Emery Allade-Moreno {District 1}
Jun 7, 2012 10:28:39 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Jun 7, 2012 10:28:39 GMT -5
Emery Allade-Moreno
My name is Emery Moreno, although my birth name was Emery Allade. I am a female and I have lived fourteen years in District One.
Appearance
I never really understand what it is about my appearance that makes me so unapproachable. Maybe it’s the eyes: bold and ferocious, signaling for everyone to stay away. Or maybe it’s the hair, falling so untidily in front of my face. Maybe it’s the fact that everything about me is just the least bit darker: darker hair, darker eyes, darker skin tone…Maybe this is why people assume my insides are just as dark, just as obscure, and just as dangerous.
This is why I hate my appearance. I hate how the frown upon my face means so much more to outsiders than it does to me. Whereas so many people make the assumption that because I am frowning I must be mentally troubled, or mad, or ready to lash out at the first person who talks to me, maybe I’m just too lazy to smile. Maybe I merely have no reason to flip that smile around. Smiling isn’t all it’s made out to be; sometimes it’s just not worth it.
Though, there are times when I smile. In fact, people often tell me my smile makes me look like a child again. When I do smile, my cheeks get extremely red and my eyes tighten to the point where it can become something contagious. Still, I save my smile for those who deserve it. It makes those instances when I do smile so much more special.
My eyes too, are aspects of my appearance that people also seem to take into account when they deem me unapproachable. Naturally, my eyes are hard. Whereas most people’s eyes tell you what kind of a person they are, my eyes say nothing. They’re just there, in the same position every day. Of course, when I smile, that’s a different story. However, many people have a misconception when it comes to my eyes. Because my eyes are so unchanging, it almost looks as though I’m glaring sometimes. I don’t do this intentionally; but at the same time, I refuse to change my natural habits just because it scares a few individuals away.
Appearance and reality are two different things, people.
My eyes are hazel, although some days they look a bit greener than others. The greenish tint to my eyes sometimes makes it look like they’re glowing. Although this has little effect on me, sometimes other people, again, make up their own assumptions.
My eyebrows are thicker than most girls’. Somehow, they only further emphasize the hardness in my eyes. I despise my eyebrows. Again, they make me look like someone I’m not: angry, ferocious, and furious. I am angry, but not for the reasons people see.
Unlike a lot of people, I don’t hate my nose. It isn’t obnoxiously large or deformed. It’s just a nose. My lips on the other hand, have little shape. My upper lip does, I suppose, but my bottom lip is unchanging just like my eyes.
My overall face has a young look to it, yet man aspects of it make it look so much more deadly than intended.
My hair is another story. My hair is a dark shade of brown, to the point where it almost looks black. It falls a bit past my shoulders, neither thick nor thin. I could say my hair is quite normal, except for its tendency to get messy. The ends of my hair curve up a bit, often creating knots. Therefore, I usually wear it up in a bun or a ponytail, or whatever I honestly feel like.
My skin is tan to the extreme. Of course, I’ve seen people with darker skin than I, but such skin color is rare in District One. My mother had light skin, so I'm guessing I'd gotten my skin tone from the father I'd never met. However, the tan tone of my skin only gives off a darker aura when it comes to my character. I am misconceived.
For my age, I’m a bit taller in height. I stand at about 5’6.5’’ and I'm still growing, yet my height shows little about my strength. Beneath the sleeves of my shirt, I have muscles. You can also find them in my legs and my abdominals. They aren’t extremely developed or masculine, but for a female, at least, I have quite a bit of strength. Maybe not as much as some of the Careers who’ve spent their entire life, starting from the day they were born, training. But that’s okay.
I often wear long sleeved clothing, for I’m naturally modest when it comes to my appearance. Of course, the long sleeves also hide the muscles in my arms: another excuse to stay away. Of course, this varies with perspective; but overall, I’d rather be underestimated than overestimated.
Older individuals, especially, look at me and see a scrawny young girl, easy to fight off. But those who have heard the rumors and seen what I can do, stay away.
I don’t usually wear anything out-of-the-ordinary. I’m more about comfort than anything else, and I don’t often put much effort into my appearance in general, unless I’m really in the mood. I repeatedly tell myself I don’t care what people think of me, but there’s that part of me, just like every other girl on the planet, that wants to be liked. Part of me wants to be pretty and desirable. But oftentimes, I try to erase that wish, knowing it’s an impossibility.
Personality
I want everything to be fair. Fair, fair, fair. If anyone asked me what my biggest value in life was—of course, they never would; I mean, who would talk to that weird girl?—I would say fairness. Justice. Equality. Get it? Most people think I’m a sadist, but quite honestly, I’m only going to lash out at someone who deserves it. I can't stand seeing the bullying that I had only narrowly escaped after living with my brother for a countless number of years. I'm determined to never see anything like that again, with people treating others like they own them.
The person that everyone sees me as isn’t who I am. Although I would hesitate before ever calling myself normal, if you really knew me, you’d know there’s little to be afraid of. Because of a chain of events throughout my past, I’ve been framed for a countless number of crimes, and therefore, when something goes wrong, people often start to wonder if it was of my doing. Yet, there’s nothing evil about me. I don’t walk around looking for people I can tear apart. I only take action when I feel there is a valid reason to.
In fact, I try to convince myself that I just don’t care. I don’t mind if people look at me with terror in their eyes, thinking I’m a sick child who has so much hidden in that brain of hers. Anyone who wants to think that has the right to do so. At the same time, some people look at me and see an easy target: a frail little girl who could break so easily. Of course, that is until they hear the rumors. Therefore, people see me as either one extreme or the other.
I can never honestly decide whether the ways that people look upon me are working to my advantage or not. Sometimes, I enjoy being feared or underestimated. When I’m feared, no one messes with me. When I’m underestimated, I have the chance to show off some of my surprises.
However, there are also times when I just want to be looked at like any other fourteen-year old girl. I don’t want to be skinny and weak, or “that scary girl who’s probably planning to kill someone next week.” But I know it’s too late to turn back and be someone else. More so, it’s much too late to speak out and tell everyone they’re wrong. I try so hard to fit in, yet my attempts always seem to work against me.
Naturally, I’m an introverted person. When it comes to speaking, I’m reserved, shy even. I don’t do small talk. Never. Of course, I do want to hold up actual useful conversations with people; I just never know how. Still, I think people often misunderstand the difference between introverted and extroverted people. Just because I’m introverted doesn’t mean I have no friends and I enjoy spending all of my free time alone. Although I do often keep to myself, I like making friends just as much as anyone else. I’m just not very good at it.
I never complain, voice my opinions, or give out any of my ideas. All of the thoughts that I keep in the back of my mind either end up suppressed or converted to a physical action. Never do they come out as pure words.
I’m stubborn. It’s not something I can change, nor is it something I intend to change. I don’t give in easily, and rarely do I ever let go of something when it’s finished. I can hold grudges for long times, for it’s difficult to wear down my anger.
I also have a very unruly temper when I get aggravated. I'm constantly angry, trying to find some sort of outlet for these feelings that I cannot wash away. Of course, my hotheaded temper usually only shows after I see something unfair, something I want so desperately to change. Otherwise, I try to look calm and keep calm, sitting on my own, holding everything in. Only when the environment around me starts to go against my own morals do I let it all out.
Although I spend much of my time reading things that most people would call useless texts, I act on instinct rather than intelligence. There’s no doubt I’m smart; but sometimes, I just fail to apply myself and regret it afterwards. Then again, there are just times when I can’t hold myself back.
When I’m intentionally trying to apply my intelligence—for instance, if I’ve already mapped out a plan—then yes, I go by the books rather than my instincts. However, when I am in an unfamiliar or unexpected situation I most often do not try to stop myself from getting worked up.
What gets me worked up? Injustice. I often jump into situations, completely uncalled for, just so that I don’t have to see things end up unbalanced again.
I have a lot of jealousy stored up inside me, a lot of desire. Although I don’t care too much about what people think of me—or so I tell myself I don’t—I very much dislike the consequences that I receive without proper justification. I’m jealous of those individuals who are happy. I wish I knew how to smile they way they do, yet I constantly feel like I'm just not in the right place, playing the right game. I want to be happy; I just don't know how.
No one sees the desperation I hold inside of me. Every time I try to fit in and be normal, I fail. What people can’t see is the fact that I’m too loyal; in fact, I’m too attached to things sometimes. Just as it is difficult for me to let go of a grudge, it is difficult for me to give in when I’m stuck in the midst of a fight. However, this trait also works to my own advantage. When I want something done, I get it done and there’s no stopping me.
This especially applies to when I’m trying to make friends. I spend so much time trying to show my loyalty to them that I end up hurting those around me in the process. The ends justify the means; and too often do I unintentionally take that phrase into my own hands. The more I try to impress people, the more I scare them. Maybe that’s because of my extreme behaviors. I suppose I can’t help it; nobody’s ever told me to be gentle or calm or even nice. So, when I am trying to be nice to someone, I usually end up punching someone else in the face.
And then everyone gets scared and runs away.
However, I guess it’s a different story when you’re living in a house full of violent Career-training kids versus some community home. Thing is, I’m not sadistic like some of them; I don’t try to be the bad guy all of the time. I don’t try to start the fights or even end them. I just even them out, like a mediator would do—a very intense and possibly biased mediator. Then again, I guess it’s better than being the odd one out that everyone avoids.
History
My life was never fair. Well, I suppose it was, in the beginning; except for the fact that my mother was a prostitute, raising two children on her own, both of us being mere accidents in her life. Not only that, but my mother was a criminal in practically every way possible. She was obsessed with the money. Fact was, she wasn’t too poor. Only because of her extremely limited skills, was she always looking for another job here and there. And even then, she wanted more. She just didn’t know how to get it; so she turned to crime.
When my mother had my brother, Aaron, she tried to handle it. She wasn’t usually one for giving up, so for nearly three years before my own birth, she raised him. Of course, she didn’t do a very good job. Plainly put, my mother was young and stupid. Often, she failed to keep her private life private. She brought new men home on various nights, creating a terrible environment for Aaron. My brother had bad influences acting upon him from all sides. He learned things about the world at an early age: things which young children weren’t supposed to learn. He learned about deception and theft; and moreover, he learned about how to cheat his way through life to get what he wanted.
My mother didn’t have as much influence on me. In fact, I barely remember her for I was only three or four when we were separated. Aaron had a head start.
Because Aaron was merely my half-brother, both of us born from fathers we never met, we looked nothing alike. Not only that, but our personalities were so conflicting, that at times, it became impossible to get along. Again, my mother ignored me just as she had neglected my brother. I sometimes tend to wonder why she’d tried to raise us in the first place, rather than throwing us out onto the streets. Maybe it was pity. Maybe. But I guess I still have one thing to thank her for.
However, there were still days when my mother was an acceptable parent. I remember when I was only two, and my mother took us for a walk down to the creek. Bag of stale bread in hand, we spent hours giggling as we watched the ducks devour it, small slice by slice.
That was the only happy day I can remember with my mother. Everything else was just a blur of events.
From an early age, you could tell my brother was observant. The way he tried to mimic our mother so accurately went to show just how much he looked up to her. He was smart, and quite honestly, he could’ve been so much more if his morals had not been so twisted, mixed up, and completely stretched to fit my mother’s character. No matter what could’ve, should’ve, or would’ve happened, my brother was who he was, and thinking about the past will not change that.
Sometimes, I wonder why I didn’t end up like my brother; or maybe I did. Yet, I had more successfully fought against the immoral influences of my mother during the early years of my life. He hadn’t. He had accepted them with open arms.
I was often scolded for my defiance. I was stubborn and there was no mistake about that. When I wanted something, I went for it, no matter what it meant. Still, I was afraid of my brother; he was the one obstacle constantly in my way.
My mother didn’t even care. Every time I started screaming about how Aaron stole my teddy bear, or about how Aaron just spilled my food all over the floor, she always acted like she was too busy to deal with it. “Work it out,” she always said, rushing from the room.
It was frustrating, but work it out was exactly what we did.
Often, we fought it out. You steal my teddy bear, I hit you, you hit me…you know how it goes with little kids. Nevertheless, my brother always came out the winner. As many times as I pushed my way through the situation, refusing to give up on the fight, he was bigger than me. He was stronger than me. Most of all, he knew which buttons to press; and he knew how to get me worked up.
Aaron knew how to win.
My brother was so much smarter than me and I guess that was what made him so much more well-liked. Whereas I was never afraid to hide my anger towards him, he skillfully won the fight each time by deeming me the antagonist.
Preschool was torturous. I suppose that’s where I really started developing my own ideas, attempting to defy the careless and immoral influences of my mother. It was an extremely special day and we were making handprint placements—one for mommy and one for daddy. “I’m gonna make the one for my daddy blue! And the one for mommy pink!” I remember the other kids saying. During such projects, however, I usually sat in the corner, reading a picture book to myself. The first time this happened, the teacher came over to me. “Don’t you want to make placemats for your mommy and daddy, Emery?” Her mocking voice degraded my early maturity.
“I don’t have a daddy,” I said indifferently.
“Oh. Uh, well, what about your mommy?”
“My mommy doesn’t want one.” That was the end of it. My teacher walked away and I was left in the corner, sitting on my own.
I liked to participate in activities just like every other child, until they involved my family. I was forced to watch out for myself from a young age, for my mother put that entire stressor on my shoulders.
Because I was naturally a more introverted person, I liked having a few close friends, rather than a whole bunch. Of course, the close friends that I did have never came to my house. I usually talked to them only in school or at lunch or when we were playing out in the street.
Although my early toddler and preschool years weren't terrible, it wasn’t long before the peacekeepers found out about my mother’s behavior. Her prostitution, along with her theft and pretty much her daily life, got her locked up and punished for a little while. As for Aaron and I—we were put into foster care.
I was excited, thinking that I might finally get away from my brother. But no. Of course, we were put into the same foster family.
I wanted to scream. I kicked a hole in the wall instead.
The worst part didn’t start until my brother started applying his own sly intelligence. Creating a mix of his natural shrewdness and his learned immoral standards, he became a tricky player and I became his bait. He started to realize how easy it was to manipulate people into doing what he wanted, especially me.
Each time he tried to assert his own power over me, I fought back. But even my stubbornness wasn’t enough to stop him. Not only was he strong, but he also had the threats, dangling from his lips. He made me steal things, hurt people, and carry out the many terrible deeds that circled his head on a daily basis, too afraid that he would get caught. He took control over my entire childhood starting from about age six or seven. Although I could honestly say, I admired his cleverness, and somehow, I wanted to steal it from him.
I never hesitated to hide my anger. However, Aaron didn’t try to fight me back. Instead, Aaron always ended up crying in front of our foster parents—even though he was an entire three years older than I—to the point where everyone thought I had some major psychotic issues.
At first, I tried justifying myself, but I realized, I was nowhere near as good with words as Aaron was. I felt better about punching it out rather than arguing it out. So, it didn’t take me long to learn my lesson. Do what Aaron wants or you’ll end up in a huge load of trouble.
Aaron wasn’t manipulative with anyone but me, even though there were many other foster children in the house. He needed the trust, I realized, and he wasn’t ready to spread himself too thin. I became someone else entirely in the next few years; and it all stemmed from the anger that I felt every time I looked at Aaron.
He threatened me into doing things even more frequently as time went on. Knowing how much power and intelligence he had, I would have been stupid not to follow him. At first, he merely threatened me into performing minor crimes, such as a minimal act of theft, but it grew worse. I became his robot, controlled by his wants and needs.
Of course, he didn’t have me do anything to major: nothing that could possibly get me locked up for longer than he could handle. So, I guess it was okay. I learned how to be sneaky, and therefore, I wasn’t usually caught. However, when I was, it only aroused more suspicion.
The most daunting part of this was the fact that I was forced to hold all of my anger in. I knew it was no use trying to fight my brother: he would always win, even without throwing a punch in my direction. It was all just one big battle for control. So, I exerted my anger on everyone else instead. At school, when someone decided to mess with me or tease me or instigate any sort of argument, I never hesitated before resorting to violence. However, I always took it much too far.
I spent most of my time in the principal’s office, receiving detention for my angry outbursts. I couldn’t help it though; I had too much stored inside of me, and there was no way to let it go. Still, I didn’t talk to anyone about the stress that was pulling me down. Not only was I afraid of my brother’s authority, but I also knew that no one would take my word into account in the first place. I was a troublemaker on the loose.
I call myself stubborn, yet I hadn’t even had the guts to tell anyone what was going on. Still, I suppose I was only stubborn with my actions rather than with my words. Words were Aaron's gift, not mine.
I was the shadow of my brother, but there was no way I could explain to everyone that the many crimes I had been punished for were crimes committed by my brother, rather than myself. It wasn’t fair. He was three years ahead of me, so much smarter than me, with much more authority than me. As much as I tried to catch on to his habits and his sly methods, I never could learn them. There was no way to run away from, outsmart, or even kill my brother (although yes, I did think through each of those ideas and find no solution).
Some of the crimes that I committed were enough to get me a heck of a good punishment from the peacekeepers, but with some of the trickery I learned from my brother, I was able to avoid getting caught in various situations. Nevertheless, there were also a few times when I did have to endure some proper district punishment.
I gave up on arguing and fighting and proving to anyone that I was right. Sure, I was angry, but I didn’t care anymore. Even my foster mother was afraid of me. She went so far as to take me to a doctor on a weekly basis, but quite honestly, that did nothing. I often got into fights with the other foster children when provoked. Maybe if someone would have actually asked me what was going on or why I was so troubled, I may have at least considered giving them an answer. Yet, that never happened. People, including my foster siblings, just…avoided me.
One day, I cracked. One night, when I was in the sixth grade, my brother tried to rape me, but I knew it was coming. After all of the ears spent stealing for him and fighting for him, I'd built up enough strength to stall him for a few moments. I punched him; then I did it again. Then, I punched and I punched and I punched until I was so dizzy I had no idea what was going on. Then I ran out the door. Before anyone could stop me, I ran to the park a few blocks away from our house and sat on the bench until my foster-mother found me. When she did, I told her everything. It all just poured out.
I can’t really remember what happened after that. All I can recall is being dropped off at the community home, never to see Aaron again. It was a relief, but confusing at the same time. What happened to my brother? Why was I the abandoned one? Maybe my foster-mother had just been too stressed to work it out. Maybe she thought that, because my brother had a positive influence on the rest of the children, it would be okay if she just abandoned me but kept him. I guess I will never know, but I didn't want to question it.
Although I no longer had to face the manipulation from Aaron, I wasn’t much happier in the community home. I was angry. Really angry; and I didn’t know how to let go of that anger. Even the children in the community home knew who I was: Emery Allade, the thief who spent her free time beating people up, the insane little girl. They didn’t understand me. I couldn’t change who I was, as much as the idea appealed to me.
Every time something went wrong, I managed to be a suspect. Because of my troubling past, my frequent outbursts, and my tendency to sit in the corner and read to myself, it was difficult not to get suspicious. I never told anyone else besides my foster-mother about the truth behind my past crimes. It was the past, and if people weren’t willing to accept that, then it was their loss.
I suppose nothing really changed for me in the community home. I learned that reputations are impossible to alter, no matter where you try to restart your life. Still, something did change for me one spring afternoon when I was fourteen. Most of the kids were outside in the little park behind the building. I was sitting in the corner as a lot of the others played or talked, reading a book I had found down one of the hallways. Although no one really noticed me, I was listening to everything going on around me, while still focusing on the text before my eyes.
There was a boy getting teased—I didn’t know his name, but I knew his face. Too well. He sat next to me during supper one time, and I couldn’t help but smile every time I saw him—but the moment I saw the taller boys provoking him, I jumped up in anger, just as I always did when I saw something out of order, unfair, not working the way it was supposed to. I threw a punch at one of the taller boys that had been teasing him. I kicked and I punched and honestly I couldn’t stop. It felt good to get the anger out; it was like the feeling I had gotten when I had beaten Aaron up that last time, and quite surprisingly, all of the fights I had gotten into in the past, gave me enough strength for this one.
I didn’t mean to hurt the boy that much, or maybe I had. All I really wanted was to make things fair, as they always should be. Although, I'm pretty sure that the desire to be liked was another motive also. I wanted the boy that had sat next to me at supper, to finally look at me and see someone worth admiring. I had the same dreams as every other fourteen-year old girl; I just didn’t handle them well enough.
Before I could hurt the tall boy too terribly, one of his friends pulled me off of him, and I realized once more, that I was in a heck of a lot of trouble. Yet, it was my lucky day, because although I hadn’t even known, the Moreno parents had been there, and they had been watching. For the first time, I suppose someone had actually appreciated my aggressive violence.
I had never expected to get adopted, but that’s exactly what happened. They signed all of the forms, and before I knew it, I was living in their huge fancy house, with many others. Before I even had time to recognize the violent patterns that many of these other kids shared, I got my hands on a weapon and learned the rules of the game. Play or die.
I suppose it was a bit of a relief, for people didn’t avoid me as much as they had in the past. No, instead they just tried to kill me. I wasn’t the “freaky violent girl” anymore. There were enough of those to go around.
However, I came to like my new home. I finally had an outlet for my anger, as sick as it seemed. Although I was on the younger side, that didn’t stop me from defending myself when surprise attacks came my way. Of course, I wasn’t as much of an offensive player, for my main goal was fairness, but when provoked, I wasn’t afraid to bring out my violent side. In the past, I had never cared about training for the games or becoming victor, but if this new home was my reward, turning the offer down would be a ridiculous decision.
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