Cassia Kane // District Two // DONE

Would you believe me if I told you that I hate mirrors? Because, well… I do. I hate the way they mimic my every movement. I hate the way I can pick out my every flaw so easily; how I can so clearly see the giant, broad chin I’ve been cursed with. How I can see my giant turnip nose and my overly thin eyelashes. It’s as though my own reflection is mocking me.

What else do I see in my reflection? I see wildly thick brown hair, almost like a mane, flying out around my face. It falls in waves, stopping just around my breasts, and looks very unimpressive. My mother often complains about my hair, for it’s not a beautiful blonde like hers and my sister’s. Sometimes I wish it was. Instead I have this mop of brown, inherited from my father. I’m often told that I look too much like him. That it’s not something to be proud of. That it’s a disgrace to look like an Avox guilty of attempted murder.

One of the few things I inherit from my mother is my eye color. They’re hazel, spotted with flecks of green and brown. I think they’re pretty. Perhaps a bit average, but that’s just fine with me. Above them are thick, slightly arched eyebrows. I never wax or pluck them, to my mother’s dismay. My sister says that I look like a neanderthal. I say that I look like a human.

I’ve been told that I have cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. I think they make me look like a warrior. Fierce. I’m of what I think is average weight, although I may be just a tad on the taller side. My legs are long, taking up about half of my height.

My grandmother and mother try to doll me up in their gorgeous dresses and skirts. What’s the point in those, though? They’ll only end up torn or stained. Instead I wear pants and shirts that are easier to navigate in, to the disgusted looks of my grandmother and her offspring.

How do I judge my own personality? I’m not quite sure, but I’ll give it a fair shot. I’m not average, but I’m not all too strange. I’m me. Some tell me that I need to tone down the wit; that I need to stop making an argument out of everything. I admit that I sometimes speak without thinking, but I always speak the truth.

People sometimes tell me that I speak too eloquently for a girl of my age, although that depends on whom I’m around. My grandmother forces her ways of proper speech upon me, and my mother supports it.

I’m told that I need to stop being so risky, and I need to start thinking things through. I beg to differ. Things that happen spontaneously are far more fun than things that are planned. The only thing that restricts me is my mother’s constant reminder that I must act civilly. That I must uphold our family’s reputation.

I’m curious. I’m curious about the birds that fly through the sky, about the lives of others, about everything. Everything intrigues me in some way. It all just sucks me in and never lets me go till I have an answer.

I’m schooled at home by a tutor, since my mom believes that a family with high standards needs an education of high standards. I don’t like high standards. I want to be able to speak as I wish, act as I wish, do as I wish. I want to be myself, not this character that I’m forced to act as.

I’m often told that I need to act more like my sister. The only way I can think to describe her as perfect. She’s a lady of pure manners, unlike me. I’m told I act far too rude at times. According to my grandmother, I need to learn to bite my tongue in situations I disagree with. That will never happen, though. My opinions will be made known when they need to be made known. Quite frankly, I feel they need to be made known all the time.

I sometimes display the rebellious attitude of my father. That is one thing that I cannot get away with easily. The expression on my mother's face changes immediately. It becomes sad, distant. I remind her too much of him. I remind everyone too much of him.

If it were up to me, I wouldn't speak or act as I do. I'd be a person of my own, not some puppet. Hardly any of my choices are my own, and when they are I'm given a lecture on how they're wrong.

Socializing with lower-class citizens is not something allowed by my grandmother. I think they look like nice people, though. They're not uptight and concerned about standards as my family and those I am forced to socialize with are. They seem like people I would get along with.

When I'm allowed to roam alone, I do talk to these people. I talk to them in secret, not letting my mother or grandmother know. Their lives seem easy. I envy them.

My family often drags me along to large dances or balls hosted by other prestigious families. There I'm forced to act like a well brought up young woman. On the inside I burn with a fury. Everything about me is stifled. My creativity, my humor, my attitude. It's as if no one ever stops to think that I am my own person.

I've accepted the fact that knights in shining armor aren't real. I'm my own hero. I don't need a man to make me, well, me. I'm perfectly content living my life without a love. I will not be the princess trapped in a tower awaiting for a prince to help her down. I am perfectly capable of doing so myself.

One day, I will live independently. I will escape and be my own person. I'll work and be proud about it. I will not be stifled by my grandmother and mother forever, I promise you. If there is one thing I'm sure of, it is that.

My history? I suppose I could inform you of it, although I must warn you that I don’t quite know he whole story.

My father and my mother were greatly in love. Or so my mother tells me. My father, though, was never quite there. He was insane, to put it bluntly. When my mother was five months pregnant with me, he snapped. No one knows what did it, but while my mother was asleep he attempted to murder her. He attempted to murder me, too, I suppose. He didn’t get away with it. My grandmother heard a struggle and called for the Peacekeepers.

He was sentenced to become an Avox.

He ruined my life.

My mother is terrified that I’ll turn out like him. That I’ll develop whatever mental illness he had. She pays ridiculous fees for a live-in therapist for me. I see him daily. My mother, grandmother, and therapist control my life. Or, they try to. I usually manage to break free of their reigns, at least for a little while.

When I was five, my mother had my little sister, Olivia. Olivia was the result of a secret affair, a one night stand. She soaks up our high-class living. She blends in just fine. Olivia has a great talent for making herself look far better than I. And perhaps she is. She is the family favorite, after all. Mother doesn’t force her into therapy, for her father was sane.

When I was eleven, I sneaked out of the house in the dead of night. I wanted to fight with play swords as the other children did. I did good, too. If it weren't for the loud clashes of wood against wood in the forest behind my home, I wouldn't have been caught. But my grandmother heard the noise and decided to snoop her way into the forest. There I was found, fighting a low-class boy with a sword. Covered in bruises and scratches and dirt. I don't think I've ever been given a bigger lecture than the one I was given that night.

The thing is, I didn't learn my lesson. To this day I still sneak out at night to duel my friends. I haven't been caught since then. The feeling is freeing. It's amazing. I feel as though I'm finally me when a sword is in my hand. It's one of the only things I excel at. Sword-fighting.

When I'm not sword fighting, I'm being forced to learn the piano. I believe I'm no good at it, although I've been taking lessons ever since I was coordinated enough to consciously move my fingers. This is my mother's doing, of course. A well brought up woman should be able to play at least one instrument, she says.

My family is one of the most well-known throughout District Two. My grandfather was a very successful miner, and he soon came to own a company of his own. When he died, that company was given to my grandmother. She now lives with my mother, my sister, and I. I can’t say that I enjoy her presence.

My sister and I argue like fools. Our personalities clash in the most obvious of ways. When we were younger, we shared a room. That changed immediately after a particularly large fight, though. Now our rooms are in entirely separate wings of the home.

My entire family hardly lifts a finger. Maids busy themselves around our home, cooks swarm the kitchens. Our family’s company was so successful that we have enough funds to keep our lives ‘perfect’ for as long as we please.

My grandmother makes most of the decisions in the household. My mother is practically her lapdog. Grandmother is obsessed with keeping up our pristine reputation as the highly-successful, perfect, rich, and proper family.

I hate it. I hate it with all my heart. I hate the high standards that I must conform to. I hate that I can’t be myself because of my mother’s fear and my grandmother’s obsession. It’s as though I’m trapped.