M I D N I G H T T R A I N

n a m e : Freedom Kalina Darkhorse.
a g e : Thirteen
g e n d e r : Female.
l o c a t i o n : District Twelve.
f a c e c l a i m : Amy E.
t h e m e s o n g : "Ronan" by Taylor Swift.

You were born in a quaint, small stone house in District Twelve with a scarlet roof that served as both an apothecary shop and your family's home. Your family and you lived upstairs, because the shop took over downstairs. You had a sister who is four years older than you, named Hope, and a you have a brother who is two years older than you, named Wish. Your mother fell ill when she was still pregnant with you. Your father tried the medicine in the shop, but it wasn't working. When you were born, your mother wasn't strong enough and she died. Before her death, she gave you a name: Freedom. She spent her last breath uttering your name. Your mother named you Freedom because she had wishes and hopes that one day, you would be free from the Capitol. You were born with no hair, porcelain skin, blue eyes, and a cute button nose. You were born short and skinny, and you stayed short and skinny your whole life. You looked like a little porcelain doll. When your mother died, your father's blue eyes filled with tears as he put three fingers to his lips and held up his hand. That is the farewell sign. After that, he couldn't help but cry over his dead wife. Your father gave you your middle name: Kalina. Kalina was your mother's name. Then your father took your mother's body and buried her.

An entire year passed since your mother's death. You spent your first birthday alone, because your father went to visit your mother's grave all day, and he took Hope and Wish with him. Dark curls had just begun to sprout from your head, and long black eyelashes had grown on the edges of your blue eyes. Your cheeks flamed with a rosy pink color, and your skin was as light as porcelain, the color of your father's skin. So far you resemble your mother the most, minus the olive skin. Your seashell pink lips rarely stretched into a smile, never exposing your tiny, pearly white teeth. You were a quiet baby, and a laugh never escaped your mouth. You never whined when you were hungry or cried when you were scared or lonely. Your father barely interacted with you. Hope and Wish were the only ones who paid a lot of attention to you. When you were three, your big blue eyes faded to stormy gray, like your mother. Your eyes were piercingly accusing and frosty, but twinkled constantly with mischief and wonder. Day by day, you began to look more and more like her. You learned how to walk and talk, and your first word was "Hope," your sister's name. You and Hope were inseparable, except when your father was teaching Hope about medicine. Your father was always distant, but slowly he was starting to warm up to you. Hope was the one who took care of you the most. She was like a mother to you. Wish became your bodyguard, your protector, and although he was only five, he was more of a father to you than your actual father.

When you were eight, your father began to teach you how to heal people with medicine. He started to show a little more fatherly affection towards you, but you were still closer with your siblings than with your father. For all eight years of your life, you spent each birthday without your father. He always stayed at your mother's grave on your birthday, leaving you alone with Hope and Wish, you threw you a small family celebration and bought you a cupcake from the bakery. On your eighth birthday, Hope bought you a little white bow to wear in your hair. And you did. You wore it everyday, and you still wear it. You had grown compassionate after watching your father and Hope and Wish heal people. You felt deeply for others, and you always wanted to help them. You would stop to give poor people money and food. You were still quiet and shy, as you'd always been. Your love for Hope and Wish only grew stronger as you aged. By this point, your once curly hair has straightened out, becoming thin and flat, and soft as silk. But your cheeks still burned with the same rosy pink as they always did, and your skin was still like porcelain. The roundness in your face hadn't faded. Your lips grew full and pouty, and attained the same seashell pink color as they had when you were born. You were very short for your age, with tiny limbs and torso. You were an adventurous child. You were skilled at climbing, and you and Hope and Wish would climb trees, and sometimes even the roof.

By age ten, you became skilled at healing. You knew medicine and healing techniques like the back of your hand. Your compassion grew stronger. Your father gave you your mother's locket. It's probably not made of gold, judging by the looks of it. It's probably made of brass. Your mother had it since she was ten. It is a simple necklace, just a heart on a chain. When you opened the heart for the first time, you saw a picture of your mother. Your father placed that picture in the locket before he gave it to you. By the age of ten, you were five feet tall and still resembled a porcelain doll, as you always have. You still had your cute button nose and round face, and the same hair and eyes and skin. You hadn't changed much, aside from getting taller and looking a little older. You still hadn't developed a feminine figure. You were still thin and straight as a board. You kept on climbing trees and roofs with Hope and Wish. You had become a little closer with your father. But you still spent your birthday without him. When you turned twelve, you tried to force the idea of you entering the Hunger Games out of your head. There was a small possibility of your name being pulled out of that bowl. Sometimes you had nightmares about dying in the Games. Your father never allowed you or your siblings to sign up for tesserae. By this point, your hair had grown a few inches past your chest. You had developed a little bit of curve, but your body was still childish and slightly skeletal. You never grew out of your shyness, and you were as quiet as ever, but still adventurous, and a little less naive.

Right before you turned thirteen, a week after the annual Reaping, you and Hope climbed a roof that was too high and steep, and Hope slipped and fell off of the roof. You watched helplessly as she tumbled to the ground. She hit the ground with a sickening crack as you looked away, unable to bear the sight of Hope getting hurt. When you looked back down, you saw that Hope's head was smashed open. Her blood stained the ground, and you almost threw up at the sight. When you climbed down the roof, you felt for a pulse on Hope's wrist. There was nothing. You shook and screamed at her to wake up, and people were starting to gather around her body. There were whispers and gasps all around you as you tried to wake Hope up. But there was no use. She was dead. Your father was told by someone that you and Hope were climbing a roof and she fell off, and that she seemed to be dead. When your father saw Hope's body, his legs collapsed underneath him. As tears filled his eyes, he pointed at you and said, with a shaky, angry voice filled with agony, "you did this, Freedom. You killed your sister." After that, your father almost never talked to you. He was almost never in the same room as you. The atmosphere of your home became tense and cold an angry. You became subdued. You spent most days in solitary. The only person you talked to was Wish, and even he was distant. You fell into depression, and still today you are in a depressed state. You spent most of your time out of the house, writing in your diary in an old pine tree you and Hope loved to climb. When you finally turned thirteen, not even Wish celebrated. Instead, he left the house to your mother's grave with your father. You played with the white bow Hope gave you on your eighth birthday.

Now, people see you as a shell of the girl you once were. All of the life had been sucked out of you. You prefer solitary, and you have no more friends. You wear the white bow Hope gave you everyday, as you always have. Your hand feels empty, because your hand should be holding Hope's hand. You ripped your mother's picture out of your locket and threw it on your father's dresser, and then you replaced the picture with Hope's. You feel that Hope deserves to be remembered more than your mother, a woman you never knew.

r e l a t i o n s h i p s : Joseph Darkhorse (father), Kalina Darkhorse (mother), Hope Darkhorse (sister), and Wish Darkhorse (brother).
p l o t s : None. She is open to anything, especially friends!
t h r e a d s : None.

full biography located here.