Re: Mistletoe Hyland, District 3 (FINISHED)

Sometimes I look in the mirror, and I tell myself it's okay. Sometimes I see my bright green eyes that have gone dull, my blonde hair that has turned brown from the filth, my skin that is bruised and battered, and I tell myself that I'll make it to tomorrow. Sometimes I let my blonde hair get clean, sometimes I manage to let my skin wash off enough to see the small freckles that litter my small nose, sometimes I let my lips get full again. I let my hair cover my shaking shoulders, I feel the eyes on me as I walk with my head high.

But sometimes it's so hard. Sometimes I add to the scars that litter my body, because they can't go away. Sometimes I cry until my eyes are puffy and bloodshot, like they are most of the day. Sometimes I scream myself deaf until the dawn comes. But it doesn't help.

I look in the mirror, and the darkness doesn't help my appearance. The sturdy girl with the strong legs and the steady arms that could wrap you in a hug: she's gone. She is replaced with a girl who has legs like a needle, with arms that are weak with pain, with a girl who can barely sit down without having the fear of drowning herself with her own sorrow. Sometimes I grin and bear it. But my grin is obviously plastered on. They all point and whisper, "That's the girl who suffers." Sometimes I wish I had someone to lean on, someone who could shield me from the whispers. Someone who could lift my slight five-foot-six frame, someone who could let my small feet walk on their own when I needed them too. Someone who could make the scars that cover me disappear. Is there someone out there who could help?

My body has been touched, violated, and destroyed. My legs have collapsed, my arms have given my, my neck lets my head fall. People notice. The clean t-shirts and the jeans and the shoes and the long hair can't cover what a wasteland I am inside. My mirror is shattered, because looking at myself adds more pain. Pity-filled looks embrace me instead of kind glances. No one bothers to help. They're too scared to face what happens. So I suffer. I let myself get dirty, I don't bother with looks anymore. Looks are worthless.

My history. It's troubling to think about. It's even more depressing to think that more people suffer the same way I do. But I know that people weaker than me have survived, and theat sometimes, someone stronger comes to help. Living on hope.

I was born in the middle of September. I don't know when. I don't know how. I don't know who was there, or if anyone cared. I don't know if I have relatives or not, but I sure as hell don't have any friends. My mom died during childbirth. My dad kept me, named me Mistletoe, for the sweet kisses he would give me. I don't know if I should be grateful or not, considering the life I lead now. Sometimes I wish that he would've left me in the community home, left me to starve. But he had a kind heart, and a sweet mind. So unlike anything I've com into contact with this age, this year, this time. he kept me, raised me as best he could. Until he ended up dying. I was five.

I was passed from person to person, each person taking me, liking me, but then dying. I should've known something was up. I should've known something was happening. But I was just a small piece of the puzzle. There were dozens of other girls who had had the same thing happen to them. Some are dead. Some are alive, but they wish that they were dead. Some are just strong enough to forget. Right now I'm living it.

One day, a man came into the community home. No one knew his name. He was anonymous. No one knew what part of the district he was from, and no one knew what he was doing. But he saw me. I mistook his eyes lighting up. I thought it meant that he was going to take me home, love me. I thought he was going to watch me grow up, have kids. I thought he would give me away at my wedding. But he wasn't in love with me. He was looking for a slave, someone to do the dirty work, while he whipped and abused. He was looking for a slave. And that's all he saw. He took me in. I thought I had found my future daddy.

But then he started abusing me. At first it was small. A hit here and there. I thought he was punishing me as a father. But no. He was punishing me as a master. That's where I get the scars, where I get the marks. He has kept me in a dingy five-by-eight room. Barely enough to fit the cot I sleep on. Barely enough to call a room. More like a prison. More like a closet. I'm trapped in there, for twelve hours each night. Then I'm released, treated like a dog, and sent out for menial tasks. Then I come back. No use running. He always finds me. He's the taskmaster.

But this year, it's new. I will find a way to escape my master, my slave driver, my oppressor. But I will need help. There will be people who will help, right? Even now I can hear his footsteps outside. He is waiting. He is watching. And I will try to stop him.