JEANETTE MILES | WANDERER
Jan 6, 2015 1:12:14 GMT -5
Post by shrimp on Jan 6, 2015 1:12:14 GMT -5
JEANETTE MILES
LOCATION UNKNOWN
(CURRENTLY DISTRICT 8)
TWENTY FOUR
FEMALE
(ODAIR)
When the Peackeepers entered the District and began rounding up the rebels she ran, screwed over by whatever had caused The Uprising to fuck up. Maybe someone had given them away, or maybe the Capitol had known about them the entire time. But she was doomed, and her family would be doomed unless she did something.
She burst through the front doors of her home after successfully navigating back without any sight of Peacekeepers, and all hope of rescuing them vanished. Dead at the table, gunshot wounds in their chests, in their backs as they fled for safety. All because of her.
But perhaps her stubbornness, her determination to save them pushed her forward and into the room, once a beacon of safety, now covered in their blood. And find them she did - two of her siblings were still alive, hiding under the bodies of their family. They wept as they hugged each other, but there was no time - the Peackeepers could be waiting to ambush them, or waiting to shoot them in front of the entire district this time.
The moon was high in the sky when they had scampered to the District 10 safehouse, still unnoticed by the Capitol. Whispered exchanges gained them a letter for the liason from 11 and a forged document to secure them housing without incident. They left immediately.
Since then they've merged with the crowd - or at least as much as possible seeing that Jean's six feet tall - living with the poorest members of the District, working in the most popular jobs just to ensure that they won't be noticed, that maybe the Capitol's stopped following them. Jean's become even more protective than before, making sure that they change their name each time they change districts, that they keep talk small and impersonal. Any slip up could cost them their lives. Perhaps she's being paranoid - deep down she knows The Uprising never posed a real threat to the Capitol when she was a part of it, most of it had just been for show.
Fear's nestled down deep into her heart, there's not much that can get it back out. The rebellion in her, the anger at the unfairness of their situation, that each year she was forced to watch friends and family deal with the possibility of sending their own to death - it's still there, but dampened by death, dampened by terror. She barely sleeps at night anymore, instead watching from between the slits of the curtains to see if Peacekeepers are trudging up the road towards their home. She's already lost three of her family, she won't lose the two she has left.
They deserve better, they deserve to live lives worth living, and for that she hates herself everday. She put them all in this mess, and it's unlikely they'll ever be able to escape it.
Sometimes, when there's time on her hands and she's staring at her calloused and scarred hands, combing her long brown hair (sometimes she cuts it if she fears they have a notice out for her arrest) with her fingers, examining her eyes (brown stained with gray), covered with heavy bags - she wonders if this is all worth it, if there was a chance that they could have changed anything. She still remembers Griffin's impassioned speeches, the roars across the clearing that resonated hope.
In District 11 she was FRANKLIN, AMY - 22 YEARS OLD. They spent days picking vegetables and nights cooped up in their one room home. It wasn't much, but it was theirs and before the Reaping arrived they had packed up whatever money and food they had earned, the blankets they had scavenged, and headed out once more - she would not let her siblings even consider putting their names in the Reaping pool. Screw tessera.
In District 7 she was STRAUSS, GEORGIA, and learned to wield an axe with the best of them. It was similar to a blade, she figured, but oh how wrong she was. Perhaps she let her guard down too much, for she made friends - actual friends - and she would stay out with them even though her gut told her no, even though her past would float past her eyes every time she walked past a dark alleyway or heard the marching of Peacekeepers. She only stopped talking to them once they began asking her too many questions, and left without saying any goodbyes, and maybe that's what she regrets the most.
In District 8, where they currently reside as factory workers in a cramped tenement, she's ROCKWELL, SUSAN, and the smog that floats just above the city hurts her lungs and stings her eyes. But she's learned how to quickly stitch together quilts, and how strong one has to be to lift a bo of cargo (luckily she's had plenty of practice). She ties her long wavy hair, that was once revered but now just gets in the way, into a bandanna as she works, trying not to listen to the daily lives of the young women in her section. Attachment is difficult, and dangerous.
And danger means death.
She burst through the front doors of her home after successfully navigating back without any sight of Peacekeepers, and all hope of rescuing them vanished. Dead at the table, gunshot wounds in their chests, in their backs as they fled for safety. All because of her.
But perhaps her stubbornness, her determination to save them pushed her forward and into the room, once a beacon of safety, now covered in their blood. And find them she did - two of her siblings were still alive, hiding under the bodies of their family. They wept as they hugged each other, but there was no time - the Peackeepers could be waiting to ambush them, or waiting to shoot them in front of the entire district this time.
The moon was high in the sky when they had scampered to the District 10 safehouse, still unnoticed by the Capitol. Whispered exchanges gained them a letter for the liason from 11 and a forged document to secure them housing without incident. They left immediately.
Since then they've merged with the crowd - or at least as much as possible seeing that Jean's six feet tall - living with the poorest members of the District, working in the most popular jobs just to ensure that they won't be noticed, that maybe the Capitol's stopped following them. Jean's become even more protective than before, making sure that they change their name each time they change districts, that they keep talk small and impersonal. Any slip up could cost them their lives. Perhaps she's being paranoid - deep down she knows The Uprising never posed a real threat to the Capitol when she was a part of it, most of it had just been for show.
Fear's nestled down deep into her heart, there's not much that can get it back out. The rebellion in her, the anger at the unfairness of their situation, that each year she was forced to watch friends and family deal with the possibility of sending their own to death - it's still there, but dampened by death, dampened by terror. She barely sleeps at night anymore, instead watching from between the slits of the curtains to see if Peacekeepers are trudging up the road towards their home. She's already lost three of her family, she won't lose the two she has left.
They deserve better, they deserve to live lives worth living, and for that she hates herself everday. She put them all in this mess, and it's unlikely they'll ever be able to escape it.
Sometimes, when there's time on her hands and she's staring at her calloused and scarred hands, combing her long brown hair (sometimes she cuts it if she fears they have a notice out for her arrest) with her fingers, examining her eyes (brown stained with gray), covered with heavy bags - she wonders if this is all worth it, if there was a chance that they could have changed anything. She still remembers Griffin's impassioned speeches, the roars across the clearing that resonated hope.
In District 11 she was FRANKLIN, AMY - 22 YEARS OLD. They spent days picking vegetables and nights cooped up in their one room home. It wasn't much, but it was theirs and before the Reaping arrived they had packed up whatever money and food they had earned, the blankets they had scavenged, and headed out once more - she would not let her siblings even consider putting their names in the Reaping pool. Screw tessera.
In District 7 she was STRAUSS, GEORGIA, and learned to wield an axe with the best of them. It was similar to a blade, she figured, but oh how wrong she was. Perhaps she let her guard down too much, for she made friends - actual friends - and she would stay out with them even though her gut told her no, even though her past would float past her eyes every time she walked past a dark alleyway or heard the marching of Peacekeepers. She only stopped talking to them once they began asking her too many questions, and left without saying any goodbyes, and maybe that's what she regrets the most.
In District 8, where they currently reside as factory workers in a cramped tenement, she's ROCKWELL, SUSAN, and the smog that floats just above the city hurts her lungs and stings her eyes. But she's learned how to quickly stitch together quilts, and how strong one has to be to lift a bo of cargo (luckily she's had plenty of practice). She ties her long wavy hair, that was once revered but now just gets in the way, into a bandanna as she works, trying not to listen to the daily lives of the young women in her section. Attachment is difficult, and dangerous.
And danger means death.
