WANDERER // ODETTE DELLA ROW [DONE]

name Odette Della Row
age Twenty Three
district Wanderer
gender Female
occupation Miscreant

I'm the kinda girl who doesn't say a word,
Who sits at the curb and waits for the world
But I'm about to break out, about to break out
I'm like a crook tonight
I caught you staring at me and I was thinking clearly

Dark, warm brown eyes sit upon a smooth face. They are brown and nothing more, there is no hint of another colour and at times they grow so dark it is often hard to distinguish between iris and pupil. I like them, I like my eyes, they are neither cold nor ugly, and they are nice. I don’t like to complain about my appearance, I like stating how I look with minimal fuss, saying the good and the bad, but saying it in such a way that the bad parts neither sound good nor bad and the good parts don’t sound so exaggerated. All in all I like to say I’m normal. I don’t like drawing on how I look as a way of getting what I want, because it is not my appearance that strikes the joy into everyone I know. It is, of course, the most important part of any person: My personality. Freckles lay spread across my nose, cheeks, arms and legs. Although the smattering is rather sparse, they are noticeable, at a distance they look as though they are not there. Sometimes, when I’m bored I’ll sit in front of my little hut and pull out the tiny mirror I have, I’ll count them, running one long thin finger over my cheek. My eyes will tug downwards into a small frown; part of my tongue will slip past my lips. The same face awaits me when I’m concentrating. Robyn will often tell me – remind me, that one day I’ll end up biting my own tongue off if I don’t keep it in. That makes me draw it back in, my thing pink lips drawing themselves into a tight line. I’m a wanderer, yeah, free from the Capitol’s claws, but I have no plans on becoming one of those useless, mute animals that the Capitol keeps for a pet.

A tangled mass of dirty blonde hair sits atop my head. Streaks of brain layer it, and I swear if I washed it more often than I do it would be a nice blonde. But as it is it is rather messy, twigs, leaves and all sorts of things finding a home in it. I have little time to care for it and less time to brush it. When you are running you can’t stop every second to pull out a leaf that gets snagged in your hair. And then when you stop you just can’t be bothered. However, it doesn’t look that bad. It gives me a wild rugged look, not in the bad sense, though. It compliments my brilliant smile. I like leaving it down, I know that is a bad choice, but if I have to leave it messy I want to at least have it surrounding my face. I like seeing it, I like feeling in that small sense that I am a girl, rather than a wild creature.

I’m playing a dangerous game with Robyn and her crew. Twenty three years old and I’m already playing a game with my life, it’s not like the reaping was enough. Sometimes I’ll question myself why I’m doing it, but the thoughts will fade as quickly as they come, to be replaced by that bright smile. The others say I smile too much. They say it needs to calm down a few notches. It’s hardly fair that I want to be happy, no matter the situation. I’ll shrug my slender shoulders, offering them a face that lacks that normal warmth. When they flash me a satisfied smirk my own will leap right back into place without a second of hesitation. Ripred that annoys them a lot more then it should. They all just need to loosen up a bit, clam down and smile. The other day when someone got shot one of the girls was a mess. She was crying and raging on all about it, oh how bad for her. I told her to calm her tits –politer then that, mind you— I told her that she should be grateful, I mean the nerve of some people, she didn’t get shot so why was she sooking? She needed to lighten up and smile, feel happy that she wasn’t the one with the bullet wound bleeding to death. It did not end very well. A few of them threw me glaring looks, oooh how rude that was before telling me to fuck off, because I was not ‘helping’. Well if you ask me –but none of them did, so I left with a shrug, not entirely worried.

A flash of white teeth awaits anyone who tries to annoy me. It has become a little game for most of the other gang members, trying to make me lose my winning smile. They’ll never win. My eyes normally flicker with a welcoming light, as if begging for attention, for someone to speak to me. That is true. I always want people to speak to me, that kind of attention is something I crave, more so when another person is happy. That way I can speak with that bright bubbly voice, my words as light and playful as the smile that is permanently glued to my face. When I look down at myself I see a tall, athletic girl. I’ve grown up tall and skinny. There was little to no meat on these bones, but after a time I began to settle and weight began to grow and I filled in. I’ve got long arms that stretch from a thin, flat chest. Long, thin legs that seem small, as though they are incapable of carrying my body, but they are strong and sturdy, sprout from my body. A countless number of scars little my arms, legs and face. Not from wounds or being attacked but rather from running through the forest. It is impossible to run without hitting vines, branches or catching your feet on sticks. Especially when you are in a hurry. It leaves you marked, but each error means that next time you won’t make that same mistake; well that was what Robyn told me. That was not true. I’m a klutz, sometimes. When I’m in a hurry trees seem to jump into my way, but when I’m not under pressure I can weave my own way through the trees without making a single sound.

My body is strong enough to carry me on a long far run. I’ve come to learn a great amount of techniques to stay at a steady easy hunter’s lope. That means I can run for hours at a time, feet moving with a grace and agility that only come to those that know the land. And I do. I know the forests, the Ocean and the countless pools, hollows, valleys and worlds that separate us from the districts. There are a countless number of homes, villages and hidden away places that not even the Peacekeeper’s will ever find.

When I was very little. Like very little, short stubby, chubby little baby legs little, I lived in district Four. It was a very nice district, the one with the ocean right next door. Most people there were good, they didn’t live in a poor broken down house, but rather had enough to keep their stomachs full and to keep them alive and going. I’m pretty sure there are only a few rare families that suffer a lot in the district. It was a good place, one of the better ones to be a part of. I even got that exclusive career training as well. I learnt how to use a dozen different brilliant weapons. Boy didn’t that come in handy. I lived in a giant house. One of the biggest one sin the district. It overlooked the ocean; it was three stories tall, although the top story was more of an attic then a room. Anyway, it was amazing; we had a big property with a giant garden. Flowers, trees and all sorts of plants grew in it; there was a gardener who took care of it all and various cleaners that cleaned the inside of the house. My room was spacious; I had a big, fluffy soft bed, shelves filled with books and draws pouring out with all kinds of toys. The edge of my bed was littered with stuff toys and the cupboard in my room was filled with a range of clothes that I just loved. I think it is safe to say my parents were rich. What can I say? They owned a profitable company. They earned a lot of money from the business and that money meant I could have the kind of life I knew that many children did not get. And at the end, when I was old enough I was to inherit it all. Well, that did not happen.

My parents were great, fantastic very smart people. They knew how people worked and they knew what would earn you money. They understood a lot about how things worked and what made people work. They used this knowledge to build a small little empire in the district. A beautiful place, they sold a lot of stuff, of course. They were very smart. But they weren’t good people. They manipulated, conned and basically cheated their way up to the top. The wonderful secret of the family business. I was not let onto the past of the family until I was fifteen and it was from there that I started growing distant. Slowly moving and shifting away from their grasp. I let myself go a bit, pretending to love them, when it was turning into something more like hatred. I stopped taking money from them; I stopped spoiling myself and buying lots and lots of gifts. My wardrobe basically shrunk down to a few select clothes, leather jackets, jeans and stylish, but rugged looking clothes. My attitude turned less superior and rude. I became more polite to those around me, more understanding to the people who were not as rich and good as I was. I tried to lower myself, drop those shoulders rather than draw them up proud and defiant to everyone. I began to learn respect and what it meant to care about others and have friends rather than have those select few to use. It made the days more enjoyable, it made me realise that there was a lot more to this life that I was living then money and power and always getting what you want.

In some weird way I was trying to atone for the mistakes my parents had made.

They owned a business were people worked for them and they had to basically no work at all. They sat in the house, picking and picking on all those people that worked for them. On the days that they were bored they’d sit up there in the study room, where there lay a large, grand oak table made of oak and they’d pick someone to fire. They called it work. (Don’t worry everyone I’m not even up to the bad part yes. I’m just getting you all warmed up.) They said that to me when I was four years old and I asked them what they were doing. I nodded my little head blindly accepting this. Why else would they be doing it? I mean I didn’t even know what work was. Childhood was an awful lot of fun. I got everything I wanted whenever I asked for it. I got to have toys here and there, presents here and there and everywhere. When I cried I got a hug, when I did something bad I did not get a scolding, but rather a pat on the back and a kiss telling me that it was all okay. That I was such a good little girl.

They run a lovely company; they sold fish to lots and lots of people. They didn’t only sell fish, though. They became business that sold all sorts of things, ideas and notions that I had been completely ignorant to for my entire life. When I was fifteen I learned that there was a lot more to the family business then fish and boats. My father had inherited another part of business from his father; it was a cruel game and a disgusting one. When I’d first learned of it I’d yelled at him and told him how disgusting that was. That had gotten me nothing, but perhaps the first ever sign of outwards anger I had ever seen. He’d hit me. That had stung like nothing I had ever felt before. My parents had never ever even threatened to hit me before. They never yelled, screamed or growled. There had always and only ever been polite words, hushed whispers or gentle, soothing tones. And to get that sudden slap? Well it was a lot like a bit into reality. He apologised after he had calmed down and I bit my tongue, refusing to say another word, unable to say anything against him, for fear of the punishment. Most kids that age would have laughed off a little hit like that. Some people probably would think I was a stupid girl, weak and pathetic for letting that one touch cause so much pain and fear to be installed into my heart. But it is those people that don’t understand how a soft life creates a soft mind and to have a sudden sting to that easiness it is a shocking thing to experience. Yeah, you can laugh and just say ‘well that is life’ but for me that never was.

It is really hard to explain, but imagine if you were in my position and you had a completely sheltered life. I’d had no opportunity to see further then a fluffy bed, or people who did everything I needed when I asked. Now compare that to parents who never said a thing wrong to you. They treated you like fragile china, as though some small harsh word could break you. I’d grown up believing there was little to no evil in the world. So imagine my surprise, horror and shock when my father – a man I had believed to be completely virtuous and basically Ripred himself – tells me he sells prostitutes for side business, girls and women he snags from the street, to throw them against a filthy disgusting man that is paying for them to pleasure them. Oh and wait, maybe I should also mention here at well, that he also grabbed little boy’s as well, you know for preferences and just in case he has those few rare female customers. Oh and also that tiny little fact that he sleeps with them as well. I mean mother did not even seem to care about that little fact. You’ll have to admit at first that did not comprehend with the soft mushy, brain-washed part of my brain, but when it did I yelled at him. I’d never ever spoken against my parents before and that in turn caused him to hit me. Picture this, a perfect snow globe sitting on a table, which is me. Now imagine a hammer slamming down on that snow globe and shattering it. That was what my dad did to me. Believe me I’m not even exaggerating a little bit.

Now you are all probably thinking “well you are a career girl, you should be used to getting hit” well shut up. No wait, sorry, excuse that. I’m trying to tell you that, that kind of shit did not annoy me. I could get completely bashed up in a fight with another bunch of careers. But the thing is that wasn’t my family, my parents were people that bashed others up, they didn’t hit me. Wow, if you don’t understand this by now I feel sorry for you. Dumbasses. So when I was fifteen I learnt this little fact. You know, you’d think it would be enough to change someone’s life? At first I just kept going on along with it all, nodding my head, listening and being that perfect little daughter they loved so much. I kept going to school, trained and listened to them every night as they taught me more and more about their lovely company. They were preparing me to take the reins and become the boss. It was on my eighteenth birthday that my dad changed my life forever. It was on that very day where I ran away, that day where I fled into the wilderness and joined the band of miscreants that is now my home. I will say this, though: It was the worst day of my life.

---

”Happy Birthday Odette!”

The shrill cry breaks through the pleasant fogginess of a sleeping brain. I let out a small groan, something like “go away”, another shrill cry of ”happy birthday” is the only response. With a sigh I resign myself to the fact that I was not going to go back to sleep. Within moments I’m awake and I find myself staring into the bright brown eyes of my mother. They reflected my own face, which was something a lot more dishevelled. We both shared that same shade of brown eyes; mine were however, a lot more warm and welcoming compare to here strikingly cold ones. Right now that coldness was no more than a dull spark at the back and all I could see was flashing excitement and joy. She smiled, her teeth flashing in the dull lighting of my large room. I give her a smile back before chucking my blankets off. Before I can move mother leaps forwards and wraps her tiny thin arms around me. I let out a startled yelp, which is drowned in her sigh of pleasure. It was always this way. Mother was always far too happy on my Birthday, she woke up as early as she could and she would never let me sleep in, that was annoying and slightly unfair, seeing as it was my birthday and not hers, which meant I should at least be able to sleep in for once.

”You are so big! Look at you, my precious! Eighteen years old today, isn’t that a big Birthday? The big one-eight! You’ll be any adult now, technically. And only one more reaping to go! You are so big and beautiful, I remember the day when you were born, this tiny little pink thing in my ha-“

”Mum, please, can we not ruin this nice morning with memories like that?” I sigh, throwing my eyes skyward. She had a habit of doing that. Every Christmas or birthday or any day really that held any form of significance for her was always terrorised by her persistent need to tell some horrible embarrassing story about me when I was a child. Most of them were awful little things and I can never understand how she remembers them. I can never remember any of them. Hell I can’t remember what I did last week, let alone ten years ago. Mother looks like a scolded puppy for the briefest of moments, but like any scolded puppy she bounces right back into her joyous mood and I can’t help myself but laugh.

“Where is dad?” I ask, curiosity leaking into each word. It was customary for them both to wake me up and in all eighteen years he had never not turned up at the end of my bed in the morning. Standing there like always in a tailored suite, eyes shining, a smile plastered to his lips. His eyes would sparkle, they were an odd shade of blue and sometimes I would find myself staring at them, transfixed by the way they seemed to meld between blue and grey. They were very nice eyes. He was not a good man, but he had that careful smile, that charismic attitude and glowing aura that no one could say a word bad about him. Hell, I knew all the secrets and I found it difficult. I give my bedroom another sweep of my eyes, as though I’m expecting to find him in one of the corners waiting like always. But he is not there.

”Oh, he is at work. He sends his regards and also a sorry and-“ She smiles again before lunging at me and wrapping me into another tight hug. I gasp, her skinny arms much stronger than I would have expected. ”—a nice big hug and kiss!” As the last words leave her mouth I quickly slide from her grasp and scoot off the bed before she can through a sloppy kiss my way. Mother nods her head as though she had expected that. “Alright you get changed and come down for breakfast. We are having pancakes!” I try to hide my disappointment at that little fact. Some part of me wondered what he is doing. He could be shagging some hot girl, or he could be in his office. I just wish he could have at least made this day free to spend with me. He was a cruel and horrible man, but he was my dad and in some twisted way I did love him and care about him. As sick and disgusting he was my mother and father were all I had. I nod and smile as she slips from the room, throwing more a quick thumbs up. She was much more excited than I was, and that was for sure.

I mean, don’t get me wrong my birthday was always a great blast, plenty of food, cake and presents, but I just didn’t like it. I was getting to thinking a lot more about where the money came from and that made me feel sick in my stomach and downright awful. I shrug that thought away. I yank my closet doors open, within a few moments I’ve chucked on a pair of navy blue jeans and a black shirt. Finally I group my favourite black leather jacket, slipping it on, I pull my hair free and without brushing it I jog out of the room. I did not have to worry about the messy bed or the clothes spread out everywhere. That was one pleasure that I took no fault in having, you know, not cleaning up after myself. The morning light was seeping through the open windows and I dashed down the spiralling stairs to the big dining room. It was rather silly, if you ask me. Made to seat over thirty people and it rarely sat more than three. Man was standing by my chair grinning like some maniac. My own smile returns and I run up to her, giving her a quick hug.

”Sleep well, mum?” I ask, my eyes taking in the large pile of pancakes before me. “Yes, what about you, beautiful?” I shrug. “So when is dad getting here?” I try to keep my tone as neutral as I can. She shrugs, but I notice the way her smile grows bigger. ”What? Why are you smiling like that?” I ask, frowning slightly. She shrugs again, trying to force that smile down, but she fails. “No reason.” She turns away from me. “Mum, tell me.” All I have to do is prod her, and I know she’ll burst. That was how obvious my mum was. She was horrible at keeping secrets. She shakes her head, raising a hand to cover the ever goring smile on her face. I smile at her sweetly. ”Oh please mum, you can trust me with this little secret.” She shakes her head closing her eyes. I’m just about to ask again when my dad walks into the room. My yes flicker straight to my mother and the obvious relief on her face is not entirely comforting.

”Happy Birthday baby girl.” I’m up on my feet and I run straight to my dad wrapping my arms around him. He hugs me before pulling me away to an arm’s length. “You ready to see your birthday present?” I can’t help myself but grin and nod my head. “Come on, it is in your room,” he winks at me. I frown but follow him as he leads me up the stairs and back to my room. Shrugging I banish all thoughts of what it could possibly be. Whatever it was it would have to be good, otherwise dad would have never missed waking me up to put the present in my room. He opens the door and I walk in and I halt.

”I-I… I don’t understand.” Sitting in front of me on top of my bed is a boy my age. He looked tired; he had the greenest eyes I had ever seen and a lightly brown tanned skin. His hair was a golden brown and was covered in waves and gave him the look that most of the wilder, adventurous boys at the training centre had. He was wearing only a loin cloth and I could clearly see the muscles that ringed his body. And that meant I could also clearly see the scars and the tattoo on his left shoulder that marked him as one of my dad’s sex slaves. And that is when I understand. That is when at all falls together and suddenly my fists are by my sides clenches tightly, knuckles going white. I spin around my eyes flickering dangerously, my jaw tight and my body stiff. “This. You are giving your eighteen year old daughter a sex slave for her birthday?” I hiss. My father’s smile fades from his face to be replaced by a look of confusion. My mother looks aghast at my reaction. What had they been expecting? What? For me to be happy at the idea of having a sex slave?

”Dee, I thought you understood now. I thought after our last conversation you were with us on this, why are you so upset?” The use of my nickname is like a slap to the face. And it only makes me angrier. ”What? Hold on. So you think because after you hit me that I was all good with you selling people for money? You seriously thought my silence was some form of acceptance? Oh my Ripred. I stayed silent because I could say nothing, not because I accepted it and so what? That means I got a fucking sex slave as a present?” I spit. “You disgust me.” With those final words I barge past them and fly down the stairs. My father calls out my name, and my mother runs after me, but I don’t stop. I run out of the house and into the street.

Fighting back the tears that bubbled in my eyes I took off, running away from my home. I didn’t understand, I was so confused and upset. Most of all it hurt, it hurt to think that my father, after all that I said to him, would think that I’d ever approve of his business of selling other people’s bodies for money. More so he actually thought I’d go ahead and even step into that area, that I’d lower myself to that filthy level to force myself upon another person and have sex with them. Did he really think I was capable of that? Or was it some stupid test of his? Whatever it was it was very wrong and I hated it and I hated him for thinking that I could do it. All I can see is those boy’s sad eyes, those bright, green, sad eyes, the scars and the tattoo. It was like a barcode, his sale price, the marking that would tell everyone he was the property of another person. He was a toy for people to use and I couldn’t live with that. I couldn’t sleep at night knowing that I was part of that. By staying I could do something about it but I was too much of a coward to stay. Staying meant being near him and looking at him and telling him I loved him. So I chose the second best thing that I could think of. I ran away from it all so that I would never ever be a part of it, but I could help no one either.

Rage forced me onwards and when I got to the fence I didn’t think, I just kept going and going and going until I found some way to get out. Some way to run, and to never have to look back. I slipped out and into the wilderness around the district and I ran. I ran and I never looked back.

---

That was why I ran away. That was why I have never returned and why I have not seen my parents for five years. I think it is a justifiable reason. It was hard, though. It was very hard to go from such a soft life to having to depend on the skills you had to live. Especially for someone that did not have many skills in the way of going hungry and having to look after myself. I had the few basic skills I’d gained from career training, but other than that I lacked a lot of the basic survival skills that I needed to build a life in this world. It was about two years in, when I was basically, to put it lightly, dying, that I found Robyn and her little band. They took me in and from there I’ve helped them to, I’ve robbed places and stolen things. I’ve killed, I’ve fought and I’ve lived. I’m alive and I know this forest better than any person, I know everything about it and what’s more I’ll never have to see my family again. I’ll never have to go back and look them in the eye, or hear them say my name. Sometimes I just wish, though, I could go back and help all those people that need help.

For now I’ll settle with what I have. I’ll just keep smiling.

Now I'm like a bee and I'm huntin' for the honey
And I'm kinda shy but you're super fly yeah
I could be your kryptonite
Like ohh ohh ohh
Light my heart up baby like a match stick