Kyla Starrings (District 9)

My chestnut brown hair flows far past my shoulders as straight as can be, seeming to have the colors of red and blonde as well as brown. I always get compliments on my hair but I want to be recognized for more than just appearance, which some people can’t seem to get through their thick skulls. What’s the big deal about hair anyway? It’s already dead, so who cares if it’s curly or straight or blonde or brown or bald! I know that I sure don’t. My skin is fairly pale with a light olive undertone, but it usually tans in the summer. Or burns. It really depends on how long I let myself stay outside, I guess. My eyes are a deep sapphire color, but my right eye does not have the privilege to see. I used to have full vision, but, I had, a, um, “accident” that scattered my brain and turned off the lights. My nose is not perfect, slightly crooked, with a small bump on it, but I like it anyways. I mean as much as I can like it. It’s just a lump of cartilage, right? I have faint freckles all over my face, which fade in winter and really pop during summer. My adopted mom says that they come from being out in the sun so much, which I’m not supposed to do because of my eyes. I don’t listen.

I am 5’5 ½ “ and I weigh around 115 pounds. I am relatively thin, but my new family is trying as hard as they can to “fatten me up”. I don’t think I’ll ever lose the skinny from years of my mom’s drinking and abuse. I’m not so skinny that you can see my ribs or anything, just a small build which will probably always stay small. My hands are small, with a few scars from numerous accidents that I can’t even remember. My feet are like my hands, too small for my body. My legs, however, are very long for the rest of my size, which is pretty much where I get all of my height from.

Because of my size and weight, my clothes are usually very baggy. Sometimes I pin them up, most of the time not. I usually keep my hair down, but I still like to put it up sometimes. It really depends on what mood I’m in. When I’m happy my hair will be down, when I’m anything else, I put it in a ponytail. I have a few T-shirts from my old home, but that’s pretty much all I brought when Daniel saved me from another one of my mom’s beatings. His family bought me some new clothes, but I still like to wear my old shirts and jeans. I have a nice pair of boots that I like to wear, and a favorite jacket that almost matches the boots. I often stare off into space without meaning too, and I usually keep my blind eye closed, even though I can still move it. It just hurts a little when I keep it open, and I don’t want to hurt any more that I already have.

I am constantly biting on my lower lip; I think it’s just a bad habit, and I have to really concentrate if I don’t want to appear nervous. I have a few cuts on them because of my chewing, and they are fairly chapped. Everyone keeps telling me that I need to stop, but I just can’t. There must be something about it that is comforting to me. I have vague memories of my father doing the same, so I probably just picked it up from him when I was young.

I am double jointed in my right arm and hand, but not anywhere else. Usually people who are double jointed can bend in weird ways everywhere, but not me. There really isn’t a whole lot that’s interesting about my double joints, except that I can gross people out and get a few occasional laughs. Usually I just scare them away. Oh well, sometimes solitude is bliss. On my left knee, I have a good sized scar where I broke by patella. The bone had shattered, and parts of it stuck through the skin. This happened a few years ago, but the scar still hasn’t healed completely. Sometimes, I can still feel the pain when I twist a certain way, and I wince.

Like I said before, my mind can be very scrambled. Ever since I got that concussion, it has been extremely hard for me to concentrate on anything. Schoolwork, housework, even my own personal thoughts. I cannot be trusted with any important information because of my memory. I never know what I’ll retain and what will be lost. I always keep a notebook with me, though, so I can record anything I’m supposed to remember. But sometimes, I will still forget. It can be very frustrating for me, having to go through my life not knowing what’s going on, or where I’m supposed to be. It’s a surprise that anyone can love me at all, considering the mental state I’m in.

I hate to say it, but I can be quite a “downer”. I’m not like all “The world is a dark and depressing ball that I just so happen to find myself in”, but I’m not exactly Little Miss Sunshine either who goes around and asks everybody about their day. It’s not that I go around looking for things to be depressed about. What kind of life would that be? I just naturally seem to see the worst in things, people, situations, and especially myself.

I’m not the person you’d find waking up early in the morning to get a head start on chores, work, etc. In other words, I’m not very self-motivated, or in other words, I’m lazy. Do I think that I need to get off my lazy butt and help with the chores, get a job, and do something productive with my life? No. I am perfectly content with just lying in bed all day. I’m sure it would eventually get boring, but I would rather relax than work any day. I do what I need to do when I need to do it, but no more past that level. So, I’m not an overachiever. Don’t be hatin’ on me just because I’m a little lazy. Seriously, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to get a little sleep sometimes.

What you’ll notice about me immediately is that I have mood swings. A lot. Like, every other minute, I’ll turn around completely different than I was before. If you think my mom was two-faced, then I’m probably four or five. Sometimes, it’s not even a particular action that sets me off. I might me having the time of my life, and then it will all go to darkness.

I’m not very talkative, but I do like to state my opinion. I can’t stand the thought of not having a voice, so you see why I hate Panem. I’m not saying that I like to be a leader, the center of attention, because I don’t. Anything but the spotlight is where I belong. I am more of a follower with a loud voice that like to be heard, but not followed herself. If I were ever the center of attention, for any reason, I just know that I would feel like I would crumple down onto my knees and die. Right there, I’d want to just die. Even for something as simple as a speech for school can make me feel physically sick, which has happened before. Not exactly the best day in my book.

No matter what may be happening on the inside of my body, my outside will always remain as strong as steel, never giving way to the prying eyes of people who are watching. It is one of my few gifts that I am grateful for, the ability to appear strong, even if I am crumbling down to pieces within. It’s like a metallic case that holds me inside of myself, but not myself. Like a screen that separates my feelings from my actions and appearance, and hides them away until I’m alone. Only then do I ever let my true feelings out of their container.

June 14, 17 years ago, I was born. Ta DAAA! My mother and father were so proud of me, showing me off to all of their friends, I was their little angel. Up until I was about 7, everything was like that. My life used to be all fairytales and flowers, butterflies and bunnies. I didn’t care that we weren’t rich, or that we didn’t have a lot of clothes, or that our house wasn’t the biggest on our street. Back then, I was happy. I knew the sun was always shining, even when it was hidden behind the most vicious of the storm clouds. Now, I’m not so sure.

My parents always loved each other, really they did. At least, they did until my mom went crazy, and my dad… I don’t remember a whole lot, and my mom never used to talk about it, so I just held on to the memories that I did have like they were a lifeline. Because they were. I remember the first day that I was brought out of my happy-ending into the real world. Now I just wish I could go back. My mom was crying, and my dad was too. I had seen my mom cry before, but that was when something happy had happened. This was different, and it scared me so much that I couldn’t move. I didn’t know what was happening. They just sat there, sobbing, for a good sum of the day. And I just stood there and watched, not knowing what to do, or what not to do. I know now that my mom had lost a baby, a little brother or sister that I would never have.

As the days passed, my mom talked less and less, and yelled more and more. She just became so bitter after the incident, that she couldn’t move on, and she lived that mistake over and over, until she finally cracked when I was 9. I didn’t see it coming, and neither did my dad. But he doesn’t see much of anything anymore. All I remember from that day was the hit, the hard, painful, crushing blow on my temple that knocked me out instantly. I later found a steel pan with traces of blood on it, so I automatically figured that it was the device used. I’m sure I was hit several times over, because when I woke, there were numerous purple bruises spread around my entire head. On the back of my head, though, was the worst. I had a concussion, and was asleep for days, alone in the room of mine that I woke up in. How I got there? I will never know. One of the days, I woke up without sight in my right eye, and it’s been like that ever since.

That day was the last day I saw my father. From then on, Mom acted strange. I can’t explain it with words, but she was…different. She told me that Daddy just left us to fend for ourselves. But I have my suspicions that he didn’t leave, that Mom did something to him, and now he’s gone. I’m sure you understand the point I’m trying to make. For years I had avoided my mom, always trying to get chances to stay over and my friends’ houses, even sleeping out in the yard. Anything to get me away from my mom. I didn’t trust her like I did before, in the golden days when I was little. When we were all happy. I would give anything to have those years once again.

My mom continued to beat me, but nothing like that first time. She never let me see a doctor for my eye, either, probably out of fear that she would be arrested for child abuse. But that kind of thing is rare around here. Eventually, I just got used to it, I got tough, I cot cold, I got strong. I always thought of hitting her back, but I never got around to it. I’d probably end up where Dad is if I did.

Last year, at school, I met Daniel Cherub, the most wonderful person I’ve ever met. Boys had never really gone to my head before, but Daniel was different. He was someone who I could actually open up to, the first real friend I’d ever had. Of course he asked me out later on in the year, and we’re still dating now. But things have changed just a little since we first got to know each other. First off, I live with him. Yes, it’s a big, and, um, kind of awkward change, but I’ll get to the story later. Second, I haven’t seen my mother since. Third, I found out that I have an older brother.

To explain the first and second changes, I’ll start from the beginning. Daniel was picking me up for a date, but my mom didn’t want me to go. We got in a big fight, and I’ll skip ahead to the part where she’s hitting me and cuts me on the arm with a knife. Now I’m bleeding profusely and my mom is about to cut me again when Daniel bursts in and grabs her arm. She was so stunned that he walked out with me in his arms before her senses kicked in enough to stop him. I never really understood just how he saved me, or what luck I had that I got away, but I know that I am thankful it happened. I haven’t seen my mom since, and word has it that she killed herself after I left. I can’t be certain though, as I never went back to check.

Now for the third story, which is still unfolding as I speak. Yes, I have a brother. Apparently, when my dad was on a business trip before I was even born, my mom met someone else, and, well, you get the picture. I can’t believe that she would betray my dad like she did, and just thinking about it makes me seethe with rage. Somehow, she managed to convince my dad that he was their baby, their first child, and he was gullible and fell for it. I’m not kidding when I say my hands are clenching right now, my jaw locked tight. And the story isn’t over yet.

The other man came not days after my brother’s birth, and demanded to have custody of him. My mother, not wanting to awaken my father, who was still sleeping from a hard night’s work, eagerly obliged, and told my dad that the baby had died in his sleep. How could she do that to him! My father was a very bright man, no doubt about that. But my mom did have her ways of tricking people, and getting around the rules. I wonder what else she lied to me about.

How did I find out about my brother? Well, it’s very simple, actually. One day he came to my house and told me we were siblings. End of story. We haven’t seen each other since, and I only know that his name is Merlin Sharet. He doesn’t even have my name, and I’m supposed to believe he’s my brother? Of course I believe him, but I don’t exactly… believe him. I don’t really have a reason to believe anybody anymore.