eve eon }} nine }} fin

Her mouth was made of marshmallow. Candy tongue wrapped around sweet caramel - as sugary as her words might have been, they were only ever for the benefit of another. And so she did not mind the syrupy sweetness, the poison nectar which secreted from her fingertips and settled within unsuspecting scalps as she ran her fingers through matted hair. Her alley was always packed, cardboard sign hung upon a rusty pipe with silver string. Golden glitter glue, sloppy letters branding the dark brown and turning it into something new and beautiful.

OPƎN.

There was a crate, old and dirty and you could not tell that it was once vibrant red - like licorice that stuck to her teeth and began to rot them from the inside out - but it was hers. And there was a mirror, one propped up upon a green garbage can so that her customers could smile and laugh and run their hands through hair that had not been properly cleaned or cut in such a long time.

And sometimes, treasures would fall into her lap. Imports from the capitol, bleaches and dark hues of berry and blue. The shops she watched always had so much equipment, brushes and bottles galore- more than a single pair scissors to snip away at lions' manes. They wasted the liquid gold, throwing out near full bottles all because their death date had come to pass. They were nobodies once they sat in a black trash bag and so then they became hers too.

For hours, she would sit outside posh salons. Watching artist's silver brushes glide across a stranded canvas, snipping and searing and turning silken black to platinum blonde. It was captivating; days on end would slip through small hands desperately trying to imitate the intricate motion Picassos pulled off with such ease. That is, until they began to notice the trash sat outside their stores, a dirty homeless ruffian with dirt dusted upon the tops of her cheeks was never good for business.

Before she knew it, the bristles of brooms were scraping against her skin, as though she were nothing more than dirt to be swept under a woven rug, because she was the ugly that customers did not want to see. Ragged, alone, a child left to her own devices without enough food to keep her ribs from poking through pale pink skin. Her only comfort had become hostile.

It was then that she opened up her ally. A bucket for a sink, rusty scissors boiled over a trashcan fire- sharpened against cinder blocks so that they would not fray the ends of her customer's hair. She practiced on herself for weeks on end, snipping away at dead ends and slathering chemicals upon its roots.

She was thirteen and a half, with clumsy fingers and shaking lips. But her patience had paid off, natural talent ending in beautiful artwork and cotton candy colors. But of course, she didn't charge for her services, most of her customers couldn't even offer a penny in exchange anyway. They were sweet, the same as her. The types that would be chased off of street corners even though their smiles were genuine and filled with love and gratitude. Still seen as nothing more than stains by stores they stumbled into - willing to work for the money that they so desperately needed.

With the tips that some of her customers offered, she started to buy paints too. Vanity items to hide the sores upon their skin or the flaking of their lips. Kohl to line their eyes and make them pop- showcasing the inner beauty that she already knew lay somewhere just below the layer scum and dirt that unfortunate circumstance had brought to the surface.

Why?

It was art, and she loved it.

It was hers.

It was hers.

Three years. It was hers for three years until the peacekeepers came with their guns drawn and smiles stuck behind black visors. "Where's your business permit, Ma'am." Patronizing tones, nothing but artificial sweetness poured into rich coffee. They tasted fake, made her want to gag. "It's illegal to run a business without a permit, Ma'am." Her bed was a little ways away from her store, hidden by a blue tarp so that it did not seem unprofessional during business hours.

And that is where she hid, as they shattered her mirror, pocketed her scissors, poured her dyes and shampoos onto the concrete before crushing her makeup collection within gloved hands so that the white was stained with every one of her colors. It was fun to them, bored men with nothing better to do than terrorize something that was never going to be anything more than nothing. She was so insignificant that her pain was fun. The whimpering from behind her tarp was music to angry ears and she could not bare to face the first wave of customers that would come that next morning, eager and desperate for a chance to change their life. To pretend to be something they're not because that is what you have to do to succeed in District Nine.

She'd never feel so insignificant again. There was a blue flame beneath her now, charring what was once so soft and white- disfiguring everything she had wanted to be. Weak, easily taken advantage of, something to watch suffer because you were bored and out of booze.

Perhaps everything that had been hers meant nothing to any other person but hell it meant so much to her.

To become strong, she had to pretend that she already was. With wrapped knuckles and bloody lips. And yes, Eve knew that filling out the application was a mistake but there was nothing left to care about. No point building up what would only be destroyed. Because she was dirt to be swept beneath a woven rug but this time she would not let them. Not without a fight.