Violeta Helf {d12}

Violeta Helf

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My name is Violeta Helf--or at least, that's what I like to call myself. I am a female, and I have survived eighteen turbulent years. For a long time, I resided in District 12, but I am now a mere wanderer, living in a magnificent mansion in the woods.

Daddy I'm not gonna tell you that I'm sorry
Cause there ain't nothing you can do to change my mind
I'm not here to know the things I cannot do
We've seen the outcome of the boys who didn't fly

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When I was younger, I knew a girl named Imogen Verrera. She was born on the twelfth of December, she lived in a scrawny little shack on Maple Street, and her father constantly beat her. When she was only sixteen years old, the media, the Peacekeepers, and the five-year old boy next door, went wild as they spread rumored stories of her abrupt disappearance. Everything in Imogen’s house was intact the day she was reported missing, her parents had claimed to have heard nothing throughout the night, and not a drop of blood was splattered across any inch of the house. The idea was puzzling, and the girl was never found. Yet, what they didn’t know was that Imogen Verrera had never disappeared; she was still lingering, trapped inside the walls of her own house. In fact, I had managed to escape the scene, but I had deliberately left her behind.

I know every secret ever imbedded in her heart, although I have no regrets or second thoughts of leaving her behind. Undeniably, the idea that we were ever friends remains a question that I have insistently left unanswered. We had nearly nothing in common: she was weak, scrawny, and lost. I, on the other hand, was victorious. It was she who held me back.

But anyways, let’s start from the beginning, shall we? The past is something that I am terrible at recollecting. I remember every moment of it, but truly admitting that it ever happened is a constant challenge I am forced to face. There are pieces I have switched around, pieces I have convinced myself to be false or even made up, and pieces that I have stowed away entirely. All in all, my past isn’t something I often share at the dinner table. When people ask me about Imogen Verrera—although they very rarely do—I tell them she was someone else. I tell them we were two girls on opposite ends of the spectrum, living along the same street. Ultimately, I tell them that she’s a memory I never want to relive.

However, when I wipe away the lies that conceal my history like a thick layer of dirt, I despise the blinding truth that I find: the truth that I have sworn to share with no one. If you remove all of the metaphorical connotations, the desperate lies, and the overall vagueness that cloud my memories, then yes: my biological name is Imogen Verrera. Still, we are like two opposing species with similar origins.

In the beginning, I was a happy girl: all smiles and rainbows. Although my mother stopped me every time I left a crumb on my dinner plate, and although I often had to devote time to attempting to keep food from my mind, the only times when a smile wasn’t plastered across my face were the days when my father came home from work with the slam of a door. When his eyes were directed on the floor, his shoulders tensed in frustration, and his knuckles white, even with dust coating him in multiple layers, it was easy to tell that there was a turbulent night ahead. Of course, in these situations, I wasn’t the one being victimized, for at that time I was still much too fragile and too young. Instead, it was my mother that my father targeted at first. It only started with yells, shouts, and accusations, but with time, the tension increased.

So clearly do I remember being curled up beneath my own covers, listening as my drunk father shouted incessantly from the other room. I couldn’t get myself to stop trembling as I listened to my mother fighting back, threatening to call the peacekeepers if he didn’t leave her alone. The worst part was when it all ended. I would listen as my mother left the room, slamming the door as she left the house. Our family shared a full two rooms, so finding somewhere else to sleep wasn’t exactly an option. Yet, every time my mother left, enwrapping the house in an unmistakable silence, I could feel my sister, Evelia, shaking beside me. That’s how I knew, as we tried to fall back asleep, that the idea of our mother never returning haunted us both. It was always easy to fall back asleep after that realization, because knowing that I had my sister for protection was temporarily comforting.

At that time, the only thing I truly had to worry about was possibly watching my parent separate from one another. In fact, the most daunting thing I had to fear was the reality that I wouldn’t have a perfect life, with a mother and a father there to help me simultaneously. I didn’t see the perilous future that to me, seemingly so far away. The idea that my life could get so much worse was never a denoted possibility. I thought I had it bad, but I was very, very wrong.

I never really got to know my father well; maybe if he had sat down with me, really talked to me, and given me a bit of hope to hold onto, I might’ve understood why there were so many days when he came home with a scowl stretched across his face, dark circles creating a prominent shadow beneath his eyes. I knew that he was a drunk, but it was only about once a week when he took it over the top.

My mother began to scare me. She was almost never home, and when she was, she slept on the only sofa in the house, and said absolutely nothing to my face. She was falling apart: I could see it in the hollowness of her eyes. Sometimes, I tried to talk to her about it, but she just walked away, left the house, or ignored me entirely. Every night, she cooked dinner like a robot, playing through the motions mindlessly. The fighting and the arguing had stopped, but that didn’t mean my mother’s depression had. She was emotionally scarred.

Even on my father’s happy days, you could see my mother’s insides tearing to pieces. It seemed as though my father began to realize what he was doing, because after he finally noticed the weakness that possessed my mother, he started apologizing. He apologized for everything that went wrong: every leak in the roof, every day with meager food, and every frown that crossed my mother’s face. I am quite sure my father stopped drinking, but I couldn’t be completely sure. He always did it outside of the house anyways, senselessly using up the well-earned money that we never had quite enough of.

I didn’t understand who this new, forgiving, passionate man was. Things seemed to be getting better. They really did. I thought that maybe my mother would finally pull herself up to ground level again. Maybe my father would help her. Maybe I would be able to stop feeling guilty for telling no one about the dreadful things that happened inside the walls of my house. Again, I was way off the target.

Several months later, my father started drinking again. I don’t know how or why, but either way, I knew he had, because when I opened the pantry for a small breakfast every morning, there would be less and less each day. Our money wasn’t just disappearing. My father was using it.

One day when I was only eight, and thirteen-year old Evelia was picking me up from third grade, she asked me something odd. I was going on and on about the prank that Tim had played on Georgie at recess that day, when she completely interrupted me. “Imi,” she said. “Do you want to run away?”

Being only eight at the time, the idea of running away was a bit difficult to comprehend. I had many friends, and when my father was actually in a decent mood, my life was okay. Running away seemed like such an intriguing idea, like a new adventure, but I didn’t know how to respond. Most of all, I was afraid of running away. I was afraid that if I did, my father would start yelling at my mother again, and then he would come after me, and my whole life would fall apart.

I trembled, searching through my brain for the correct answer to her question. Yet, it was clouded with by the times tables we’d learned that day: something that obviously provided no assistance to my situation. Why didn’t they teach us important subjects like social skills in school? “No,” I finally told my sister. I didn’t want to run away. I didn’t want to leave my friends, my teachers, and my family behind, and I didn’t want to have my father running after me. Even at eight-years old, I could see the sad look in my sister’s eyes, as they stared down into my own. I had just betrayed her. I had just left her to deal with this on her own. But how could I have known?

At that point, she rolled up her sleeve, revealing a huge bruise along her forearm. “Guess where I got that from?” She said, almost mockingly before taking her leave. I wondered how I had not noticed it before: I had never seen my father hit her or hurt her. He yelled at everyone when he was angry, me included. But the only person he had ever hurt was my mother.

The trip home was lonely, with my sister not there to walk with me. When I finally reached our house, it was deserted. My parents were both at work, but my sister hadn’t come home. When I opened the pantry, it was empty. I spent a few moments panicking before opening the drawer beside my and my sister’s bed. Evelia’s belongings were gone.

I can’t really explain what that moment had felt like. I felt like she had betrayed me even more than I had betrayed her. Although, thanks to Evelia, I hadn’t even known this had been going on. I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t my fault; there was no way I could have altered the results. Somehow, I was still unsure.

When my father got home from work, he was drunk again. Immediately, he blamed my sister’s disappearance on me. This was the first time he’d actually turned his aggression on the youngest of the family. He lashed out at me, but the moment his hand made contact with my cheek, he broke down into tears and started apologizing. I was still a little girl: innocent and naïve. What would pity do for me in the future?

Evelia came back the next night. We didn’t even have to send anyone out to find her. For a long time, my sister and I said nothing. Luckily, my father stopped abusing her, which meant it was now my turn to endure his troubles.

Throughout this disastrous excuse for a life, I had many dreams: developing, increasing, and growing. Do you remember being a little kid, a world full of dreams nestled in the palms of your hands? Do you remember having parents that told you, “Go out there!” and “Be a star!” and “You can do anything!” Well, I sure don’t. When I was only six, I revealed my dream to my mother. I told her, “Someday, I want to be the mayor.” I can still remember the sorrow in her eyes as she looked at me. She didn’t smile or tell me to keep chasing my dreams. Instead, “Well I wanted to be happy…and look where I am now,” was her response.

There are some statements so strong, that as much as you try to push them away, they only come back to haunt you. That was definitely one of them.

You’d think that a girl with a family that lacked such faith would have little self-confidence. You’d think she’d give up, right? I guess it was true: my self-esteem needed a bit of work, but quite honestly, my life’s chaos set off sparks. My heart was merely waiting for one strong enough to ignite a fire.

The more my mother discouraged me from getting my hopes up, the more I pushed the limits, just waiting to fall off the edge. I spent nights dreaming of standing at that podium every year before the Hunger Games, all eyes on me, enwrapped in power. I wanted to be able to speak into the microphone and have people listen as I spoke. Yet, my dream of being mayor faded with time.

When I was eight, it was my turn to face my father’s wrath. I don’t really know what went through my father’s head, but maybe it was guilt. From the persistent apologizes, I could tell that he felt bad for making my sister leave. He didn’t want it happening again, just as how he didn’t want to hurt my mother any more. However, my father needed to turn his alcohol addiction over to someone.

My father wasn’t always abusive. Usually, he was a good guy: fun to be around, especially in public. Though, when it came time to get home, he got destructive. I started slipping away from my friends, withdrawn from the world. No one wanted to be around me anymore: I had nothing interesting or entertaining to contribute. I was just a useless girl who sat at lunch table three. It was hard to focus in class, and even harder to maintain decent grades. My whole life, my entire future, and the majority of my dreams were being flushed down the drain. Without top-notch grades, great records, and a decent social life, just thinking about the possibility of being mayor was a disgrace to the occupation itself.

I was made out of glass, so easily broken. My hope was slipping, and I didn’t really know what to do with myself anymore. Often, I spent a great deal of time outside the house, usually just walking along the streets, sitting at the park, and watching the world around me with empty eyes. When my father was in a decent mood, I loved him, too much to turn him in. There were some days when he just took it too far, like the day I walked into school with a broken arm, lying about how I had hurt it in playful sport.

Evelia was a coward. She never defended me or told anyone about what went on inside the walls of our house. I didn’t know if she was glad she didn’t have to play the victim in this game, or if she felt conflicted. Quite honestly, sometimes I just stopped caring. Evelia and I never talked on my father’s bad days; we were strangers. Yet, any other time, we were just like any pair of sisters, trying to let go of the domestic horrors in our lives.

I like to think that my preteen years were especially abysmal, but really, they were manageable. I got used to the occasional abuse, and furthermore, I learned to accept it. Although I often limited the extent of my friendships, seeing that I was never the one to share secrets, I still knew what joy felt like, and I found ways to embrace that feeling. But I was still afraid—I couldn’t walk into the house without wincing, and I couldn’t stand the thought of someone finding out what went on at home.

My grades never got better; constantly, my teachers scolded me for incomplete homework. Each time, I invented a new excuse. “I just didn’t feel like doing it,” “I lost my textbook,” and “I didn’t get it,” were common arguments. Truly, it was just focus issues. I could never do my homework at home: the dreadful place that I avoided wholly, and doing it out on the streets just wasn’t an option. I was considered the school failure: the strange girl who wasted her education away. The thing that bothered me most about this assumption was the fact that I was honestly very smart. I just had too many obstacles in my life, seemingly impossible to overcome.

When I was fifteen years old, I liked a boy for the first time. Of course, I’d had some minimal crushes along the way, but not like this one. Marcus was his name. I knew there was no one out there that could actually love a mess like me, but I didn’t give up. My friends encouraged me to try flirting with him, so I did. I put on a mask of confidence for about a week, and stunningly, it worked. Once he asked me out, there was no way I could deny the offer.

Most dates in District Twelve were just a little better than casual. Unless you were up in the merchant class, the usual date didn’t exist, unless it happened inside the home. That, people could afford.

However, the night of my date with Marcus, I committed my first act of rebellion. Considering most of my family’s profits went towards my father’s alcohol addiction, the only clothing options I had were my sister’s shabby hand-me-downs. So, that evening, I stole. I snuck into my parents’ room while they were still at work and took just enough to buy something nice. With the money, I bought a casual purple dress from the Town Square. Before my parents or my sister returned home, I allowed myself to look beautiful for once in my life. Then, I headed to Marcus’s house.

That night was the most unbelievable of all. As we sat at his kitchen table, I was someone else entirely, giggling at all of his jokes as I drowned in my own confidence. It was like I had decided to take a leap over to the other side of the spectrum: all the way from a self-loathing loser to a highly confident victor. At the end of the date, he took my hand and offered to walk me home. Immediately, I told him I wanted to do it alone. For once in my life, I had the power. I had the authority to tell him “no,” while still keeping everything that was between us. I smiled as I realized I was in total control.

I practically danced home. Yet, the moment I returned, I was no longer the beautiful girl in the violet dress. I was just Imogen Verrera, the girl who lived her life in fear. My father brought the hammer down pretty hard when he figured out what I had done. However, despite the many punishments I had to endure, I regretted nothing about that night.

My hour-and-a-half of self-confidence had been worth the black eye I came to school with the next day.

I felt a spark building inside of me throughout the majority of the following week. Fed by oxygen, the fire only grew stronger as I continually sought rebellion. The fear that had once conquered my heart was slowly diminishing. In fact, I stopped loving my father. All of those times that I managed to forgive him, didn’t even matter anymore. I hated him with an extravagant amount of passion, and I hated my mother even more.

Marcus and I made out on a daily basis, and sometimes, I even managed to flirt with a few other guys. I wanted control over my love life; I wanted control more than anything. With hard work and a bit of deception, I received it. Of course, at home it was a different story: a very different story.

I could tell that Marcus was figuring me out. By then, he probably guessed what was going on at home. However, the cold glare he received from me each time he brought up the scar on my shoulder or the bruise on my arm caused him to shut up. He cared too much about our relationship to give it up for something as minimal as a bruise. Honestly, we didn’t talk much, unless our conversation ceased to push the limits. Rarely was this the case.

About two months after our first date, Marcus broke up with me, claiming he didn’t have time for a relationship anymore. My confidence faltered a bit; what had Marcus been thinking? I tried to convince myself he was just plain stupid, and after a while, it worked. I was better than District Twelve, I was better than Marcus, and I was better than my father.

Still, I was afraid.

The fire inside of me was growing, increasing in intensity. It only needed one last event to truly set it off: the night my father abused me…sexually. I’m not going to go into much detail on this one, but basically, it was disgusting. I had gotten used to my father’s occasional physical abuse, but this—this was totally unexpected.

My mother was asleep when it happened, and my sister was out at a friend’s. Of course, she was allowed that privilege.

Being taken advantage of was scarier than anything else my father had ever done to me, because I knew that he was leaving permanent scars. The feeling of having no control was the worst; I knew the feeling like the back of my hand, yet at that instant, its severity overruled every other moment in history.

I still don’t know what my father’s motives were, and I truly don’t care. When my father left my room, I never fell asleep. Instead, I just listened to my never-slowing heartbeat, haunted by the night’s events. The impact of that horrific moment had created such an intense mix of emotions in my head that the next morning, before anyone woke, I ran away on an empty stomach. I didn’t make the decision or think of the consequences. I just did it.

To this day, I continue to wonder whether I had run out of fear or out of superiority. Maybe it had been a little bit of both. As I ran, I thought about my sister, and wondered how far I would make it before I, too, turned back. If I wanted to, I could easily turn my father in; however, the wrath of his revenge was not something I wished to see. So, instead, I just kept running until I reached the edge of the district.

There was no goodbye speech or even a fond farewell. I just left her there at the edge of the district. She was too concerned about the consequences. In fact, she tried pulling me back. But she was just a weakling, not strong enough to face the dangers, but also the beauties, that consumed the rest of the world. So I left her.

Imogen Verrera never made it past the fence, but I did.

I vowed to be nothing like my sister. Once I was on the other side of the fence, I promised myself that I wouldn’t go back. Looking at District Twelve from the outside, just before dawn, was the most miraculous image. It was like escaping a prison cell, prepared to finally face the real world after sixteen years of being locked up.

But even then, I didn’t know where I was going next.

In any case, I started walking, away from my old district, and towards the fate that would soon be my future.

Having brought nothing with me, I suffered. I collected every berry and plant I could find, trying to sustain my food source for just a while longer. Still, I pledged to never return. I continued to make resourceful choices, but even that was not enough. Within a few days’ time, I had nothing left.

The nights, too, were horrific. When the sun disappeared, I found myself biting my lip in anticipation, waiting for the darkness to be over. When it was, I continued my journey to nowhere.

I don’t really remember how long it took me before I reached the big mysterious mansion in the middle of the woods—possible a week. I was near-starving, ready to fall flat on my face and give up. I felt silly for even thinking there was anything out there, past the fences of District Twelve. Yet, when I saw the mansion, glistening through the trees, I nearly fainted, not from exhaustion but from surprise. It was as though I’d just stepped into a dream, watching this huge building, probably taller than any and every building in District Twelve, as it towered above me.

I ran to the door with the little energy I had left and knocked like there was no tomorrow. There wasn’t, if I didn’t get anything in my stomach soon. When the door finally opened, I didn’t know what to say. Was I supposed to invite myself in? Before I got the chance to do anything, the man beckoned me inside. I can’t remember it all too clearly, because my heart was beating fast, and the magnificent décor of the house nearly gave me a heart attack, and I didn’t know what to do, and I was so confused and—before I could speak, the man led me into the other room, had me sit down at the table, and put a full plate of food in front of me. I devoured it quickly. When I was finished, I excused myself immediately, feeling intrusive.

“No,” he said, poignantly. “You’re welcome to stay.” Something in the tone of his voice told me I would be protected here. There was nothing here that could harm me. I could have full control.

I accepted his offer without hesitation.

When the man, so called Master Levi Reedsburg--asked me for my name, I wasn’t sure how to respond. I wasn’t Imogen anymore; I didn’t want to be. Not only was it a disgusting name, but it was also a disgusting past. I wanted to let it all go. Let it float away, somewhere where I wouldn’t have to deal with it anymore.

The little girl with no power over her life was not who I wanted to be; instead, I wanted to be the pilot driving the plane, the architect planning the building, the girl with all of the authority in her own reach. I thought back to the first time I had felt that way. I had impressed an actual boy, his eyes sparkling with wonder. That’s who I wanted to be: the girl in the violet dress.

“Violeta,” I said, stumbling to get an answer out. “Violeta Helf.” Helf was the last name of the principal at my old school.

From the very start, I asserted my power in the house. I spent the next few weeks observing which buttons to press, and which ones to leave alone, especially when it came to Levi. There were many others living in the house, boys and girls alike. Most of the girls were kidnapped from a variety of districts, forced to stay there like prisoners. Yet, I on the other hand, could easily call the mansion the closest thing I’d ever had to a home.

Because I so willingly followed Levi’s rules, I was the one who received all of the rewards. Quickly, my social status rose. I even went so far as to begin reporting rebellious actions and speech to Levi. I enjoyed the praise that I received when the others were punished. Seeing some of the other girls experience what I’d had to put up with for years was a new boost of confidence. Most of them despised me, but a select few, whom I internally admired, looked up to me.

I never toldl Nathalie, one of the other older girls, but I have more in common with her than she thinks. Of course, she’s a senseless girl, angry and stressed and uncontrolled, but her history with Levi mirrors much of my own past.

At one point, I was invited to join some of the boys in the mansion when they went to the districts to capture—or rather, save, girls and boys alike. I, of course, was in charge of the minor tasks such as stealing, but the fact that I had been given that much power was almost enough for me. Almost. However, I promised myself that no matter what, I would never revisit District Twelve.

That promise was kept.

Personality

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That road outside that you've been taking home forever
That'll be the same road that I take when I depart
Those charcoal veins that hold this chosen land together
May twist and turn but somewhere deep there is a heart

I used to think that everything happened for absolutely no reason. Life was just a randomized concept and you had to put up with what you got. I thought that if you just played along with what you were given, maybe someday, a star would drop from the sky and give you a miracle. Though, with time, I learned that you just can’t sit and watch; you have to take control.

The word, “control,” has an extreme definition in my dictionary. Surrounding yourself with what you want to see, making the impossible possible, and ignoring others for your own sake: that’s my definition of control. In my book, the end justifies the means. It doesn’t matter who’s hurt or offended, because I had to deal with the same thing.

I’ll do anything to get power. I suck up to those above me in social status, and look down upon those who are not. My heart is filled with greed for more. I can never stop gaining more power or more control: it’s an absolute obsession.

Strangely, I’m a very calm person. Although I once possessed a countless number of worries, I now have nothing to be afraid of. I reside in a safe place and therefore have no reason to panic. I let myself run wild and free, especially after dark. However, my competitive traits and my carefree traits often seem to clash. When I start losing the contest for power—although this is rarely the case—composure is usually put at the bottom of my list of priorities. I can get angry if I really want to, but most of the time, I find that sarcasm is much more fun than violence.

I like mocking people. I actually consider it a hobby of mine, letting sarcasm float from my lips. The best part about mocking other girls in the house is they never have any comeback. The smart ones know their place and don’t respond, and the stupid ones, I leave to Levi to fix. I like to play around with people, seeing how far they’ll take things or how dumb they can get. I have an extremely short attention span, and therefore, I’m always looking for something else to make my life more interesting.

I’m only loyal to those who have all of the power in their hands; they’re the only ones who can truly help me gain more. Everyone else doesn’t matter: they’re just pawns in my games and my tricks: all the many things I do to fill up my never-ending free time.

Honestly, I suffer from self-confidence issues. I am still mending the holes in my life: the scars left behind by my past. I’m constantly trying to prove myself that Imogen and I have no mutual traits whatsoever. Therefore, I try to lead myself down the opposite path, so that I never end up in the place where I started.

Instead of letting the sexual affair that clouded my head for a long time, remain a threat to my own self-assurance, I constantly flirt with the men of the house, openly willing to please them. However, I continually make sure that I am the dominant figure in any and all of my relationships, never wanting to lose the control that I’ve worked so hard for.

Often, I attempt to put on a mask of confidence, convincing the world that I know who I am. Most of the time I do: I’m the girl in control, at the top, trying to win all of the power. However, I feel ashamed of my past. I feel that anyone finding out about the silly girl I used to be would be an utter embarrassment to my character. I try to act strong and powerful, even though way back when, I was weakest little stick you could ever come across.

No one in the mansion knows Imogen Verrerra. They definitely have a good idea of who Violeta Helf is, but they know nothing about my past. I lure people away from questions about my own history. Though, I’m not as abrupt as Nathalie, who just shuts them out. Instead, I give people subtle answers, in order to avoid suspicion. I have to admit, I am clever. I think through my actions and how certain choices will benefit me. Rarely do I jump into decisions and act on mere instinct. There’s no need to. I have the time to think, with little else to do around the house.

I hate showing any signs of weakness. I never cry. I haven’t cried since I’d left District Twelve behind. Crying would only downgrade my level of power. In fact, I have no pity for those who do shed tears. I consider them weak, frail, and useless. Tears get you nowhere; I should know.

Wanting power is like wanting revenge. I want the position that my father had all of my life. He had the whole world in his hands. However, I’m not sure I would consider it revenge. More so, I consider it karma. I worked hard to get power, and now I have it. All of those other weak whiny girls in the house lived spoiled lives, and now it’s coming back to get them. It’s finally time for them to take a step out of the spotlight.

Naturally, I am a curious person. Again, that is a trait which Imogen and I do not share. Whereas she had often been willingly to accept what she got without questioning it, I seem to peek my nose into everyone’s business. I can’t help it; I constantly need something to entertain me. In fact, I spend quite a bit of time analyzing other people. Examining their flaws, and further, exploiting them, gives me a renewed sense of confidence. It gives me an advantage over them that they often fail to sense.

By examining the traits in others, I have become extremely perceptive. I know how people think and I know how to manipulate them. Therefore, when something isn’t going the way I’d like it to, I can easily resort to blackmail in order to fulfill my own wishes.

It’s difficult not to be curious while residing in such a big mysterious house. I probably know more about the mansion than Levi does, just because I’ve actually given myself the time to explore it. I like to bounce my interests off the walls, dedicating one day to painting up in the attic, another to learning how to play the piano, and another to something totally different. While so many others in the mansion continue to whine about their miserable lives, I take advantage of what I have. It’s not my fault they lived spoiled lives.

Often, some of the younger girls in the house—the ones that actually enjoy their stay here--ask me how I managed to gain so much power. I don’t like to look any less absolute when confronted by them, so I make sure to remain intimidating. I have a soft spot for many of these girls, but at the same time, I am afraid that they will someday decide to rise above me in social status. This, on the other hand, is unacceptable. So, when I am asked such questions, I usually give a bland answer: enough for these girls to continue worshipping me, but not enough to encourage them to rise above me in power.

What many people don’t understand is that my fantasies are similar to many others’: confidence, poise, and control. Of course, my totalitarian idea of control exceeds the extremity of the ideas of most others. Yet, the reasons behind my greed for power stem from my past. People often forget to realize that this mansion that I reside in, is the only home I have left. Whereas many of the others crave the ability to get home to their family, I’m already there.

Playing with fire
You know you're gonna hurt somebody tonight
And you're out on the wire
You know you're playing with fire

Often, I like thinking of myself as an architect, with the blueprints to the world in the crevices of my own hands. However, I do not build houses or buildings – not like the one you’re sitting in comfortably right now, buried beneath your own protection. I build haunted houses, with an entrance, but no exit.

I like being able to create the plan, or the idea, and watch as the builders unwittingly put it into action.

Most people do not truly understand the secrets to creating such a successful, well-balanced, and clever building; they don’t understand the hidden mysteries behind manipulation and successful management. You must have nimble fingers—long ones, just like mine, fast enough to lift the pencil and begin writing on instinct. Your fingers must be fast enough to let every fleeting image, every idea, you may have bleed onto the paper; because that’s where it all starts at: an idea.

Along with that, I have long dark brown hair that reaches down to the middle of my back, falling in thick waves much past my shoulders. Long hair gives me the edge guys often look for in girls. Sometimes I enjoy styling it; sometimes I don’t. It depends on if I want the chaotic flirty look, or the professional intimidating look.

My eyes are subtly green, whereas my eyebrows are thin and curved in a perfect arc. I like my eyes. They are narrow enough to have a mildly threatening look present on my face at nearly all times.

My upper lip is bigger than most peoples’, and gives my face a more boyish quality. Unless I am in the presence of boys, my lips are usually flat and unchanging. After years of having little reason to smile, it’s been difficult to redeem that quality. Overall, my face is a bit square in shape, taking away a few of the feminine qualities; however, my eyelashes remain very long.

When you look close enough at my face, you may notice the fading hollowness in my eyes. After years of abuse, my eyes only barely show traces of exhaustion. My long luscious hair definitely makes up for the boyish and hollow qualities in my face.

However, the aspects I absolutely despise about my appearance are the scars that refuse to fade. Most of them have, but few still remain, even though I’ve been constantly treating them. There’s another reason why I enjoy maintaining long hair: it hides many of these scars.

You can also tell that I’m thinner than some of the other girls. Although I’ve spent the last two years trying to build a healthy appetite, my history of meager food intake is hinted subtly through my appearance.

I wouldn’t call myself beautiful, but I would say I’m pretty to some proportion at the least. I often use make-up to cover up the flaws in my facial features, considering I have everything I need right in the mansion where I live. I often do this, trying to look as powerful as possible. I stand fairly tall, at about 5’8’’ or 5’9’’. I enjoy towering over some of the shorter girls.






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I apologize to whoever has to read this mess. I don't know what happened to my writing, but I just kinda went on and on...[/size][/justify][/blockquote][/color]