gem woodards {district e i g h t} fin

G E M  W O O D A R D S

Shaking hands drag unruly locks into place. My fingers dance across my scalp, nails long enough to dig into the skin protecting my skull. "It's all wrong!" the scream rips through my lungs, the pure force of my voice threatening to break the tender skin coating my throat. My stomach rejects the air I attempt to force inside, escaping in muddled sobs and screams. Fists pound against the table, threatening to destroy the paper which caused me such distress. I didn't understand. The words, the numbers, they swam in front of my eyes making no sense as I attempted to perfect the assignment I'd been given. 

Not everyone's life is meant to be the personification of perfection. I was never everyone. Life is split into two categories, something more than simply good or bad. Everything must be put in perfect place, everything must fit into something or else nothing matters. I'd be better off dead than in any shade of grey. That was a fact.

Most things are either even or odd. School has taught me that with the numbers they forced into my brain. Twos and fours fit in perfect grace, always divided into something simple, fitting into place like a hook onto a loop. 

Odds are frightening, unknown. They're never fair, never right. Have you ever tried to divide a three into the perfect ratio? Both sides recieving equal portions? A world without neglect or hunger, of fairness and purity cannot exist with Odds. There is nothing I despise more. 

As soon as I was old enough to think for myself, the categories terrorized me. They clung to my skin like the fiends I fear with such passion. More than digits, more than thoughts, my world began to separate like the ground beneath me. He was odd, she was even, odd, even. Symmetry in it's cruelest form. My most hated rival, yet the prince who saves me from my dungeon. 

Not a single step is allowed to be made without at least ten seconds of forethought. Never less, but more is always welcome. Two steps left, one step right and you have reached your destination........ turn the corners of your mouth into a smile, not too wide but definitely not a smirk..... engage in conversation......do nothing but agree.... nod and smile......analyze the situation again.... more action to be taken then on.

It's almost robotic in nature, the rawest form of trial and error. Eyes glued upon their bodies, searching for the simplest of social cues. Analyze and analyze again, rinse and repeat until satisfied. Which is admittedly almost never. Always feeling as though you are doing something wrong, something which will cause the other to look at you in spite. 

Good-Bad. Success-Failure. Odd-Even. It all fits together in a twisted puzzle only I can hope to understand. 

Except I don't, not yet. 

The paper has been held within sweating palms for a good ten minutes now, my mind occupied with analysis and reflection. It contains only two words, carefully scrawled in smooth cursive the only acceptable font in which to write. Gem Woodards. 

It's all wrong. The 'm' far too large in comparison to the rest of the scrawl. Or perhaps the other letters far too small? It wasn't perfect. It never would be. I despise the fact that I, a being meant to revel in such perfection could produce something as horrific as this. But I must go on. After all it is only the cretins who insist upon teaching me meaningless lesson after meaningless lesson who will lay eyes upon this monstrosity. 

As painful as it is for me to continue, as much as it makes my chest constrict and vision blur, I continue. Age fifteen what an awful number Year of the sixty-seventh repulsive games, hopelessly imperfect. It was how I titled all of my papers, the teachers never seemed to mind. After all I never gave them trouble in class. 

Years have been spent cultivating a barrier of ice around my exterior. When the eyes of others fall upon fair skin, they see no emotion. The anxiety, the breakdowns which linger upon the forefront of my subconscious are only for times which I am in the company of no one but myself. As, in order to be perfection, others can see no fault within you. No weakness, every move you make should be laced with some ethereal wisdom. As though you've always known what action to take, and any thought given was that of only a split second. Do not show that hours were spent slaving over the very words I spoke. Every possible outcome attempted to be thought out and beat.

My mind is beautiful, that is without a doubt. To achieve absolute perfection, my body must emulate such. Dark locks linger upon my shoulders, frayed and dirty most times, but something that I find endearing, as it fits with the body I possess. It's frail and weak, and arguably the opposite of the perfection I seek, yet challenges are what I crave. To change the norm, the minds of the masses to benefit myself and my overall plans. 

I yearn to be the embodiment of even. To use the obsession which hinders me so to my advantage. Rise above those who think that fifteen years is not enough to know more thank they. One day, I will be intelligent and beautiful. The strategic talent I was born with will set me apart. Of my many relatives, two have gone to war. Two have failed to return. I did not know them well, but I felt their death like the rest of my family. 

I am not yet impervious to human emotions. 

That is something I must fix.

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