❀ Cynthia Ellen-Day [D2] ❀

Cynthia Ellen-Day
District 2
15
Female

There's a hole in my soul
I can't fill it I can't fill it
There's a hole in my soul
Can you fill it? Can you fill it?

My name is Cynthia. No, Cindy will not do. Cynthia, not Cindy, sin-thee-ah. If you don't get that then you can call me Mistress because clearly you are only bright enough to be a servant. Now, I'm thirsty go get me a glass of water.

I'm adorable. Don't argue with me on this, I know better than that. My eyes are a pale blue-gray and are large and round in my face. I love them because they are so pretty, and other people have told me so. My mother, for one. My father tells me I'm his beautiful girl and that he has never seen anyone more beautiful than me, not even my mother. I wonder sometimes if other people see what he does, or even what I do, but since my mother agrees with him I hope that they are right.

I've been told that I have dimples when I smile, or when I'm angry. I don't know if that's true because I usually avoid the mirror if I can, especially when I'm feeling especially happy or upset. Something about seeing my own face sombers me and I hate to ruin my emotion with the worries that I hide from everyone. I also use my hair to hide my eyes when I'm introspecting, to make sure no one but I knows just how unsure about myself I am. I doubt too much but no one knows so no one can help. My hair is blonde, my father calls it sunlight, my mother calls it gold, I call it straw - perhaps even straw that something pissed in.

My parents tell me that I'm tall, but I don't even reach my mother's shoulder. I'm 4'11" and desperately wish I could be taller. I feel short and squat, and while that works for some people it makes me feel like I'm constantly 20lbs too heavy. If my legs grew longer then maybe my thighs wouldn't feel so big. I weigh 105lbs and that's supposedly healthy but it doesn't look like it to me. I have to wear baggy clothes because I just can't bear to see the way my body fits in tighter clothes. The only exception is when I train, and while I do that I can not think about how I look because I just focus on what I'm doing.

I'm not out of shape, my training doesn't allow for it, but there is no way someone could put me in the same category as the other careers I spend most of my day around. All of the girls are skinny and tall with their shaved arms and legs. And then there's me. It makes me feel like a boar. I was told I eat like a pig too, and I can't help how I eat but it really hurt because I desperately want to know that someone else sees that I'm not some sort of gross creature.

Because maybe then I can believe it too.

I can't say I'm the best fighter, I can't even say I'm decent - not like the trainers my parents over-pay to make sure they only ever say good things to me - but I am better than some. I work with axes. Something in the strength and brutality that they hold draws me to them. I want to be feared and admired like the axe blade is. I remember the boy from District nine who won the 66th and how he conquered the arena with a set of throwing axes. I want to be like him. I want to prove that I am strong and brave and that I am more than just "that girl" or "her". I want to look at the world and tell them "I'm Cynthia!"

I want to know who I am.

I try to be the kind one, I try to help others, but it's so hard when I feel their nasty thoughts. They don't want to be helped by me, they would rather be helped by the beautiful sword-wielding brunette or the strong spear-wielding hunk. I'm a girl with an axe and I'm as pretty as a lumberjack after a week in the woods.

I don't even have an interesting history. I'm bland and boring and my parents were nice and I don't have a dead sibling, or a lover, or anything but me. I don't even have a pet though sometimes I imagine what it would be like to cuddle some loving animal and knowing that they love me even if no one else does.

I don't even know if I love myself.

All of your flaws and all of my flaws
Are laid out one by one
Look at the wonderful mess that we made
We pick ourselves undone