sayde preston -- d5 -- {wip}

sayde preston -- d5 -- {wip} May 22, 2014 12:54:53 GMT -5

Post by jess on May 22, 2014 12:54:53 GMT -5

sayde preston
d5. female. rachel nichols. 16.

There was once a girl who was beautiful, bright and happy. Always smiling, always cheerful.

I wouldn't recognize her now. When I look in the mirror, all I see is myself. Plain old me. Sayde Preston. There's nothing big about me. Including in appearance. I am small, standing at about 5'2. I have small eyes and a small nose, and thin lips. My body shows no sign of curves, and I look about a year younger than I actually am. My hair is usually greasy, my face showing signs of acne.

There was once a girl who saw the best in people, who was always happy to help.

My friends say I am interesting. Interesting is another word for...peculiar. And peculiar is another word for strange. And so on, and on, and on, until you reach the final statement that my friends do not like me for who I am. They do not like me because of my looks (who would?). They like me because they liked me before, when I was the old me. Sayde, the girl who always smiled, even on reaping days.

There was once a girl who loved.

But now I am just me. And they go on liking me because they don't have the heart to say they dislike me. But I expect it. Sometime in the future, comes the day they tell me they do not like me. They are giving up on being my friend.

There was once a girl who lost.

My emotions used to bea part of me like any normal person. I would sometimes feel sad, stressed, anxious, happy, cheerful, confident, beautiful, ugly...I was a very normal girl ina world she did not deserve to be in. Now, however - I honestly believe I deserve the death penalty that is known as the Hunger Games.

There was once a girl who was afraid.

I used to be scared of death. The idea that I would stop breathing, my heart stop beating...it scared me. I guess you could say it scared me to death. Only I was afraid of death. But now I have learned to not be afraid. I am not afraid. If I die, when I die, I shall greet death as an old friend. Come to me, Death, if you dare. Or I shall make you come to me.

There was once a girl who cared.

I used to come home with fresh bread from the bakery, and, if we could afford it, little iced cupcakes for my little sister. She is just 12 years old now, and she is the only thing keeping me from my death. At my own hands. I'd rather die from my own doing than from some vain, brutal Career's doing. Or maybe a death from a Career is a more noble and courageous death than doing it yourself. Suicide is a wimp's act. Why would you kill yourself? The question remains unanswered. For now.

There was once a girl who smiled.

You would never see me without a smile in school. Even when the times were bad and everything had gone awry, I would wear that smile, whether it was genuine or fake, to reassure others that I was okay. I wonder where that girl has gone. Now I don't care if they know or they don't know. I am beyond caring. I know. That's the important thing. I know how broken I am inside. Broken beyond repair, like an old doll handed to a careless child.

There was once a girl who learned from her mistakes.

I don't learn. People never give me the right lessons. If I make a mistake, they remember it and comment on it and remind me of it. If I do something right, my pride is immediately shattered by someone pointing out a small flaw in my success. As I grow older, people dislike me more and more and more....

There was once a girl who laughed.

My friends loved to crack jokes at the lunch table. They'd laugh and I'd laugh and we'd put our arms around each other and smile. Now they just talk. No jokes, no arms around each other, nothing. We all remain stiffly eating our food, and the others talk while I sit and watch. Desperate for someone to save me from the prison that is my mind.

There was once a girl who cried.

I am too numb to cry. I want to. I can feel tears threatening to spill from under my blonde lashes, but they never come out. It has been years since I felt the familiar feeling of a trickle of liquid running down your cheek. The feeling of the salty water escaping my eyes, my eyelids growing wet as my emotions spilled out onto the pillow as I lay head-down on my bed.

There was once a girl who lived.

I might as well be dead.