May Cherub {District 9}

I have light blonde hair that I usually keep in a cute little up-do, letting my bangs hang on the sides of my petite face. My hair is a few inches past my shoulders and is wavy when I let it down. I don’t really know where I got my hair color from, as everyone in my family has dark hair. I have blue/grey eyes that are a little crooked. My nose has a small bump on it, and I have a small mole on the back of my right ear, what my mom used to call my “angel’s kiss”. But religion was banned since then, so now it’s just a mole.

My lips are a soft pink, and my teeth are mostly straight from a retainer my dad bought me a while back. I hardly ever wear it anymore though, because I’m embarrassed of such a Capitol-like possession which I now keep under my pillow, away from all sight. I have a dimple on just one side of my face when I smile, which is often.

I am 5’1, which is short for my age, but at least I even out all around. I am petite, very petite. My small hands are nimble and steady and strong. My upper body strength isn’t bad, but I can only pick up around 50 pounds. I guess that isn’t bad, but strength’s really not my thing. I am fairly fast, but not anything out of the ordinary, I suppose, but maybe I’m not giving myself enough credit.

I usually just wear a T-shirt or a tank top in the summer, and then jeans or jean shorts. My dad got me and my sister matching tawny coats, which is my prized possession, and I wear it often. I have a nice pair of boots that I rarely wear because they are too big for my small feet, so I usually wear tennis shoes or sandals, as both are good for walking through life.

I can be very quiet around strangers, but with people I know, I just ramble on and on and on and on and on. I guess I might me pretty annoying, but who cares what other people think! I don’t! I mean, yeah, I talk a lot, but isn’t talking just another part of life? People who don’t talk aren’t normal, and should go see a therapist. What’s so wrong about having a lot to say? In my opinion, having a lot to say means that your brain is working the way it should and you actually care about what’s going on around you! Talking too much again? Thought so.

I tend to have a dark sense of humor, which contradicts my luminous hair and bright eyes. Most people wouldn’t expect those kinds of things from a girl like me, but I like to catch people off guard. I never laugh at my own jokes; it’s like a sin for me. Thankfully, other people do enjoy my quick comebacks, so I’m not like a loser with bad jokes. I like to laugh a lot, and I heard that laughing can make you live longer. Yipee! That means I get to live in this prison I call home for even longer. Great.

I am often caught daydreaming, in class, at home, everywhere. Sometimes, I would rather sit up at night and just think than go to sleep. At least I can control my daydreams. At night, I am always haunted by dreams, even if they aren’t bad. For some reason, I always wake up in a cold sweat when I dream, even if it was the most beautiful picture that has ever passed through my mind. To me, there is always something eerie about dreams, especially when you have no control over them.

Normally, I like to stay in the background, but I don’t mind being the center of attention, either. Everyone tells me that I’m great in front of crowds, but I just don’t see it. It may just be because I don’t care about what other people think of me, so I can be myself in all situations, no matter what. This is a trait I am grateful for, but that’s pretty much the only one. I don’t see many of my good qualities, and the bad ones seem to be highlighted and blown up in my face as big as they could be. THIS IS WRONG WITH MAY and then I turn around and see THIS IS ANOTHER THING WRONG WITH MAY. It is constant bombardment from my greatest enemy: myself

I was born on May 13, thirteen years ago, hence my name. I like my name, but I really do want something more original. Being born as the youngest child in the family, things have been fairly easy for me. I’m not going to lie, but my family is a bit richer than most of the families here in our district, and we try to donate whenever we can. I’ve been sheltered my entire life, by my parents, and my older siblings, Hanna and Daniel.

Hanna, who is 16, and I are very close. She thinks I’m annoying, I know she does, but she puts up with me anyway. I guess that’s what sisters are supposed to do. Hanna and I go on walks a lot in our free time, talk about school, home, boys, life. I think we are about as close as sisters can get. Then there’s Daniel. As the oldest in the family, he’s always off with his girlfriend or friends, so I don’t really get a chance to spend time with him like I wish I could. I do know, however, that Daniel would do anything for me, my sister, and my parents because that’s just the kind of guys he is.

Ever since I was little, I’ve always loved to sing. My grandma, who passed away two years ago, taught me beautiful songs, songs that I wouldn’t dare share with anybody other than the Mockingjays outside my window. Every morning, I save a few scraps of my toast to feed them and hold my hand out the window. I will sing them a song while they eat from my hand, and then they will go off and sing it throughout the rest of the day, just as beautiful as it sounded the first time I heard it.

I started school a year earlier than I was supposed to. I was supposedly presumed “smart for my age”, so I was put in a class full of 6 year-olds when I was only 5. I don’t think it would have been much different from staying with my age group, but I was forced to mature a little earlier than I had hoped, to fit in as much as I could. I have a solid group of friends in my grade, but none that I could consider a “best friend”. I guess that’s what I have Hanna for. She’s my best friend.

I used to have a best friend, though. Her name was Natasha Brakeman, and we met in 1st grade. I remember all the fun we had, when I used to invite her over to play at my house, and how I used to go over to her house. I would tell her everything about myself, my secrets that not even the Mockingjays knew. Until 5th grade, we were as close as close could get, like two peas in a pod. But then Natasha met someone who changed both of our lives forever. Her name was Lucilla Town, and she took Natasha’s life. Indirectly of course, but I still blame her, and always will. Lucilla made fun of Natasha to a certain degree that not even reassurance from her best friend-me- could ever help her. Natasha found a gun, an illegal weapon, in her own home, and she shot herself before anyone could do a thing. Her parents were arrested for owning the weapon, and her older brother, Deven who is now 18, was sent to live with a foster family. The worst part? I was the one who found Natasha. I still have the nightmares of her, gun in hand, pulling the trigger…