Persia Jay » D9 [fin]

What's the purpose of a journal?

Relief, happiness, to fill the void that the lonely people in this world have looming in their hearts? Someday some random person will come along and read this, and exploit all my secrets, and solve all the mysteries I've left behind, and learn that I, Persia Delaney Jay actually have feelings. Eugh.

A wise man once told me that I shouldn't go looking for wishes in cold places. By wise man, I mean me. By cold places, I mean District 9. My wishing well has run dry and all the coins are rusted. I don't have anything else to wish for. I'm eighteen now. Fate is just starting to come into play, and it's impossible to put together the puzzle pieces once you pull them apart. It's like a board game really. Someone is moving the pieces, someone else is rolling the dice, and someone else draws the card. And then there's the manufacturer, the one who controls everything and rigs the game so it's near impossible to win. It's either an endless cycle that you go through for hours, or you forfeit.

The person who created my game, designed the life I'm forced to live is a devious little maggot. He's determined to ruin my life. Starting with taking my parents off the board and drawing the cards so that little Persia gamepiece would end up in the community house. Codename: hellhole. Little Persia was alone now, slowly forgetting everything she left behind. She - I don't even remember my original name. It wasn't Persia. That was the name the players of the game assigned to me; the Jays.

Assigned?

Yes.

I was adopted.

I knew from the start that if you were not raised in the nest, you were not meant to be a Jay. They wanted me to fly with them; hell no, I had been grounded all my life. It was staying that way.

I never said I wanted to be a part of them anyways; it just sort of happened. I craved attention, and I wanted to be loved. But living with more than ten other people made that nearly impossible. I wasn't the first Jay to abandon home, and hopefully I won't be the last.

For starters, I don't look like any of them. Except for Fawn, all of the Jays have short brown hair. I have long fiery red hair that hangs down my back, and it's a tangled mess. The bright blue of my eyes isn't mirrored by any of them. They're rather tall and I'm short. The amount of freckles on my face makes me think a polka-dot bomb exploded all over me. I'm scrawny and ugly and - ew, my nose. It's all long and crooked. And I'm all pale and stuff, I'm like a vampire. Someday I'm going to step out into the sun, blind somebody and then melt. People tell me I should be a model. That's a load of nonsense.

People also tell me constantly I should deactivate my bitch mode. I have no idea what the fuck they're talking about. I'm always a bitch.

Deal with it.

I'm just very highly opinionated. I'm very quick to judge things. I always have to be in charge, and I always have to make the decisions. There's no way in hell I am relying on someone else to do that. It's not really a personal thing - oh, what am I saying? It is a personal thing. I hate people. End of story. I've never really been compassionate or understanding. I might as well not be human, because I'm pretty sure I'm not capable of having any positive traits about myself. I was too caring, too much of a pushover, and look where that got me. Four years of freedom and happiness. Fourteen years of suffering. I used to be interested in girls, but they all shot me down. Now the thought of love sickens me.

My parents died when I was three. I had a brother who died of pneumonia. My aunt and uncle gave me up to the community home so they could become drug-addicted wanderers. So poetically tragic, right? Nope. Not even close. People expected me to come closer, let them inside my heart and my mind and - no. Hell no. I'm not an open book. I never have been. Especially since I broke Mom's vase and blamed it on my brother. I don't even remember his name.

...did I even have a brother? Or a sister? The memories are so insignificant to me now that they have completely slipped my mind.

The community home made me miserable. It wasn't like they were strict or cruel in anyway. They were happy, carefree, and totally polite. I hated that. I grew up in the lower portion of the district. That wasn't how they did things. Either you lived in a box or you toughed it out on the streets. They had houses, they just didn't bother to use them. Most of them were rundown anyways, either damaged by severe thunderstorms, or the neighbor's kids. You had to get used to the sorrow, because it was abundant there.

Now looking back at that experience, I've come to the conclusion that happiness is overrated.

I do believe I have a reason to hide my feelings.

Right?

Nowadays, all I care to remember about is the smoke from the cigarettes in my teeth, and spitting in the faces of people. The only time I really felt true pain after all these years was when my cousin Jabber went down in the Bloodbath. Not because I actually gave a damn about him, but because he said he missed me. Someone actually cared. He was sorry that he didn't look for me when he had the chance. I was surprised he even remembered my name. The last time I saw him was when I was 15 and he had just moved into the house.

Plus I got a special mention from a guy who became famous in a week. Hell yeah.

Now, are we done here? Please excuse me while I go terrorize the shit out of my family members. Ahem, I mean comfort them for their loss.

...no, I really mean terrorize the shit out of them.

By breaking down their door.

Did I mention I like wrecking the gameboard? I break things for fun. Yay.

now let me go in peace.