Aria Mava // District 3 // FIN

I sit in front of the mirror in my bedroom, brushing my long, black hair. Memories cascade in my head as the brush untangles my hair. It always happens to me. The small mirror in my bedroom reminds me of pain and suffering. I have sleepless nights wondering why I'm continuing to stare at something that reminds me of all the pain I had to go through, and still have to go through. I still continue to look at the mirror. I try to forget, but it just keeps coming back.

Many people envy me because of how I look. They envy my soft, bright, skin, not knowing how many bruises I have on my back. They want my dark brown eyes, not knowing all the tears I shed. They want my soft lips that are like honey, not knowing how much I shouted and cursed my entire life. If only they knew what it was like to be in my body, would they still want to be me?

I may look pretty, but I'm weak. I couldn't balance well. I couldn't handle a knife properly. Not that I've tried. My mother would never let me. It's funny how she says training would cause me to have bruises and she wouldn't want that, when she constantly abuses me, causing bruises on my back. I wish I could fight back one day, but I just couldn't. I wouldn't be able to do it, and it could cause more damage. I try to be stronger. I try.

I'm not that outgoing. I'm very secretive. When I have the chance, I go out and enjoy my own company. The air isn't exactly fresh, full of factories and buildings, but I don't mind. I take time to walk, hoping everything will somehow get better soon. I try forgetting about the pain when I'm outside. Sometimes it works, but as soon as I get home it all comes back.

I have some trust issues. I haven't told anyone about how it's really like to be me, and I don't plan to. I don't want to keep it secret, but I just don't feel like telling as well. It's way too consuming, which is why I usually avoid people. I don't plan to put my life on the line for someone, ever. I don't even have any actual friends at school. I just like being alone in my own world.

I'm what people usually call a "snob". I don't really mind people when they ask "How are you?" or "What's wrong?". I just continue with what I'm doing until they leave, rarely leaving the remark "She's such an arrogant snob." or something along those lines. They think that I'm some sort of cocky, mean person just because I'm "pretty". I try to be more social and interact more. I try.


When I was about six, my mother, father, and I lived a normal life. I remember sitting on my bed, my mother brushing my hair and smiling at the mirror.
"You look so pretty." She said.
"When you get older, we could go off to the Capitol and they'd simply love you."
Being six, I happily agreed and nodded. My mother always called my beauty "capitol-worthy". At first it was all compliments, until just after my 10th Birthday.

I remember coming home from school in the flower crown my dad made for me. It was too big for me at the time, but I still chose to wear it. I was prancing around town like a princess, with people occasionally smiling at me, and me smiling back at them. I didn't know how hard their lives were, yet they still managed to crack a smile.

I walked home to my mother sitting next to my father's dead body, a bottle in one hand, a knife in the other. I burst into tears, yet she seemed to be showing no emotion at all. 
"How did this happen?" I managed to ask in-between sobs. 
My mother simply looked me straight in the eye.
"Stop crying, put on a brave face."
I was still wiping away my tears. 
"Stop crying, Aria."
"I'm trying!"
"Don't talk to me that way."
I couldn't believe it. My mother, the one who used to shower me with compliments, whose smile lit up my day, who took care of me, who loved me...
She ripped out my father's belt and struck my shoulder, which made me cry even more.
"I want you to go out there, put on a nice dress, look pretty, and show them that you're worthy of the Capitol." She said, with a strike in every word.
"I'll try OK!" 
I didn't have a choice. Once my mother stopped, I immediately went up to the bathroom and washed my face. I thought that maybe she would forget about it if I obeyed her.

I was wrong. That whole year, she'd make me wear tight dresses and take photos of me smiling in them, to send to the Capitol. I never knew why, I just went along with it. Until one day, after I turned twelve, I walked into the kitchen to see her drinking.
"Why do you want to go to the Capitol so bad?" 
She stopped abruptly and looked me in the eye. It was scary, but I was ready for whatever she was about to give me. Or I thought I was.
"Think about all the things in store for you at the Capitol. Grand parties, nice dresses, colorful make-up. And you won't be sent to the Games. Now go back to your room. I don't want to hear any more of it." She continued to sip her drink.
"What happened to father?"
"Aria, go back to your room."
"I need to know the truth."
"I killed him!"
I put my hand over my mouth in shock. I was prepared for beatings, for another round of fitting dresses. Not for what she just said.
I immediately ran up to my room to cry into my pillow. I wanted to get out of this place, but I knew I couldn't. Not yet. Not then.

Until now, I still want to escape or fight back, but I can't bring myself to do it. I just keep hiding it. I want to try. I really, really, really want to try.