aine hathaway} finished {district four

"It's going to rain today."

They babble about nonsense and tut at my predictions. I stare out the window and say nothing more. The sky is blue and the sun is shining and it's perfect, perfect, perfect for them. My little sister screeches at my apparent stupidity, of course it wouldn't rain today, it was her birthday party. My mother grumbles about how furious I make her, about how I have to ruin everything with my attitude, and my father says nothing at all.

They return soaked to the core and scowling. I smile.

They hate it when I'm right.

♒

I was born to be beautiful. Sadly I'm everything but. A doll-like face hides an old soul that seeps out of the corner of my eyes and creases the middle of my brows that frown far too much.  I am supposed to beam and smile and show everyone how happy I am to be alive in a world where people only give a shit about what they wear and who they know and how much money they make. I'm supposed to ignore the fear that creeps down everyone's spines and look up at the two kids they send off to die every year with pride. I don't. They don't deserve that. Instead I stare at my feet, trace the terror carved into the rocks and wooden fences with bitten-down nails and calloused fingers, send my sorrow through the air and hope it reaches them before they leave. God knows I try.

If I could paint myself I would not paint a face. Self-portraits of myself are scattered through scrawled handwriting across discarded pages, tainted in the back of my closet where paint-coated artworks lay to rest, spilled from my heart into the freezing winter morning. When I was smaller I would coat the pavements with colour and watch the rain wash them down the drain every afternoon. Different pictures, but always the same face. Sand-coloured hair would scatter across my canvases as a dull ocean the colour of trees poured from my shadow-clung eyes. Little lips and a button-nose would dot the shorelines and driftwood limbs would crash against the page. Scuffed boots that drag along pavements would seem irrelevant and out-of-place, as would my tar-stained breath or floppy hats that cast a permanent shadow over my face. Self-portraits of my face are liars and paintings of the ocean are far too cliche. As colour on paper I look as if someone could rip my body in two, but that's okay. They say I've got tough skin.

♒

A girl with dark curls storms up to me, all high-and-mighty with her pretty clothes and porcelain skin. I scoff at her very presence and take a drag. School is for losers but if they ever catch me sneaking out they'll take my paints away and I've got no time for scavenging out the old ones I keep hidden underneath my floorboards. I close my eyes and  breathe, counting down before it begins. Three, two, one...

The storm arrives and looks at me like I've killed a man. "What are you doing?" she shrieks, snatching at my hand that holds my slow, impending death. "You can't smoke! That's illegal!"

I hate her already - but then again, I hate most people and their Capitol-loving, career-building, ass-wiping attitude. I sneer - a "you can't tell me what to do" following - and we battle with glares as our weapons.

"I'll report you!" she threatens. I laugh, "Ooo, I'm so scared of you, Miss Priss." Crinkles appear between her eyebrows and I don't like them at all. But I also don't like her tone, it reminds me of my mother, so I begin another count down. Ten, nine, eight...

"I'm serious, if you don't put that out in five seconds-"

Seven, six, five...

I blow smoke in her face and stare, testing the waters one last time.  She's speechless, so I speak for her instead.

Four, three, two...

"Fuck" (I take a step forward and hold my breath) "you."

One.

Her fist flies.

All hell breaks loose.

♒

The bitch said I did it. I can feel the purple blotches that bloom underneath my eyes and there's blood beneath my fingernails and my shoes are scuffed. They tell a different story. But the one she spun was so damn convincing, all tears and pointed fingers, and they drank it up like they hadn't seen the water in years.  Bitch bitch bitch.  And her stupid little clique and their stupid little friends all jumping for the chance to punch something or someone. She's had it out for me for years - I don't know why, but her eyes follow me everywhere and I tend to respond with the middle finger. Today the ocean of chaos and flying fists swept me away and it took all the instructors we had to part the sea, but in the end I was sent away with a disciplinary and a call to my mother.

And it's not even getting punished that I'm worried about. Miss Priss Bitch with her sad little eyes and perfect fucking hair confiscated my lighters. The ocean air is bitter and the rocks beneath my feet slippery but I'd rather hide out here than face the wrath to come at home.

My life is a never-ending cycle of me vs. the world. Sixteen years and I've bounced back after every single fight. Me vs. Mom, me vs. Dad, me vs. my shitty little sister Petal. If she grows up to be a Miss Priss Bitch 2.0 I wouldn't be surprised. Punch after punch I stay standing, raising my arms and smiling through blood-stained teeth, to say here I am, try again, I'm still standing. I am constantly reminded by my parents that I am a burden to be rid of. Perhaps they should just cast me off at sea and leave me floating. I'd enjoy the peace and quiet. It'd be a win for both teams.

But we all know that I wouldn't go out that easy. That I wouldn't just let the tide take me. For a little while, perhaps, to bask in the emptiness and savour what little time alone I had. But eventually I'd learn to swim and force myself through the currents that lead me back to shore. My turn to come home soaked to the core, to welcome them home from work shivering at the kitchen table, paintbrush in hand with a work half-completed.

They'd complain about my teeth chattering - you're making too much noise, they'd say. 

But I'd just smile to say I told you so.

They hate it when I'm right.