melantha fer .} district three

As soon as your heart began to beat, the Fer curse was bestowed upon you. Everywhere you go, you leave a trail of destruction and sorrow in your path. Even as a baby, innocent and fragile. You are a two-leaf clover in the pockets of people around you. You're bad luck. The Fers are known for the tragedies that rack them and rip them to shreds.


As a baby, you weren't very cute, even for a baby. Most babies look like porcelain dolls, but not you. You were different. Your eyes were - and still are - dark voids, or pools of oil. Only when the sun hits them do they turn dark coppery brown, but in any other light, they are fathomless and black. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. If these dark eyes of yours are the windows to your soul, your soul must be black. (it's not that hard to believe.)

You had a fistful of hair on your head at age one. It was light red, almost strawberry blonde. It grew short and straight from your scalp. You were pink-cheeked and rosy-skinned and free of copper speckles, which came later on.


At age two, you were adventurous and wanted to explore the mysteries of the world. You wanted to discover great things and make a difference in Panem. You conjured harlequin images in your mind with your imagination. You were a dauntless child with their future stretched out ahead of them.

You learned quickly that you were not welcome within District Three, but you didn't know why. (years later, you learned that it was because you are a fer.) Bad things followed you like a shadow. People whispered that you were a ticking time bomb, that you were a walking curse, like the rest of the Fers.


Your dreams grew bigger and more detailed. You decided that you would make your own technology company. You drew pictures and blueprints of your company, but no one was interested in your silly, childish sketches. You had plans, big plans. And you weren't about to give up.


The dream of having your own company began to fade away over that fourth year of your life. Discouragement was all around you. They said you couldn't do it, and being the credulous child that you were, you believed them. You crumpled up your drawings and threw them away. You left behind your dream, because it was broken.

And broken things aren't worth fixing.


You spent your time outside on the fifth year. Copper freckles bloomed on your rosy skin. By the end of the year, a multitude of freckles dotted your face. They were all across your nose and your cheeks and your forehead. They were on your arms, your legs, your neck, and even your ears.

You spent your time outside because there was nothing better to do. You forgot about your dream and instead you focused on the beautiful things in life. You watched the sun set everyday, and you smiled and whispered, "Goodnight," when the sun's last ray vanished from the sky. Then you said hello to the stars and went inside.


You learned of the first of the Fer tragedies. Your family was discussing it, and they didn't know that they had a listener. There are four tragedies. First came the trial, which took place shortly after the Dark Days. The Capitol was executing people for treason all the time, and the Fers were easy targets because they were kind and weak. People pointed fingers at the Fers, and they were put on trial.

They were found guilty and were hanged.

The Fers still hold their reputation as victims to this day.


You found out about the second of the Fer tragedies: the axe murders. Lizzie and Borden Fer were socialites, but they were cruel socialites. They used parties to bring people down. The Fers had grown mean. They wanted revenge of District Three. But this lust for revenge was their downfall.

One winter night, Lizzie and Borden Fer were sleeping in their bedroom. Someone crept into the house, dark and silent. (like a shadow.) The intruder had an axe with them and chopped the couple's heads off. Forty chops to the head each, to be exact. Rumor has it that it was someone that had their life ruined by Lizzie and Borden.

The district had begun to take notice of the Fers' misfortune.


You heard of the third tragedy: the drownings. Thomas and Aquina Fer and their children were a happy family. But the marriage was crumbling, but it turned to nothing when Aquina found out that Thomas had been cheating on her for five years. Aquina drowned her children in the bathtub and laid them out on the bathroom floor for Thomas to see. He covered up Aquina's crime by throwing the bodies of his children into the river. Thomas said that he found them there.

In her late forties, Aquina's foot slipped on the edge of the bathtub. She fell on the hard edge of the tub and her skull cracked open. She was found dead, her face distorted with terror.

The district deemed the Fers officially cursed.


Word of the fourth, final, and most recent tragedy reached your ears. (by this point, your ears were no longer filtered out the bad.) It is called the house fire. Capone and Bonnie Fer had a strained marriage. They argued and Bonnie was beaten by Capone. Capone was a drunk, but for whatever reason, Bonnie loved him. They had six children.

One night, Capone was heavily drinking and smoking a cigarette. He spread his arms on the backside of the couch and leaned back, and the curtain went up in flames. The screams could be heard several blocks away. Only one Fer made it out - the youngest son. He ran out of the house screaming, flames dancing on his skin, melting him to nothing. He collapsed on the street and melted away.

No matter how many times the street is repainted, his outline remains.


Your mind conjured new images. Images of darkness, of shadows, of monsters. The tragedies were like poison to the mind, poison that inserted new fears and new worries. A poison that morphed your innocent, pure, childish mind into something else. Dark. Fearful. Damaged.

You stopped saying goodbye to the sun and hello to the stars. You go inside at dusk because night is when the crooks, the racketeers, the ruffians, the malevolent ones, come out to play. Fear engulfs you. You're scared of dying and you're terrified of bad people. All you see is darkness, darkness, darkness. You don't see the light anymore. You don't see the light in people. You run from darkness. But not all darknesses can be escaped that easily.

Run, run, run, but you can't run forever.

You hold a candle in your hand when you walk down the hallway. A single, thin, white pillar that carries a mere flame that doesn't bring much light, but it is enough to calm your fear of the dark. You are careful with this flame, although it may be small, it is powerful. (One wrong move, and it can set the whole house on fire.)

You are afraid that the tragedies will continue, and you're next. You would much rather see your own mother be a victim than you. You have a low tolerance for physical pain. How selfish of you; you would rather save your own skin than your family member's.


"Heads or tails?"

"Tails."

"Heads, I win, tails, you lose."

You have based most of your actions off of your luck, which is bad. You choose tails because it is supposed to be the unluckiest side. You are indecisive, so you make all of your decisions based on a coin flip. You always keep coins with you in case you have to make a decision.

It may be a bad, unfair system, but it works for you. You are an unfair person, who knows no justice, who knows no nothing of equality. You break every promise that you forge with riddles that slide smoothly off your tongue.

You promise the stars, the sun, and the moon, but you can't give them. How unfair of you, Melantha Fer.


You turned to ice. Cold, hard. Unfeeling. You slammed the door to your heart and refused to let anyone in. You lose everyone at some point, and it's better if you don't care about anyone. Love is weakness and a weapon. Someone can use the ones you love against you. Love is as deadly as a sharpened blade.

Your affections for your family didn't completely vanish, but you refuse to admit that you love anyone. There is still a spark in your heart of ice, but it's not enough to melt it.


Your hair turned the color of autumn leaves: deep, vibrant red, almost mahogany colored. Your hair darkened because you stayed inside so much, avoiding people as much as you could. You couldn't be described as a recluse: recluses like the dark, and you do not.

You took on two new life philosophy: everything comes with a price and an eye for an eye. You won't accept anything without knowing the catch, the price. All you see is price tags on everything. You can't even be shown an act of kindness without asking, "Name your price." You won't give anything without something in return, either. To you, life is about settling the score, getting even.

That's all that matters.


You began to experiment with different chemicals and substances, including alcohol. You're careful to keep this a secret because you try to bring up the reputation of the Fers, but your efforts go unnoticed. You haven't tried any other drugs before, because you're scared. But you do not consider alcohol a drug.

You pretend to be a good girl, but you're bad. Not as bad as a crook, but bad. You and your small group of friends go out an vandalize buildings and drink before dusk, but you leave when it gets dark, of course. You like to stay on the safe side so you won't get hurt or die, but every once in a while, you like to have a rush of adrenaline. Drinking alcohol (and getting drunk in the process) and vandalizing is the perfect rush for you, a quiet, so called "goody-two-shoes."

How deceitful you are.


Your life is a broken promise. It is a forgotten dream. It is just an empty box left on the street, where it is rained by the angry gray sky on and kicked by dirty shoes. Your life is a dark void, where there is no hope, no wishes, no happiness. Just a tunnel of nothing. You walk silently through the dark tunnel. It is an endless labyrinth. The more steps you take, the more scars mar your skin. The more you love, the more dark red blood spews from your cuts.

Life is a cruel and unfair tyrant. Life screams at you to keep going, and you don't know why you listen. Life's younger brother, Death, whispers in your ear at every turn, threatening you - no promising you that you have limited time, and when your time is up, you'll descend into the ground in a casket. Your body will decay, and you'll be nothing but bones. Years later, your bones will be no more. You will turn to dust, and by that time, you will be forgotten, a blurry memory cast away into oblivion.

You are broken glass, useless and dangerous.

Your heart of ice has not yet thawed. You still run from the dark. You still drink and vandalize. You haven't changed. At least you play by the rules and you're fair. That counts for something in your book. Everything is fine. There are no tragedies, so you may live peacefully . . . for now.

But sometimes you lie awake at night, wondering if someone can unravel the secrets of Melantha Fer.

face claim: luca hollestelle.