quinine yellowbrooke ♣ district six ♣ fin

name ♣ Quinine Merle Yellowbrooke.
age ♣ Fifteen.
gender ♣ Female.
location ♣ District Six.
face claim ♣ Ashley Rickards.

Short, choppy hair like dark brown, almost black silk frames my diamond shaped face. An even shorter lock of hair juts out, forming a side bang and covering my left eyebrow. This dark hair of mine contrasts with my fair, luminescent skin. The contrast between my dark hair and pale skin is shocking but lovely. I like my dark hair and pale skin because not many things about me are shocking, lovely, or shocking and lovely at the same time.

A slim, pointy nose serves as the centerpiece of my face. Underneath it are my full lips, which are turned up on one side in a crooked, shy smile. Above it are a pair of hazel oculars fringed by curly black eyelashes. I have a pretty face, but it is a pretty face that I shrinking violet should have. It is the face of the shy girl that sits in the back of the classroom and never speaks - like they're an Avox. I stick out my tongue just to make sure it's there.

I am not shy. I am not bold. I am not boisterous. I don't want to be shy, but I do want to be bold and boisterous. I want to be able to tell jokes, but they always come off the wrong way when I tell them. I have a sense of humor, but I can't share it with anyone without looking like an idiot. At least I don't pretend to be a bubbly girl who only cares about what she looks like, such as some girls at my school. They're shallow, annoying, and just downright stupid. I hate to sound bitter and critical, but it's true.

I cast a rock off into the lake. It doesn't skip like I intended it to. Instead it drops deep into the bank of the river. I scowl. I never do anything right. I have the grace of an elephant, the strength of a butterfly, but the speed of a hummingbird. Having a small frame like me has a single benefit: speed. The downsides are how easily shoved over and trampled you are, you look like an easy target . . . . The list goes on. I do not want to be an easy target. I don't want to be trampled and shoved over. It happens sometimes. I'm awkward inside and out, so people are practically compelled to pick on me. I have an awkward face that's too delicate, an awkward voice that's too soft, and an awkward walk - with short chicken legs, you would have an awkward walk, too.

I'm just awkward.

Along with the soft voice, I stutter. I don't stutter every once in a while. No, I stutter every few words. If I were to say, "Hello, Chase," to my younger brother, it would come out like, "H-hello, C-Chase." Awkward. Awkward, awkward, awkward, awkward. My stuttering often earns me blank or surprised stares that I don't want. I want to just fade into the crowd without anyone noticing me. But for whatever reason, I stick out like a sore thumb. I can never find my rightful place. I'm lost, meandering through life with no purpose. I need a purpose. Everyone has a purpose. Without a purpose, you are nothing. Without a purpose you are hollow. I am hollow until I find a purpose. If I don't, I won't know what to do.

Stop it, Quinine, I think, pulling myself back into reality. Don't over think it.

I peer into the lake, scrutinizing my appearance and then look away a moment later. When I look back at my reflection, I am not the only face who looks back at me in the lake. There's someone standing behind me. Someone tall with brown hair and medium skin. The person sinks to the ground and scoots beside me.

It's Sherlock Prather, my half-brother.

He is the complete opposite of me. He is popular, handsome, adored, boisterous, bubbly, humorous, and bold. He seems so perfect on the outside. He's so down to Earth, too, while my head is up in the clouds. Sherlock has a way of captivating people's attention and is able to get people to listen to him. I don't know how he does it. Maybe it's his deep, velvety voice that's so enticing you never want to stop listening to it. Maybe it's those big brown eyes that hold so much emotion. Or maybe he's just likeable. But how? How is Sherlock so perfect? He can't be perfect. There must be something, some flaw in him.

But I can't seem to see any. Either that or he doesn't let it show.

"You know Mom doesn't want you coming out here anymore," he says quietly, shattering the silence. "It's against the law." Sherlock's voice is so soothing, so persuasive. He usually makes me to whatever he wants me to do, but not today. Today I will get what I want. I will stay in the woods and may the Capitol hunt me down and make me an Avox. I'd rather be an Avox than go home to my mom and dad, who are furious with me at the moment for smuggling alcohol into my room. It was just a small bottle, not enough to make me drunk.

They've always expected me to be the good child, the one who gets good grades, who doesn't swear or gossip. In their minds Sherlock is a party boy (he is not) and Chase is an inferior child and he is fourteen. Naturally, they were mortified when they found the bottle under my bed. If it had been Sherlock, I bet they would have let it slide. I don't even know what I was thinking when I bought the bottle of beer. I suppose I was curious and decided to experiment.

"I d-don't c-care Sh-Sherlock," I say, mustering all of my anger. I sound ridiculous with my stuttering, especially when I use a malicious tone like right now. "F-fuck off," I spit. My lip twitches, threatening a smile. I sound so silly. "Sh-she p-probably thinks I g-get drunk h-here all the t-time, doesn't sh-she?" I ask bitterly. "S-sorry to d-disappoint her."

Sherlock sighs. I see him roll his eyes out of the corner of my vision. "Quinine, you know you've broken two laws already. One of them is coming out here, which I know you do quite often. If you don't stop, someone's bound to tell on you - to a Peacekeeper. You and I both know that won't end well," Sherlock says.

I glare at him and think, Stupid pretty boy. He doesn't know what it's like to feel our mother's disapproving stare burning into his back or to see my father - his stepfather - shake his head and frown when he walks into the room. My parents have never been proud of me. No, it's always been Sherlock, the eldest of us children (he's only a year older than me). All fifteen years of my life, it's always been Sherlock over me. Even my father, who raised Sherlock as his own but isn't even his real father, prefers Sherlock over me, his actual child.

"W-why can't y-you g-g-go away!" I shout, leaping to my feet. Sherlock rises to his feet a moment after I do. He staggers back a little, clearly taken aback by my outburst. "Y-you don't b-belong i-in th-this family! G-get ou-out!" I feel heat rush to my face. I am trembling in anger and Sherlock has the most astonished look on his face. He's shocked, shocked that his quiet little sister has just yelled at him for the first time in her life. He's probably wondering what hit him.

"Quin, what's gotten into you? I'm trying to help you!" yells Sherlock. I draw back my arm to punch him in the jaw, but he has quick reflexes and stops my fist with his hand. He is clutching my fist and his free hand is gripped on my shoulder to stop me from trying to hurt him. I see my own reflection is his brown eyes. My brows are slanted in towards the bridge of my nose and I'm biting down on my lip so hard I'm almost bleeding. My body is rigid, every one of my muscles tensed. I am livid and Sherlock is serene. I just want to punch his pretty little face, maybe give him a bruise or two . . . .

"Y-you d-don't b-belong in m-my family," I stammer. "W-we may sh-share the s-same m-mother, but w-we don't sh-share th-the same f-father. You a-are only h-half r-related to m-me. Th-they favor y-you over m-me, e-even my f-father, and y-you're n-not even f-fully r-related t-to us." What I'm saying is true but cruel. Sherlock's father was Gareth Prather, who was my mother's first husband. He left her shortly after they had Sherlock, and my mother remarried to my father and had me, then Chase.

I wasn't all that happy as a child - how could I when Sherlock got all of the attention, all of the love? I wasn't neglected, exactly, but I sure wasn't as adored at Sherlock. It's always been Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Even at school, everyone seems to love Sherlock. Sherlock has all of the memories with my parents, not me. If I were to explain my life in one word, it would be Sherlock, because Sherlock is all I've ever known.

But I want my life to be more than Sherlock.

Sherlock is at a loss for words. I see the hurt in his face, in his eyes. It cuts across his face like a knife through soft fabric. I finally cracked that hard, serene shell that he encloses himself in. Knowing that I've hurt him makes guilt swell inside of me, and I can't place why. Maybe I just don't like hurting people. I am astounded by what I said. I can't believe that came out of my mouth. That is the meanest thing I've said in my life.

I push past Sherlock and break into a run without looking back as the pang of guilt in my stomach intensifies.

comments/other ♣ I just wanted to make it very clear that Sherlock is not perfect - is NOT a Gary-Stu. He is a future character of mine and I will make sure that he is not perfect. In fact, he is very flawed in many ways. Only in the eyes of Quinine, he is perfect.

codeword ♣ Odair.

EMPHASIS: FFF8C6
DIALOGUE: ffff7f
OTHER DIALOGUE: ffdea1
MAIN: ffd75e
THOUGHTS: white