MISAKI HATORO || DISTRICT 2 || {FIN}

Misaki Hatoro






Once upon a time there was a girl. A girl who imitated a doll quite well. She who had skin such a elegant white contrast that it made the pearls look dull and shrill in it's presence. Hair such a deep crimson shade that it made the blood of the Gods boil in absolute jealousy. Eyes the deepest azure, such an astoundingly piercing blue colour that it made the Sky tremor in embarrassment, shimmering in all it's pathetic glory. As if her figure was metaphorically drenched in the purest of gold, such a luminous gift that it made the Sun beam in unison. Cheeks sprinkled with the lightest of pink, such a pretty style that it made roses look colour-less and shriveled like thorned vines. Apparently this girl was perfect in every way, her body curved in just the right fashion; bestowing the face of an angel. Often wearing makeup to hide any sorts of imperfections upon her face. She adorned well-proportioned facial features that supported her flushed cheeks, along with elongated and naturally curled ebony lashes. Her beautiful locks fell down to her posterior, usually neatly brushed and decorated with a single bow. A pleasant smile was frequently plastered onto her porcelain-like face.

The girl, whose name just happened to be Misaki Hatoro, had a taste for frills and ribbons. Unlike most in her District she adored fashion, baking and sweets above all things. Except her vast and loving Family. Even though she had just turned sixteen, peculiar curiousity was always a common gleam in her radiant blue irises. But, the girl had a secret. A secret she wished to keep without a doubt. Only her beloved Family knew the tragedy of their Doll. Gloves usually covered her thought to be slim, tiny hands. Yet the only features that littered her palms and fingers were scorch and burn marks. Because of these simple burnmarks, she became a disgrace to her District. She thought herself of a curse to her family. Not because she was out of shape. But because if she couldn't even hold a weapon without letting it slip out of her grasp...What use was she to others? Sure she could bake, could craft sweets and sew clothing. But there was something missing. She could barely clasp onto a needle let alone onto a handle without her fingers beginning to shake uncontrollably. She was disgusted at herself, angered for not being able to honour a single person in her existance.

Participating in The Hunger Games was never an option for her.
And oh god did it make her skin crawl and stomach twist.

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Little Misaki was like a marionette, her emotions being tugged as easily as strings themselves. As their fingers plucked and tore at the strings, their once beautiful marionette's ligature soon broke, causing her to crumple just as easily as a piece of fine china splintering into projectiles upon the floor. Being as patient as a doll can, all she would do is sit and wait for the results. Needless to say she was fairly affectionate towards both her Family, and her friends. Warmth being shown to the distant of strangers; but never pity. Her pity was reserved for those in the lower districts. Those who were not able to prepare for The Hunger Games legally. Those who suffered daily, who had little food and less water. Who couldn't defend themselves against the upper-districts' oppressive nature. Her own District's tyranny. But, life and existance was how it was; a single persons' feelings could not change that. That is why you must go forth, you may not be able to fend for them, but you can fend for yourself. Although Misaki was kind, she was slightly naive. Emotionally fragile, as previously mentioned. If one were to lie to her, she would daunt on said fact, although only vaguely.

The doll loathed the Panem dwellers above all. Although it comes a shock to her that 'loathe' is infact a part of her vocabulary, she gets on with it like she goes along with life and it's mishappenings. Although all of her hatred should be directed at the Gamemakers and the President; instead it was split up into three groups of the same quantity, her barely existent fury never showed upon her facial features, nor did it appear in the way she spoke or moved. Anger was something that Misaki possessed very little of, and the fact that she had to hate somebody was pathetic. Even to her. Sometimes it occured to her that maybe, just maybe; she was jealous of their wealth and power rather than hateful of their 'authoritative' ways. Such thoughts were swiped away uselessly, as she had no reason to be jealous of anyone-- her life being fine as it was. Although she had thoughts racing constantly throughout her head of her appearance; others opinions, she never let it show. Keeping the same pleasant smile she wore oh so well. Of course it wasn't completely a mask, but to say she's always happy? That would be a lie.

Misaki adored her family over all, the family that supported her through the hardships of life and encouraged her to her goals; even with the shame that she placed upon their shoulders due to her disability of becoming a Career. Her family loved her, and she loved them. Although she was an only child she never felt lonely; her bountiful amount of cousins would always keep her entertained. Her love wasn't just secluded for her family, it stretched out like an open hand to those in need and struggle. The marionette would constantly offer emotional and mental support to any and all; tugging back on her own strings for a change. Misaki had a voice of her own, she just had trouble finding it at all. But when she did locate it she made sure to make good use of it, whether it be giving advice or simply greeting someone; it always made her feel fuzzy inside to just lighten up somebody's day.

Maybe, just maybe. This is compassion.

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Poppit loved making caramel slices in the noon. She adored the smell of melted chocolate in the morning even more. Her sweet-tooth always ached in the evening, but it was a burning sensation she could not satisfy with mere toffee. At such a young age she was left chewing the scraps of their 'dinner', barely having enough money to supply a roof over their heads. It was only while Misaki was baking her usual routine of Gingerbread Men that she came up with the idea of a Bakery; a bakery that also happened to supply the sweetest of candies. Her fingers tightened around the edges of the pan as she walked backwards, quickly placing the tray on the table and tugging off her oven mittens; running to the living room. Her childish dreams were spilled out into context, most parents would brush it off, where-as hers listened and heeded her every spoken word. Instead of instantly rejecting her they considered the idea, tapping the sides of their chins and discussing it behind newspapers. This went on for a week, much to Misaki's youthful annoyance, constantly pouting and sighing as they nit-picked at her ideas. Finally, they came up with the conclusion of opening The Bakery. The excitement that filled their Doll's eyes was enough to tell them that they were on the right track, although her Mother continued her occupation as a Plasterer. A simple job that came with good, and quickly spent pay. Where-as her Father made room to prepare their new shop, a shop made purely out of their affection towards their only child, maybe? Although Poppit thinks otherwise, her Parents agree entirely to the statement. Although they weren't the best at rolling dough, or at shaping cakes. With alot of effort and a carving knife; The Hatoro Family could achieve wonders.

At first the Shop started out as a small corner store, selling simple breads and taking in commissions for average cakes. But as Misaki grew older and more talented at both the making of sweets and baking, their popularity and income grew. They weren't as luxurious as the shops in District One, but they sure were approaching that fashion quite fast. Their daughter was the backbone of the Family, the one who kept them upright. Not simple-minded nor hot-headed, it seemed she was the perfect little poppet. She enjoyed her occupation, the slight smile that tugged at her lips constantly became permanent. Her cousins, aunties and uncles came out of their shells to help assess The Hatoro Family; The Bakery growing as strong as ever, beyond the point of return. People tumbled into the store like Panem Dwellers to sponsors, dealing with all the requests and contacts at once was quite complex; but in the end for their family, completely worth it. No strings were attached in this, nor any foul-play. The Hatoro Family had gone from broke District occupants to proud, wealthy settlers within years. Although they were more mid-class they were definitely the only 'Candy Shop' as some had addressed them in town. Although not the most popular Bakery their food and candies were designed by the sweetest girl on the block; Misaki. Although she couldn't spend her entire days in the kitchen, working away at the metallic bowls and ovens while squirting frosting upon the most elaborate of cakes; she still had a life outside of Cooking. Although she wasn't into 'party-ing' or drinking, she still had a fairly vivid social life. Life was absolutely beautiful for Misaki in that period of time, no paranoia in sight and definitely no anguish. Well, at least the people around her thought.

But what really happened behind closed doors? Even behind the confines of The Hatoro Household. Sometimes evil lurked right beneath their skin, rather than atop. At such a young age Misaki had felt the fingertips of her youngest Uncle against places inwhich no child should be touched. It was as if her lips were sealed shut by an unknown force as nails dug into her skin and teeth drew blood. Daily bruises would form on the inner-thighs of Misaki's legs, but rather than sexual abuse; this monstrosity slowly turned into bashing and fits of anger. It was as if Misaki was a trash receptacle for everything her Uncle couldn't handle, dumping the weight of his fury onto her instead of facing it himself. All of this right under her Parents' noses, much to the dismay of Misaki. She'd emerge from her house with multiple bruise running up and down her legs, easily fixed and covered with stockings, of course. 'Lovebites' atop her reddening ears and upon her earlobes. Simply covered with ribbons and bows, thought to be worn out of her own preference. Soon she began to adore jumpers instead of T-Shirts, dresses instead of pants; covering the bruises upon her face with the foundation her Mother had provided, using the same suspicious excuse. 'I slipped'. But when she finally broke inside, and the pain became too much; she reached out for someone. Batting away her abuser's conniving hands and taking on a dominant role of her own. But her strings had already been cut, much like a severed thread. Self-loathing became constant through-out her short-lived, apparently pathetic life. The impact one person can have on your life can be so great that it leaves a crater, a crater of lost memories that you've forced yourself to forget. The days went like numbers, all passing their prime. Still her Uncle did not show up.

Poor little Poppet was in a world of her own while cooking her fine caramel sweets. Hands popping in and out of the oven constantly, whether she was wearing oven mittens or not didn't matter when she fell forward, hit her chin on the bench and stuck her hands straight into the fire. She screamed. Screamed for herself, screamed for the one and only talent she possessed. After the incident, she was still the same. As if the tragedy had never happened.

But, her tendency to act like a usable doll never faultered.