Callias Latro (D2)

My hair is red. Bright red. My sister says it looks like the colour of blood. I like blood. It’s in a long, shaggy, sort-of urchin-cut. I never really cut it. My mother tries to, but I won’t let her. It covers some of my bruises. Which is useful. It makes me look like less of a freak. And hides my practically non-existent eyebrows. I remember how one of my classmates thought it would be ‘fun’ to pull them out. And I thought it would be fun to pull his arm backwards until his bone pierced through his skin. You can see my dark sense of humour there.

I’m very pale. As a result of my never really leaving the house. I’m short. Well, short-ish. I am 5”5. At the very least, I’m short compared to everyone else in my district. My face is sharp. My mother says it’s ‘pretty.’ My classmates think it makes me look like a girl. They tease me for it. It hurts. But I can’t let anyone know that. Because a monster can’t have feelings, right? No. Of course not. I digress. I guess I’ve always looked feminine. This has led to some embarrassing moments, as much as it kills me to admit it. And when I’m embarrassed, I feel a heat spread across my cheeks. Blushing, my mother calls it. My sisters says I do it a lot. Does blushing count as an emotion? I don’t think so. As I’ve said, I’m a monster, and they cannot have emotions.

My eyes are lined with dark circles. It’s a result of my insomnia. Everyone tells me to get eight hours of sleep per night. But they don’t understand. They’ll never understand. I always just cover them with kohl. My sister says it makes me look like a raccoon. She has gave me that nickname. Raccoon. Quite fitting, when you think about it. My eyes are grey. Grey as the clouds. Like the clouds that hang over my head. My lips are thin, and my mouth is small. My eyes are large, and slightly slanted, almond shaped, I think the name is. My nose is pointed, and slightly turned up at the end. I am light, very light, though I do not know my actual weight. I am definitely not strong, never have been, actually. On my feet, my toes are odd. Slightly webbed. Mutation, I guess. Not that I care. I’ve never really cared much about my appearance. I never have time to worry about such vain things.

Most of the time I wear dark clothes. I prefer it that way. They make me less noticeable. On reaping day, I wear a black short and matching dress pants. Nothing special. I don’t see the point in all the fancy clothing that some of them wear. I’ve never seen the point in any of that stuff. Make-up, expensive dresses, suits, hairstyles…I guess I’m just…different. In that sense.

My personality. Evil. Mean. Cruel. Malicious. Pathetic. That’s what they all say. But I do not think I am those things. I used to be nice. At least, I think I did. That was so long ago. Back when looks didn’t matter, children wouldn’t judge others, and all they cared about was playing. Then things changed. That’s when I became this. my sister says I’m nice. She says they don’t know what they’re missing. She also says that I don’t need them. But, just once, it would be nice…nice for someone…to say something to me that wasn’t of malicious intent...

I see a lot of couples, walking down the streets, holding hands, kissing, hugging, chatting, laughing…and I think…how dare they? How dare they have it so easy? When I have nothing. Nothing but the blade of my knife to take the pain away. I cry sometimes. I curl up and cry. But I can’t let anyone know that. I just want a friend. Is that too much to ask? Someone to love? Someone to love me? But who could love me? A monster. Freak. So I will be alone. Forever. Until my dying day.

But enough about that. I like pain. I like to feel it. It reminds me that I’m not dead. That I’m alive. Because a lot of the time…I feel like I’m dead. Hollow. A shell of a human being... Don’t you dare pity me. I do not need that. Because, one: I don’t need it. And two: a monster doesn’t deserve pity. I’m nosy. I like to spy on my classmates. The people who hate me. and think about their lives. Do they really hate? Or do they hate themselves? I will never know. I do that a lot. Thinking. I think about lots of things…rain, tears, clouds, blood, The Games… I wonder if I will ever be reaped. Maybe I should volunteer. Then I could die. And then I’d be gone. I wouldn’t have to feel hurt, or pain again. Or, I could win. I could make people truly afraid then. Then maybe they wouldn’t torment me. But…I know there are consequences to winning the Games. You could end up a prostitute. Or punished for outsmarting the gamemakers. Have your family thrown into the Games. Or have your family killed while you watch the blood roll down their hollow faces, their mouths open in a silent scream, will you weep out your eyes…or, you could go onto drugs. Morphling. Drink. And I couldn’t do that. My Dad drinks, and I’ve seen what that turned him into. A worse monster than me. Anyway…what more can I say about me? I am shy. I do not like to be singled out, but I have been my whole life so that’s nothing new. I’m socially awkward. I never really talk. To anyone. Even my sister or my mother. I don’t know what to say. So I just stay quiet. It’s better that way, for everyone. I’m smart, I guess…I’m good at literature, but no one in my District cares about that. It’s all about how scary you are, or how strong you are, or how deadly you are. I’m good at knife throwing…an old friend taught me…and I’ve been doing it since I was six. It’s good for me, I guess. I can let out some of my aggression and anger.

My life…where to start? Well, my father is known in our district for being an awful person. I hate him. It’s his fault this happened. It’s his fault I happened. But he doesn’t care about that. No, he only care about himself. Like me, I guess. That makes me quite the hypocrite, doesn’t it? Anyway, I was born premature. A whole month, they said. It was a wonder I survived, that’s what they all said. My mother, Lehava, was very ill when she was pregnant with me. She almost died, like me. I should’ve died. I should’ve died. I should’ve died. My mother calls me ‘her little miracle.’ It’s very unfitting, I have told her this, but it falls on deaf ears. None are so deaf as those who will not hear, after all. As I grew up, I would play with all the other children. Sort of. Well…I wouldn’t play, per se, but I would watch them. Watch their every move with my eagle eyes. I still do. Feeble children. Weak children. Murdering children. What will you turn into? A monster. Like me. back then, the children weren’t so cruel. They gave me funny looks, occasionally laughed at my darkly lined eyes, but none of it was of malicious intent. They were just children. That’s what I made myself believe…just children.

It began at age ten. The tormenting. The teasing. The hitting. The laughing…one day, I went to the park, as normal, and a tall, imposing child walked up to me, sniggering. He proceeded to shove me over, kick dirt in my face, and call me a ‘freak of nature.’ That left a scar. A bad one. So I ran off after that, running as fast as my tiny feet would take me, and curling up in a corner of a dark alley, and started to weep. Why don’t they like me? What did I ever do? I just want a friend. Please, please, I need a friend. After that I refused to leave the house. No matter how much my mother would try to bribe me, or how much Dad would yell at me. I remember one time…

‘Why the hell can’t you just leave? Get out of here, you freak!’ Was what my Dad said to me. After that I stopped talking. Altogether. I’d never talked much, but from then on I refused to say anything to anyone. They didn’t deserve my time. They were the freaks, not me. They were the odd ones. They just didn’t understand me.

Then, one night, my mother announced she was pregnant to all our friends. they all clapped and cheered, of course. They most likely thought: Hope this child isn’t as demonic as that little freak. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t care that my mother was pregnant. If anything it made me angry. Very, very angry. How…how dare they? Am I not good enough for them? Of course I’m not. They want to have a perfect child. Not me. I was fool. They never loved me. No one loves me. I broke into a fit of rage. I can’t…I can’t remember what happened. Only there was a lot of blood staining my ripped open hands, pots, vases, cabinets, all lay, smashed on the floor. the only sound I could hear were screams filling my ears.

After that, I decided I hated everyone, and everything. They all hate me, so why can’t I hate them? They treat me badly, I’ll treat them a million times worse.
I remember a boy came up to me, and started calling me stupid and unintelligent things, such as ‘girly-freak,’ ‘dumb,’ ‘idiot,’ ‘mutant’ and so on. By that point my fists had balled up and my face was red from rage. I then angrily smacked my fist into his face. They were an ear-splitting crack, which I found incredibly satisfying. Everyone started yelling in panic, running around like headless chickens, unsure of what to do. I simply watched them in amusement, a smirk spread across my thin lips. Idiots. Feeble, mindless fools. It’s all your fault. And I’ll make sure you pay. I promise it.
Them my mother had her baby. She was named Adena. My Dad forced me to come along, even though I repeatedly refused. Them my mother handed me her…Adena. She was so pretty. And soft. She reached out, her small, chubby digits locking around my finger. It was, as much as it kills me to admit, the best moment of my life.

Then the nagging started. I’d been training my whole life, basically. Since I was six. Though, the only weapon I have any sort of hope in are knives. I always find them fascinating. Such beautiful weapons. Anyway, when I was twelve, I was training normally, until my father came up to me. he said I was now eligible for the reapings. Of course, I knew what these were. Every single citizen of District 2 knows what they are. I didn’t understand why everyone loved them so much. I may not be a saint, but I have my limits…and that was way over my limit. Watching the Games made me feel nauseous. Seeing tributes wandering around the arena with rotting arms, their ribs sticking out, weeping as they look hopelessly for food…all of that I couldn’t stand. My father explained that I would have to start training harder if I wanted to be able to volunteer and win The Hunger Games. I simply ignored him. He couldn’t make me volunteer, now could he? So I decided to humour him. If it kept him from bothering me about it.
So for six long, long years I have been training, day and night. I don’t really sleep anymore, simply because I don’t see the point. It means I’m constantly tired but over time, my body has adapted to few hours of rest I get. I have fainted before, probably as a result, but that doesn’t matter. It’s just: train, train, train. Every day. Every tedious day.

But there are little rays of sunshine that brighten up my life. Like Adena, or my mother. My mother never really has time for us, though. She’s constantly stressed. But with me as a child, it’s hardly surprising. Her hair is greying already, and I know that’s a sign of it. She pretends everything’s okay, like me, in a way. None of us want to admit that things aren’t perfect. We just want to pretend. Even I do that, sometimes, pretend I’m dead…pretend I’m invisible… I digress. My little sister, just turned six is the sweetest thing you’ll ever meet. Well, to me she is, anyway. She’s very smart too, always reading or writing. She has no interest in training, despite Father trying. She just wants to read. She likes to write too, all these lovely stories…they make me smile. She’s really the only person that can do that. I don’t know what I’d do without her…I’d probably be even more of a wreck than I am now. So I have to keep her safe. And I can’t let her enter the Games. I can’t. I promise I won’t. I promise.