Corinna Spite | District One | Finished

Says Thinks Does

Mother held the sign
Help my daughter, she's hungry
Some would give us dimes

Until I was seven, the only aspect of my life was struggle. Mother was on the streets on every day begging for scraps and money. I was with her, too. Hot or cold, rainy or dry. There wasn't anywhere else to put me, mother was liked much by classy district one. So day after day, we begged. We never really got anything. Even with me there, her dirty, pitiful daughter, we were ignored. Hatred overpowers any morals. And hatred was evident day in and day out. It was the first emotion I ever did feel, therefore masking the powers of love, kindness, and happiness with a grey cloud of evil that my eyes never could penetrate. The only time I ever care for anything is when it has to do with my mother, because she is the only one to ever love me unconditionally. She is the only one who sees the good in me, even when I strive to have none.

Now, nine years later, life has changed, but only on the surface. Mother recontacted her parents, who had previously disowned her. They offered her a second chance, some 'rehabilitation'. They payed her to clean their home. She was not allowed to bring me there. They had no interest in meeting me. In sixteen years, they still haven't. They didn't offer any other kind of assistance, just a job. It payed enough to keep us fed and clothed. We didn't have to rummage through trash cans anymore. I didn't have to wear the same clothes every day. On the same token, we still had to eat cheap food, and I didn't get a choice in what I wore. I had what I had. The people still hated us. The dirty glares never stopped. They parted when we walked through so they didn't catch our disease of reputation. The hate wasn't necessarily directed at me, but it was my mother. So I stood in the line of fire.

I never forgot what happened those nine years ago. It infuriates me to know that no one had a enough of a soul to care about people. So I could never bring myself to treat people any different. Call it revenge, but it's justice. When I saw beggars, I scoffed and spit. They'd get nothing from me. They didn't deserve it. Call me bitter, but I prefer bitch.

Some watched with pity
Most avoided both our eyes
Better than the dimes

"You're mother's a whore"

they'd say. It bothered me but I can't argue with them. She was a whore. Not anymore, and not for a long time, but she was. Her struggle started when her parents disowned her for her extreme disobedience. The only way she could find to support herself was through prostitution. So she sold away her purity in return for a little bit of money and a lifetime of judgement. After time, to no ones shock, she became pregnant with yours truly, putting an end to her days of sex but not to her bad reputation. Of course, she doesn't know who my father was, because she had many customers. At least, that's what she told me. I think she knows, but she's protecting me from the worst the district has to offer.

Dimes are middle fingers
They are from the selfish saints
I'm good, look at me

The Hunger Games, the inevitable death of twenty-three poor gosh darn souls. "Oh boo hoo, I have to go to the games and die" get over yourself. Someone has to go, and instead of whining about yourself, be grateful that you were selected to save everyone else from having to go. That's why I like volunteers, they're heroes. Those people that go to the games, deserve it. Fate picked them for a reason. Stop whining. You can argue that I'm a hypocrite, because I don't volunteer, but I am perfectly fine admitting I'm not a hero. I'm not comfortable giving up my life and my mother to save someone who treats me like trash. No one deserves my grace. Maybe, in another District, one with people who care about each other, and treat everyone as family, I'd volunteer and risk myself for someone else. Maybe somewhere like District Eleven. But, in One, I find joy in watching our tributes die. It's hilarious to watch karma attack them. Yes, there are people like Opal, Peridot, and Topaz that didn't get the slaughter, but still, someone from this hell hole did. And that is what puts me to bed at night.

Mother then broke through
Found a job, serving the rich
We're not poor or wealth

I've spent a lot of time looking for my father. I do have some sort of clue. I look nothing like my mother, or her parents-- at least not from what I can tell, I've only seen them from afar. My looks have to come from my dad, so I look for men who look like me. I look for the light red hair that frizzes at the ends. I look for dark, blue eyes that come to a sharp point on either end. His skin has to be pale. Mother is very dark toned naturally, and I"m white as snow. Our lips will be skinny, and our noses sharp. I'm a lot taller than mom, so I imagine he is too. I look for big hands with stretched fingers. And even though his hair is carrot colored, he is without freckles. Aside from using my own looks, I used common sense. He could afford to waste money on a prostitute, so he was likely a couple of years older than mother since she was only eighteen when disowned. But he still must have been young enough to not have been married yet. I think I find him all the time, but I am never sure.

I'm not really sure why I've spent so much time looking for him. I hate him, I know I do. For not caring about me. He had to of known about me. Known I was his kid. Everyone had heard of the whore monger and her bastard. If I ever found him, I don't know what I'd do. I'd want to punch him, scratch him, kill him. But I may just walk on, because like I've said before, the less fortunate don't deserve anything from me.

I never told mom about my searches. There's a reason she's never shown him to me.

People ask for help
The same who gave us the dimes
Fuck the fuckers too