Tamar Harris D8

Name: Tamar Harris

Age: 13

Gender: Female

District/Area: District 8

Appearance:

I always had been treated like a child, do to my unfortunately foolish and childish face:

My round face. It’s high cheekbones, plump cheeks,and soft, weak chin, gave the impression of a childish, even babyish girl.

My wide set eyes always showing the innocence of a child. The large and deep brown eyes showing a baby.

I am thankful for my eyebrows. The were brown and thin, however questioning in an unchildish manner. The one aspect of my face that did not perfectly show a little kid.

My nose, however, was small and slightly upturned. Freckled like a child’s, it hung as though forcing everyone to see me as foolish.

My mouth was cracked, as I did bite it. It was thick like a kid’s, and seemed to easily smile.

My light brown hair was messily strung over my face, but showed enough of my forehead to seem ‘cute’. It was pulled back into a long braid down my back, and fell to about my waist.

After my face, I was glad to not have so much stand out about the rest of me.

I had thin, long fingers, perfect for my sewing. I could be described as short, like my family, perhaps because we couldn’t have any use for height with our profession. I wasn’t thin, as I didn’t ever seem have such of an appetite anyway. I was also an okay long-distance runner.

I usually wore a leather belt a tall blue tunic, long white socks, and brown working shoes mother had made. Often I wore a thin grey jacket and a long, faded red skirt I had made.



Personality:

Because of my face, I often took extra steps to seem adult. I never slouched, and didn’t smile or laugh much.

I also had light skin, which didn’t help me look mature.

Mother often joked that she was to blame for my face not matching my personality. I love that joke, however it is true, my face in no way matches me. One of the reasons I hated my babyish face so much. I was always serious, I had been told. Naturally focused, I have always been very adult. I do well in school, and don’t have many, if any, friends.

Maybe that’s why I decided to apprentice to my mother, without any further consideration. Although perhaps it’s because of my love of sewing.

After learning this skill for all my life, I’m a master at it. My family says I sew beautifully, and I often make much money for my my family by selling the pieces.

I also often create bandages with my father, which perhaps would help in the games.

I worry I’m too fragile.

History:

I…I..I didn’t mean to… didn’t I?

“Words, just words” I told myself, day after day, as they came back, in the dreams, in the terrors, in the thoughts. The horrible sense of guilt, coming up through my very being, up through my stomach and into my throat. The guilt over what, I didn’t know. That guilt was what made me cry at night. The un-knowing was what overwhelmed me.

“I’m not crazy, I’m not, it’s not in my head.. it’s not in my mind.. it’s not.. it’s not me.” I kept telling myself. I kept wondering why, “Why were they there?”

I eventually told mother and father. I cried. They cried.

I yelled, and I screamed for them to tell me what was to happen. “Was I crazy? Would they take me to the hospital? Would they take me to the mental institute?”

They didn’t answer. I cried myself to sleep.

That night I screamed and yelled in the middle of my sleep. I was outside my body. I sounded sick.

That morning I didn’t find mother. That morning I didn’t find father. I grabbed a cloth and started working. I started embroidered my thoughts.

I felt as though I slept. In my lonesome. If it was truly sleeping that I felt, then my dreams were full of thoughts of the words. The words that drew mother away. The words that drew father away. The words that seemed to have destroyed my life.

I...I..I didn’t mean to… didn’t I?

Seconds.Hours.Days.Months.Years. All seemed to pass by, in my lonesome, as I worked. One second might later seem to be a year, in my distorted life.

It was a long time till I even checked on my work. Weather it was a year or an hour, it was a long time. Eventually though, I stopped my thoughts on my sanity, and looked at the work.

I cried. It showed the words in huge letters. It showed my thoughts, it showed my guilt.

I felt so utterly sick, insane, unloved. I slept. I ran as I slept. I cried as I ran as I slept.

I tripped. I felt pain. Severe, incredible pain. Biting. Wild dogs. Left arm. Biting.

I screamed. I ran for mother. I wanted her, I felt like a child. I wanted her, like a little child.

I found her, I found father.

They made it better. They fixed my distorted life. I felt loved. My hand, my left hand never quite healed. I sewed. I planned apprentice to my mother and become a sewer. I felt sane. I often helped my father sell medical supplies. I wasn’t crazy. I often embroidered beautifully. I did feel guilt

I knew why; and I didn’t feel the un-knowing.

(I lived in a small house, my family always near falling underneath the water of not having money to live. My father sold medical supplies, my mother sewed.)



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