocating blackness surrounded me and my body was suspended in air, moving everywhere but going nowhere. Only later would I wake up, thinking it was a nightmare. But it wasn't. I was in a new bed, in a new house. They said I fainted...

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I'm different now, and not just because of age. No longer would I vomit and run from the fray. Now, I would cause it, I needed to cause it. Forgetfulness was not a gift I was granted from birth or life, unlike my sisters. It's easy to forget what you have not seen; it's impossible to forget when my mind cradles terrifying images that haunt me in my sleep. I fight to forget; I fight to support my family. No one will ever take them away, not again. Uncle gives us a place to live, that's all we need to keep out of an orphanage. There is no law for him to feed us, clothe us. That's my job, and I do it the best I can. Our source of money relies upon my ability as a fighter. I try to make sure Aithne isn't putting herself in danger; trying to get money, out on the streets. Reassuring words from her seem to counter the odd trinkets she periodically brings home to us; like our bracelets. Fionna, Aithne, and I have identical brown rope bracelets. Three mini-charms are attached to it; a red die, a blue flower, and a yellow boxing glove. None of us ever take it off.

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Other than that, we each have our own special wardrobe, managed by my intake of money. Three outfits, that's all I have. One for my everyday life, one for training days, and one for the Reaping. My everyday get-up consists of worn sneakers, jeans shorts, and a tank top. All in all, it isn't too bad. Sure, the sneakers require a good fixing up every other week. The shorts don't cover as well as they should, covered with tattered holes, and the tank top is too short, often exposing up to my belly button. It's enough and I'd rather my sisters have better clothes than me. I spend more time in my training wear and am not as concerned with what people think of me. The trainers let us choose our own clothes which often define us as we train. I wear the same sneakers I wear everyday; thin, black sweatpants that have been ripped half off the bottom; and a long-sleeved shirt that is yellow from the chest down, black everywhere else. My most prized outfit, the one I am the most proud of, is the one I wear for the Reaping. It took me nearly two months of fights to earn the money to purchase my outfit. I have a sunshine yellow dress that reaches down past my knees and small, flat shoes to match. In one word, it's delicate. In that dress you would see a pretty, well-off, petite girl; that is, only if you didn't know better. When it comes to the Games here, nothing is as it seems.

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I suppose I owe it to myself, to everyone, to speak of my uncle... We were handed over to my uncle the day after my parents' murder. The first few years were manageable thanks to his wife. Auntie always took care of us well; feeding us, clothing us, loving us. When I was 11 she succumbed to the pull of cancer. That left us with Uncle. Uncaring, drunken Uncle. He left us to care for ourselves and soon after I took on the role of the head of the family. Twelve short years into my life and I began training for the fight of my life, or death. Before then, Uncle would abuse us. Not physically, but verbally. Stupid, no-good, worthless. One day I had enough. He was sitting on our couch, mocking and taunting us. Jolting anger had rocked through me and I'd launched myself at him; my fist colliding with his jaw. Glass could be heard shattering all throughout the house as Uncle dropped the bottle he had gripped in his hand. That was the last day he mocked me. When I wasn't around, he would terrorize Fionna and Aithne, but when I was near he kept his mouth shut.

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Training has brought me friends, though. Tieve, the devil she is, is my best friend. Through each other, we have found ways to support our families. Career's drive to fight, really fight, can't always be satisfied by training and that brings in the illegal fights. With the illegal fights, comes the illegal betting. Tieve's ability as a fighter is slight compared to mine, but her hot personality makes her one of the top personal bookies at these fights. She takes bets on my fights, and only my fights. By the end of the night, we've both made out well and split the profit 50/50. Four doesn't like us going to these fights. I always come home beaten and broken, and that hurts him. To clarify, Four is my boyfriend; he has been since I was 14. He comes from a well-off family, he doesn't understand our need for money. But he doesn't try to stop me from going, he knows better than that. I won't accept his money no matter how many times he offers it to me. If it was for my pride, maybe we would be better off; taking help from Four. Then again, I won't have us looked down upon or have people think we can't take care of ourselves...

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