Ellin Foss (District 9)
Jun 27, 2013 15:49:00 GMT -5
Post by kitkatmalfoi on Jun 27, 2013 15:49:00 GMT -5
Name: Ellin Jean Foss
Age: 15
Gender: Female
District/Area: District 9
If you were to skim over me in a crowd, you probably wouldn't really notice me at fist. I'm nothing special but I'm not just nothing
either.
My hair is the same color as the smoke that comes from the factory chimneys here in Nine. It short and choppy and uneven; I don't have the patience to let anyone but myself cut it. I can't quite get to the back, so who knows what it looks like back there.
My eyes are this weird mix of hazel, green, and brown. It's like God couldn't make up his mind and then he realized his nine months were up so he just threw them all in. Not that I believe God is so careless. It sounds like something I would do, though.
I work...hard. The factories of Nine are harsh and ridiculous. I'm sweaty and gross half the time and I have to bite my nails short so the grime doesn't get under them. I pride myself in (mostly) grime-less nails.
My height and weight are average for the slums of Nine, which isn't very much. I'm around five-four and I weigh about one-twenty. I knew because once I stood on the scale at the produce market. Then I broke it. That cost Father dearly, but for some reason he let me forget it. My skin is on the paler side, although I turn red when I laugh too much. My ears turn red and my cheeks flush. I'm nearly always smiling, but I hardly ever mean it.
I've got scars on my legs from the bug bites I scratched and all the times I've tripped. One time an alley dog attacked me, I've got the bite marks still on my right calve to prove it.
I'm nothing too noticeable, but not unnoticeable either. It's my voice that makes you notice.
My voice--it's entirely too loud. I got it from Father. It's loud and high and full of false. False praise and false hope. I might be smiling a lot on the outside, but you'd never know the turmoil in my head. It's almost dishonest. Funny thing is, dishonesty is the one thing I hate most, and I'm most likely the least honest person I know. I also hate hypocrites. So, I suppose I hate myself sometimes.
I've got good points, too. I can be generous and kind, or so they tell me. But maybe I'm generous because I know I don't deserve the way my father treats me. Still, what's the point of being nice when all I'm doing is screaming and having a pity party on the inside? That's me, optimist on the outside, pessimist on the inside, and realist if I feel like it.
Sometimes I'm too nice. I let people walk all over me. My friends, my Father, everyone. "Do this for me, Ellin?" "Don't tell anyone about this, Ellin." "You know I didn't mean that, Ellin." Lies. Dishonesty. And I let them walk all over me.
You've already heard how impatient I am. I'm impatient with everything and everyone. Mostly I'm impatient with life. I just want it to hurry up and get better already. They keep telling me "It's going to get better." But when? Because it hasn't yet, not my life, not my District, not Panem.
Sometimes I just want run away from it all and live as a fugitive in the Capitol where there's plenty to eat and pretty things everywhere. I love pretty things. Those are the times when I don't feel like being a realist. Those are the times I remember I have Fidge.
Fidge is my only little brother. Mother died in childbirth with him, three years ago. Three years ago we lost half of out income and had to move to these pathetic slums. We can't move back, even though I work when I'm not in school. That's because Father blows all his money on me now that Mother's dead.
Part of me didn't mind having to quit school. I was too smart for school, or so I thought. I also don't appreciate being brainwashed. That's my deepest fear, next to losing Fidge, is that one of us is going to get so deluded that we can't love each other anymore. I'm also scared of losing my memory. Once, I slipped on some oil during work, about a year ago. I hit my head so hard I forgot everything for a few days. I didn't know who I was or who to believe. I never know who to believe, anyways, especially not Father. My memory came back soon but I still remember not knowing anyone's name or face. I couldn't remember the orange-haired kid who pickpockets people in the square or the mean silver-haired woman who sells beans when she's not passed out drunk. I couldn't remember where I got my scars or any of my friends from school. My friends were the only things that made school bearable. I miss my friends. I couldn't remember mother. My mother was the only thing that made Father bearable. I miss Mother.
Mother was sweet. Harsh, sometimes, but more fair than Father. Fidge got his hair from her. Blonde and curly. I look like Father. I loved my mother dearly. I'm not a sure about Father.
Of all the friends I miss, I think I miss Glori the most. Glori Aschmutatt was my best friend, even though neither of us would admit it out loud. She was so opinionated
I just let her be. But she was just as crazy as I am so we could be ourselves.
I hate work. It's hard and boring. It leaves me with no free-time. The factories and loud and suffocating and they smell like discontent. That's when I don't feel like being a realist and I live inside my head. It doesn't matter, really, that I have no free time because daydreaming is what I would do anyway. In my head, I run off to the Capitol and me and Fidge pig out on sweets and sleep all day. Then Father wouldn't have to spoil me and Fidge would feel loved by him for the first time.
I don't like being Father's favorite. I don't like the sound of contempt in his voice when he talks about Fidge. I don't like that he blames Fidge for Mother's death. I love Fidge. Fidge is the only real pretty thing.
Age: 15
Gender: Female
District/Area: District 9
If you were to skim over me in a crowd, you probably wouldn't really notice me at fist. I'm nothing special but I'm not just nothing
either.
My hair is the same color as the smoke that comes from the factory chimneys here in Nine. It short and choppy and uneven; I don't have the patience to let anyone but myself cut it. I can't quite get to the back, so who knows what it looks like back there.
My eyes are this weird mix of hazel, green, and brown. It's like God couldn't make up his mind and then he realized his nine months were up so he just threw them all in. Not that I believe God is so careless. It sounds like something I would do, though.
I work...hard. The factories of Nine are harsh and ridiculous. I'm sweaty and gross half the time and I have to bite my nails short so the grime doesn't get under them. I pride myself in (mostly) grime-less nails.
My height and weight are average for the slums of Nine, which isn't very much. I'm around five-four and I weigh about one-twenty. I knew because once I stood on the scale at the produce market. Then I broke it. That cost Father dearly, but for some reason he let me forget it. My skin is on the paler side, although I turn red when I laugh too much. My ears turn red and my cheeks flush. I'm nearly always smiling, but I hardly ever mean it.
I've got scars on my legs from the bug bites I scratched and all the times I've tripped. One time an alley dog attacked me, I've got the bite marks still on my right calve to prove it.
I'm nothing too noticeable, but not unnoticeable either. It's my voice that makes you notice.
My voice--it's entirely too loud. I got it from Father. It's loud and high and full of false. False praise and false hope. I might be smiling a lot on the outside, but you'd never know the turmoil in my head. It's almost dishonest. Funny thing is, dishonesty is the one thing I hate most, and I'm most likely the least honest person I know. I also hate hypocrites. So, I suppose I hate myself sometimes.
I've got good points, too. I can be generous and kind, or so they tell me. But maybe I'm generous because I know I don't deserve the way my father treats me. Still, what's the point of being nice when all I'm doing is screaming and having a pity party on the inside? That's me, optimist on the outside, pessimist on the inside, and realist if I feel like it.
Sometimes I'm too nice. I let people walk all over me. My friends, my Father, everyone. "Do this for me, Ellin?" "Don't tell anyone about this, Ellin." "You know I didn't mean that, Ellin." Lies. Dishonesty. And I let them walk all over me.
You've already heard how impatient I am. I'm impatient with everything and everyone. Mostly I'm impatient with life. I just want it to hurry up and get better already. They keep telling me "It's going to get better." But when? Because it hasn't yet, not my life, not my District, not Panem.
Sometimes I just want run away from it all and live as a fugitive in the Capitol where there's plenty to eat and pretty things everywhere. I love pretty things. Those are the times when I don't feel like being a realist. Those are the times I remember I have Fidge.
Fidge is my only little brother. Mother died in childbirth with him, three years ago. Three years ago we lost half of out income and had to move to these pathetic slums. We can't move back, even though I work when I'm not in school. That's because Father blows all his money on me now that Mother's dead.
Part of me didn't mind having to quit school. I was too smart for school, or so I thought. I also don't appreciate being brainwashed. That's my deepest fear, next to losing Fidge, is that one of us is going to get so deluded that we can't love each other anymore. I'm also scared of losing my memory. Once, I slipped on some oil during work, about a year ago. I hit my head so hard I forgot everything for a few days. I didn't know who I was or who to believe. I never know who to believe, anyways, especially not Father. My memory came back soon but I still remember not knowing anyone's name or face. I couldn't remember the orange-haired kid who pickpockets people in the square or the mean silver-haired woman who sells beans when she's not passed out drunk. I couldn't remember where I got my scars or any of my friends from school. My friends were the only things that made school bearable. I miss my friends. I couldn't remember mother. My mother was the only thing that made Father bearable. I miss Mother.
Mother was sweet. Harsh, sometimes, but more fair than Father. Fidge got his hair from her. Blonde and curly. I look like Father. I loved my mother dearly. I'm not a sure about Father.
Of all the friends I miss, I think I miss Glori the most. Glori Aschmutatt was my best friend, even though neither of us would admit it out loud. She was so opinionated
I just let her be. But she was just as crazy as I am so we could be ourselves.
I hate work. It's hard and boring. It leaves me with no free-time. The factories and loud and suffocating and they smell like discontent. That's when I don't feel like being a realist and I live inside my head. It doesn't matter, really, that I have no free time because daydreaming is what I would do anyway. In my head, I run off to the Capitol and me and Fidge pig out on sweets and sleep all day. Then Father wouldn't have to spoil me and Fidge would feel loved by him for the first time.
I don't like being Father's favorite. I don't like the sound of contempt in his voice when he talks about Fidge. I don't like that he blames Fidge for Mother's death. I love Fidge. Fidge is the only real pretty thing.
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