Ashling "Ash" Castillon [District Three]

I'm not the prettiest. My whole life, while I saw girls flaunt their curves and curls, I was standing there, looking at myself in the mirror, wondering What's wrong with me? I used to think you were either tall or short. Fat or skinny. Now, I know that you can be flat-chested or have cankles. The only time I actually look at myself is when I pass a mirror in the inn. My looks don't change much.

A mop of brunette hair with hints of red curls its way on the top of my round head. Large brown hairs that don't see people, but she what's inside of them. Freckles dot my face like stars in the scar. My fair, soft skin - a trait I apparently inherited from my mom - protects my bones and vital organs. My chest, specifically my breasts, are okay; beggars can't be choosers. My stomach isn't the flattest, and rolls have been there for quite some time. Two legs stick out of me. Two thick thighs meet up with my calves at the knee. Two small feet with fat toes. My arms are short like my legs, and my fingers small like my feet. I have painted nails most of the time.

My mom is gone. We could have saved her. My dad could have, at least. But we didn't make the money. The inn never was a good way to make some dough, but for some reason my dad decided to stay here. Maybe he believes when my mom died, she became a ghost, and wanders the halls. I doubt it.

I keep to myself most of the time, and it's ironic because I can usually infer when someone is keeping something a secret. I'm much better at detecting others' emotions than my own. One would say I'm quiet, but I know the truth. I'm analytical. I spend a lot more time thinking than doing, and I don't think it's such a bad thing.

The neats beds at the inn would tell you one thing about me: I have slight OCD. It bothers me when things are imperfect - which is ironic because I'm far from it - and I need everything to be tidy. I guess growing up as the only maid in the inn grew on me, and eventually, I learned that there's no point in doing something if you're not going to give 100%.

My dad is all I have left. I barely have any relationships besides him. My friends, or I guess a better classification is "kids I sit with at lunch" are just that; the presence of classmates just so I have someone to talk to.

When I was six, my mom died.

She had taught me to poop, honestly. She had taught me to talk and walk and ride a bike.

I was so energetic and loud. So was my dad. When she died, we took a few steps back. People felt bad, but now I feel bad for the people that felt bad. We only threw their roses in the garbage along with the cards. It's wasted money. I was so little, I didn't know what was going on.

"Aren't you gonna put those in a vase, Daddy?" He would laugh and pull me in for an embrace, shaking his head.

Now, we sit at a table eating dry chicken, no words passing between us out loud, but in my head, we have conversations all the time. We do talk, sometimes. Usually, the most we say is "Pass the salt," but it's okay because we always do.

Kids in school know what happened. My mom died when I was six-years old because we couldn't afford medicine and now I live with my dad in some inn. At school, kids look at me like I still hold onto those memories. I do, admittedly, but they assume if they say the word "mom" I'll burst out in tears.

My grades in school were always average, I mean all we do in District Three is learn. I know I have potential to go somewhere someday, escape the walls the inn has built around me. I don't think I ever will, though. I don't know if I want to. I doubt there's a single pillow in there that I didn't cry into. There's too many memories in there to leave it now.

Keeping it concise.
For Stare's Dreamers Plot.
Previously owned by Luke.
Face Claim; Alia Shawkat.