petra sinelle d2 | fin
Dec 31, 2015 4:08:27 GMT -5
Post by Lyn𝛿is on Dec 31, 2015 4:08:27 GMT -5
Petra Raiponce Sinelle
seventeen. district two. female
seventeen. district two. female
Mother is never satisfied.
"Get your lazy bum out of bed!" she slams the door open and growls at me, seven am starting off the day. "Sun's up already."
One minute to make my bed, two to brush my hair, fifteen minutes to make breakfast and finish eating it while she hangs around in the background telling me I'm never fast enough.
"One more minute, mom -"
"You don't get the luxury of any minutes in the Hunger Games. If I'm not strict with you, you'll never learn any discipline."
She doesn't think the Training Centers are strict enough, either. She was a Career back in the day, an injury forcing her to miss out on her last chance to volunteer for the Games, and everything the Center does she thinks she can watch and do better.
"They've gone soft," she says. "That's why there hasn't been a victor from District Two since Cricket Antoinette."
So every day when I get home from school she's waiting in the house, and it's her harsh words and vicious temper that fills my head until it's time for bed.
"If you listen to the stories about the victors," she tells me, "they come from different districts but there's one thing they all have in common. They went through hardship, and that's what enabled them to survive the Games. And even if you don't end up volunteering as tribute, I need to make sure you develop self-control anyways, because you don't become successful without bitter suffering."
I don't really care about success, then, if she puts it that way, and I don't want to train for the Games. But there isn't a choice, not when she's the boss of the household and what she says is final, even if it's something trivial like how I dress or how I choose to pin up my hair. It's thick and long and has grown past my waist by this point, and I wish I could put it in a bun or a braid, but whenever I do my own hair Mother tells me it's ugly and doesn't match my round face. Apparently my hair only looks good when she's brushing it. When I was young I cut all of it off in an act of rebellion, and Mother would sneer at me about how awful I looked every day until it grew back to an acceptable length for her.
She mocks everything else about me that isn't to her satisfaction, too. If you believe her words I'm constantly growing fat, and if I don't weigh any more than the other girls it's only because I'm flabby and weak. My skin isn't clear enough and scars easily. My eyebrows are too thin and my eyes are only beautiful if I smile more often, but I don't have the inclination to give anything more than a fake, empty one.
More than anything I'm just tired now, and I've long since learned that contrary behavior is pointless because no matter how stubborn I am she's even more so, and nothing comes out of trying to fight except her belittling and scorn. There are those rare lucky days, when she doesn't get upset about anything I do, but if I act disobedient it'll ruin her good mood that much more sooner. She has the power to make my life as difficult as she wants, and I can never forget that, even on the nicer days, or it'll set back all the appeasing I've been doing for months. That's another thing about her - she never forgets anything either.
I used to think it would end when I turned eighteen, but that was nothing more than a childish fantasy. Just because I'll turn eighteen soon doesn't mean I'll be able to afford moving out, and legal authority doesn't matter when she still controls where I live, and the only other way out I can see is getting married, but I haven't even had a boyfriend yet.
"It's all in your mind," she sighs at me, when the constant grating of her voice is enough to give me a headache and make me want to do nothing more than sleep all day and hide in a dark corner where no one will ever talk to me, least of all Mother interrupting my thoughts and schoolwork with her endless prattling about inane subjects even when she's not disparaging me for either one thing or another. It's because she loves me, she says, that she bothers to point out my flaws, because others will only nod politely on the outside and secretly look down on me, but if I only listened to her advice I wouldn't have to worry about other people thinking badly of me.
"You're not strong enough," she tells me nowadays because she can tell I'm feeling drained, my body drooping and listless. "You know, you wouldn't get so many headaches if you exercised as often as I tell you. I don't have time to supervise you every minute of the day." And I'm glad of that, because it's only in those minutes her back is turned that I feel like I'm truly living, stolen minutes during runs or at night after she's fallen asleep. But she can never see the minutes I enjoy, because she'll find something wrong with whatever brings me joy - she can find something wrong with everything.
Years ago, once, my daily run took me past what seemed to be a music festival, drumbeats echoing off the rocky walls and the sound of singing and instruments filling the air. The music had energized me, and for days afterwards I would absentmindedly hum the tunes under my breath.
Until she heard, and demanded what was so great about a melody, and I found myself stuck for words, unable to explain why I'd felt so uplifted when I heard the music. Of course she wouldn't have understood either way, because music had never been something she liked, and she could only inform me to avoid such pursuits because they would distract my body and make my training less effective.
But I'm losing hope, and the music that fills my mind and wraps around me like a protective shawl is the only thing that's still giving me hope and letting me get through each day. With harmonies of my own creation slowly beginning to take root in my thoughts, the dissonant tones of Mother's voice seem to fade away, just a little bit, and all I have to do is to keep going, keep surviving.
"Get your lazy bum out of bed!" she slams the door open and growls at me, seven am starting off the day. "Sun's up already."
One minute to make my bed, two to brush my hair, fifteen minutes to make breakfast and finish eating it while she hangs around in the background telling me I'm never fast enough.
"One more minute, mom -"
"You don't get the luxury of any minutes in the Hunger Games. If I'm not strict with you, you'll never learn any discipline."
She doesn't think the Training Centers are strict enough, either. She was a Career back in the day, an injury forcing her to miss out on her last chance to volunteer for the Games, and everything the Center does she thinks she can watch and do better.
"They've gone soft," she says. "That's why there hasn't been a victor from District Two since Cricket Antoinette."
So every day when I get home from school she's waiting in the house, and it's her harsh words and vicious temper that fills my head until it's time for bed.
"If you listen to the stories about the victors," she tells me, "they come from different districts but there's one thing they all have in common. They went through hardship, and that's what enabled them to survive the Games. And even if you don't end up volunteering as tribute, I need to make sure you develop self-control anyways, because you don't become successful without bitter suffering."
I don't really care about success, then, if she puts it that way, and I don't want to train for the Games. But there isn't a choice, not when she's the boss of the household and what she says is final, even if it's something trivial like how I dress or how I choose to pin up my hair. It's thick and long and has grown past my waist by this point, and I wish I could put it in a bun or a braid, but whenever I do my own hair Mother tells me it's ugly and doesn't match my round face. Apparently my hair only looks good when she's brushing it. When I was young I cut all of it off in an act of rebellion, and Mother would sneer at me about how awful I looked every day until it grew back to an acceptable length for her.
She mocks everything else about me that isn't to her satisfaction, too. If you believe her words I'm constantly growing fat, and if I don't weigh any more than the other girls it's only because I'm flabby and weak. My skin isn't clear enough and scars easily. My eyebrows are too thin and my eyes are only beautiful if I smile more often, but I don't have the inclination to give anything more than a fake, empty one.
More than anything I'm just tired now, and I've long since learned that contrary behavior is pointless because no matter how stubborn I am she's even more so, and nothing comes out of trying to fight except her belittling and scorn. There are those rare lucky days, when she doesn't get upset about anything I do, but if I act disobedient it'll ruin her good mood that much more sooner. She has the power to make my life as difficult as she wants, and I can never forget that, even on the nicer days, or it'll set back all the appeasing I've been doing for months. That's another thing about her - she never forgets anything either.
I used to think it would end when I turned eighteen, but that was nothing more than a childish fantasy. Just because I'll turn eighteen soon doesn't mean I'll be able to afford moving out, and legal authority doesn't matter when she still controls where I live, and the only other way out I can see is getting married, but I haven't even had a boyfriend yet.
"It's all in your mind," she sighs at me, when the constant grating of her voice is enough to give me a headache and make me want to do nothing more than sleep all day and hide in a dark corner where no one will ever talk to me, least of all Mother interrupting my thoughts and schoolwork with her endless prattling about inane subjects even when she's not disparaging me for either one thing or another. It's because she loves me, she says, that she bothers to point out my flaws, because others will only nod politely on the outside and secretly look down on me, but if I only listened to her advice I wouldn't have to worry about other people thinking badly of me.
"You're not strong enough," she tells me nowadays because she can tell I'm feeling drained, my body drooping and listless. "You know, you wouldn't get so many headaches if you exercised as often as I tell you. I don't have time to supervise you every minute of the day." And I'm glad of that, because it's only in those minutes her back is turned that I feel like I'm truly living, stolen minutes during runs or at night after she's fallen asleep. But she can never see the minutes I enjoy, because she'll find something wrong with whatever brings me joy - she can find something wrong with everything.
Years ago, once, my daily run took me past what seemed to be a music festival, drumbeats echoing off the rocky walls and the sound of singing and instruments filling the air. The music had energized me, and for days afterwards I would absentmindedly hum the tunes under my breath.
Until she heard, and demanded what was so great about a melody, and I found myself stuck for words, unable to explain why I'd felt so uplifted when I heard the music. Of course she wouldn't have understood either way, because music had never been something she liked, and she could only inform me to avoid such pursuits because they would distract my body and make my training less effective.
But I'm losing hope, and the music that fills my mind and wraps around me like a protective shawl is the only thing that's still giving me hope and letting me get through each day. With harmonies of my own creation slowly beginning to take root in my thoughts, the dissonant tones of Mother's voice seem to fade away, just a little bit, and all I have to do is to keep going, keep surviving.
