Nox Flintly -Finished

I desperately need to hurry.



Fifteen minutes until I'm considered late, in the last six years I've only been late once. Trust me, no one wants to be late.



Slipping on my usual choice of training uniform, the only thing I can focus on is the fact that every morning during the nine months of training starts the same. Black shirt, don't forget to line up the buttons. Silver pants, tighten the belt to the third hole. Black shoes, laces double knotted and tucked in the sides of my shoe. Silver jacket, sleeves rolled up twice as to not limit movement. Long black nearly blue looking hair, tied back for the best possible vision.



I rush through this process as normal, but today something is different. Today I desperately need to get dressed quickly. Today instead of looking at the clock and seeing 6:30, my alarm clock screams a bloody red 6:49. Four more minutes had pasted. Despite having only six minutes to get to roll call for the day, I looked over at the mirror to scold myself for making this mistake. To remind myself.



One look in the mirror sure did remind me. My harsh striking silver eyes stared back at me. Next to the left pool of silver snaked a red crooked line. It slithered from the outer tip of my eyebrow, then making an abrupt halt an inch before my jaw bone. It glared out at me off my milk pale skin, making sure I wouldn't forget my promise. To make something of myself, to become a victor, a peacekeeper, a mayor, hell even a leading revolutionist if that's what it takes.As I turn away from the mirror, I swear yet again to prove my Dad wrong and make something of myself.



6:53, seven more minutes. I know I can make it time if I push myself. As I step out the door, I begin to dash. Since I am short, 5'4, for my age, I can't take really large strides. Where I lack in height and bulk, I compensate in speed and lean muscles. I just hope I make it in time.

I glance at the blank paper with vehmence.

I hate this writing class. I hate this teacher. I especially hate this teacher making us write about our personalities. i mean what am I possibly supposed to say about myself? Why the hell is everyone glaring at me? I look down at the pen in my hand being clicked agressivly. Whoops. I click it a few more times just to make people feel as agravated as I am.

I'm not sure what to say because I know they will somehow use these to help pick who's qualified to volunteer. I just know it. So, no depicting how the only reason I want to be in the games is to show my Father wrong. They would want someone who is a bit more brain washed than I am. Oh, can't say anything about how I have got quite the temper either. They would prefer a cool headed tribute. I swear I can't say anything without it being turned into a negative. Okay I might seem over anxious or parinoid but i can feel them judging me now.

I got it! I scratch out in my slighty sloppy, yet readable handwritting about how I am a great stratigist and actress. Those are two qualities that I am actually proud to own. I made sure to leave out the part where I major in sarcasm, they might not apreciate my humor as much. I make sure to write a whole paragrah about how much of a prefectionist I am which will garentee I will strive for the best. Another paragraph is written about my determination. A couple sentences about how I'm independent.

I look at my page and a half of "personality" satisfied. I'm certain I atleast got a B.

What happened? Oh well you see, here is the basic run down I guess.

I was born to man, Calypso Flintly, and a woman, Amilily Gemmen. You probally noticed their lack of matching last names, or that i did't use the word couple. Thats because they weren't married. Well they were married just not to each other. Neither my Mom's husband or my Dad's wife happy. They descied to keep the cheating a secret for the sake of keeping their high status in District 2 from being tainted.

I lived with my Mom and my stepfather until I turned four. After that my Dad claimed that it was time to live with him. He raised me and his kid, Jett, in a militant type raising. No fun, all work. His wife hated me and frankly at times I think he hated me too. This was proven two weeks before I turned eleven. Jett, Dad's kids had been killed in a huge fight in the training center.

He came home with a beer in his hand and a slur in his speech. He had screamed at me about how Jett was his only kid. How it should of been me to die. He threw his bottle at me, he missed but the broken shards of glass had cut my face. All while yelling how I was scum and would never amount to anything. He had passed out after that.

After this ordeal I went to the training center and and got for my step mom to sign the forms. She had only signed it because she never wanted me there in the first place. From then on I spent nine months in training and schooling at the Academy, and the other three months at my Mom and Step dad's house. I trained hard, so I would be able to be someone important one day. That's why I am here. You know life goes on though.