Nonnie Eustis [District 3] wip

One.

I like the number one. Its the easiest number, any kid in my classroom can tell me how much one is. Teaching kindergarten is fun, but its as if I become a completely different person when I'm with the kids. I was the only girl in my family, because my mother died giving birth to me. Oddly enough, I was born on the first of January, just like my brothers. I've always been single, but I suppose there can't be a right person for the person I am. One follows me everywhere, though I can never quite grasp it. 

Two.

I have two brothers, Ithan and Chander. Ithan is five years older than  me, but Chander is twice that at ten more. We've never been very close, but before my father died we didn't fight very often. I was the smart one, Ithan was the artist, and Chander did whatever he wanted. Our house was quiet. That would be, until I turned ten, Ithan turned fifteen, and Chander turned twenty. My dad took down two peacekeepers before they hauled his ass off to the capitol. Never found out why he killed them, never found out what they did to him - just that one day Dad was there, and the second Chander was back at the house. Taking over raising us. Two months in, I knew things were going to change.


My brothers had dealt with loss before, my mother, to be exact. I didn't know how to react when the only parent I'd ever known left my life. Chander called me useless, or stupid, or whatever else he could think of to make me feel like it was my fault. They both blamed me for our mother's death, my father's disappearance was just a stone to set them off. The anger simmered, until a small disagreement with Chander led to a shove. And a slap. And a kick. And the rolling pin.

Three.

It took three days to get over the first beating. My brothers backed off pretty fast, especially Ithan. He came to my bedroom multiple times those few days to tell me how sorry he was, how he was talking to Chander about it. How it was never going to happen ever again. I believed him, mostly because I wanted to. They kept me home for a little more than a week, waited for the worst bruises to fade enough. Desperately I tried to bounce back, delving into my studies and staying late with teachers to avoid hearing Ithan apologize. To avoid hearing Chander not. Eventually Ithan stopped, but I kept away anyways. I hid how I felt at school, because the distrust that had grown between my siblings and I was constantly spinning through my head. Three months later, I began to think I could believe Ithan's promise.


I couldn't. What was the argument about? It didn't matter. Chander got fired, he was stressed. If Dad hadn't been taken away, he wouldn't have to support us. He turned to me, the one without an income. Maybe the second time was less painful, because he only used his fists, but it hurt nonetheless, and what it did to my mind was worse. Calling for Ithan was pointless, he just stood by the couch and watched. Three days later, he hit me for the first time. It was just a shove on the shoulder, but I stopped looking at him. In English, I wrote haikus about clouds and butterflies. After school I sat by the outside cafeteria door and wrote about Chander's insults. I wrote about Ithan's passive watching while my oldest brother made my eyes black, my nose red, my skin pretty shades of violet and charcoal.


The third time only took three weeks to happen. I was barely over the last one. Ithan found some poem about himself, a crappy one I'd discarded in the trash bin. I was in bed when Chander got home, and Ithan ratted me out. That didn't stop him from dragging me out to show me what he though of the poem. I was a little more careful after that. My brothers were a little more violent after that. 

Four.

I spent most of my teen years afraid of my brothers. Four years after my father left us, I didn't wake up any morning without expecting to be hurt at some point. Not every day was a lay-in-bed-crying day, but some days I certainly wished I could. School was my only escape, and I feared having to miss a single day, because it meant I was lying somewhere in my house waiting for Ithan to get home. Ithan, I suppose, still held some amount of guilt. He made sure I ate at least once on those days. Sometimes he tried to talk to me, but I'd stopped wanting to talk to him when  he decided not to help. When he decided that a boring day at school meant "blame something on Nonnie."


Maybe I didn't realize at the time, but I was pretty. I had long, wavy ginger hair. It was often not brushed well, but nowadays I keep better control of it. My eyes were large and doe-like, a sweet honey brown. I preferred to focus on my large forehead rather than think about my pretty little nose, or the lips that covered my chipped teeth. I never grew much of a chest, or expanded very far at the hips, but it was enough that Chander took notice. He never violated me, perhaps it was too far past his weak morals, but he didn't keep quiet about it. To this day I feel wrong in the body he convinced me wasn't supposed to turn out this way. 


I definitely wasn't the only kid with home issues. Teachers couldn't fix every problem, and most didn't want to get involved to begin with. That could be part of the reason I decided to become a teacher - I wanted to be the different one. The one that stopped things before they spun out of control. Maybe it wouldn't have made a different. One day, I was too tired to keep my head up in class for all the sleep I'd lost the night before. My fourth period teacher knew I was a good student, and worried, but even his easy questions stressed me out. I knew if Chander ever knew I'd be sorry.


Poetry remained a major part of my expression. I couldn't keep friends, but I could postpone going home for hours if I could find the words to occupy my time. The words that never came when someone tried to talk to me poured onto the paper my English teacher provided, sometimes too much and I had to go home with ideas still in my fingers. Ideas I wrote on the floor beneath my bed. My save for later list. 

Five.

I want to skip talking about the fifth year after my father's leaving, because its quite redundant and I don't like to repeat myself too many times. I'll just mention a few things about how I am. Not last week, or three decades ago, but today. Suffice to say it hasn't changed too much, but I feel as though I've matured since I was younger. For instance, I'm not as much of an emotional roller coaster. I can keep control of my feelings, its a quintessential part of my personality. Being a loner is like a skill, and I've mastered it. Truly the only people I communicate with would be the children in my classroom and my boss, if need be. 


Everyone has a sense of humor, even a little one. The kids know mine well, other people, definitely not. I love to make up silly voices and say things to myself, going back and forth in a quirky bit. Puppet shows are a regular occurrence, and getting the kids involved is one of my favorite parts, especially when we name them silly things like Orangepeal and Wakawakawa. We have about five puppet shows a month where the entire class is involved, just walking around the room with puppets and silly voices. 


I've noticed a few habits in myself. Some I've had since I was young or since my dad left, but others developed over time as people tend to do. I've always been a nail biter, and my nails are eternally stubby and plain. I started cracking my joints when my dad left, but the severity and how often have lessened considerably since I was about thirty because I didn't want the kids picking up on it. That was about the same time, maybe within five months of when I started whistling. Just where I don't think people will hear me or care, like the classroom or in my house. On my walks to and from work I probably confuse anyone who sees me, because I'm usually reciting some kind of poetry I'd thought to memorize.


Outside of my safe zone, the classroom, my mind buzzes. I can keep a cool outside, but inside a billion thoughts could be running through my head. Why did that person look at me? Do my coworkers hate me? Am I standing out too much? Aside from that, I find myself over-empathizing at times. Things don't get by me easily, and when I notice them I give people a lot of room for excuses. 

My sex drive has been null since I was in my mid twenties. My job became my primary focus, and everything else just kind of blended into the background as I grew away from the childish inclination to want love. Besides, I never found any men interesting, and the other option never created itself. 

Six.

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Seven.

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Eight.

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Nine.

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Ten.

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