lilith reagan ❧ district two

note: seventeen as of the 84th
Her index fingers crept along the sides of her skull, sweeping the final flyaway hairs behind her ears. Dark hair disappeared into a neat bun, and the bangs that usually covered her forehead were not visible. Ideally, no one who saw her would find anything to criticize about her appearance (although, deep down, she knew they probably still could; she was prone to blemishes and rashes, and on some days she didn’t bother with the put-together look at all). They would be forced to look her in the eye; her deep brown to someone else’s green, hazel, blue.
“Like brushing the dust off of a work of art,” she mimicked her mother’s crystalline voice, a fresh whisper in her ear, although she was not present now. Lilith was the daughter of an artist in more ways than one. Her mother made graphite drawings and paintings that adorned every corner of their house, strategically placed so any overly pompous visitors would say, “Oh, Daphne, you’re quite the artist!” And of course, it was also her mother’s strategies that made her an artist.
The Reagan bloodline was filled with greats - or so her mother told her. No matter what career or hobby each family member pursued, image was the one thing they all valued. Be pristine, and perfect, and poised, and eugh. Lilith loathed it all. She didn’t see the point in trying to appear “flawless” for the sake of the family; in some cases, vulnerability was worth the gain. How many times had she gotten information out of someone or secured a position she wanted at school by just being honest, or maybe befriending someone or telling a story? She wasn’t a liar, not in the slightest; in fact, that was one of the reasons she struggled with “image” anyway. It was better to say nothing than to trip over your words, have your voice go up an octave, or have no sound come out at all. Lilith did not live to please others. She was independent. If the choice was down to appearances or benefit, she would choose benefit every time.
Yet, despite how often she clashed with her family about not “upholding the reputation” or what may have you, she still cared for them. They looked out for her, even if it was for their own personal gain. When she looked at family photos and saw her mother, her father, her sister Calista who had sadly passed, she saw people who would defend her. Behind the tight-lipped smiles were radiant grins, in the deep brown eyes love lingered, and as the shortest member of the family (other than six-year-old Calista, who had loved her endlessly), her father would always rest his hand atop her head with ease, caressing it like she was the most precious metal he’d ever own. Maybe it was twisted, but it was nice to know that there were people who would always have her back, even when they shouted and quarreled with her, and even if it hurt a bit to be disapproved of, although she wasn’t seeking approval in the first place. Lilith would do the same for others. She’d always value loyalty, no matter what form it took.
Lilith loved art, too. She had a stack of sketches on her vanity and would occasionally doodle on herself, dreaming of getting her own tattoo someday. Not large and Capitol-esque, but something more Lilith-like. Something more meaningful. Her parents were not as on board with the idea, though; her father would say, “you’re sixteen, you can’t make decisions like that”, and her mother, ever full of metaphors, would say, “that’s like chipping a good piece of marble.” Occasionally Lilith would sit outside her house, braced against the rocky terrain of Two, and draw away, the cool air revitalizing her when she felt like her sanity was being chipped away. Through this, she imagined her own world, where her sister didn't pass from illness and perfection was secondary to happiness.
But before her mirror, she made sure she looked presentable. Because if she could play the part, she would get closer to her goal; freedom. She would call for her parents to come in when they knocked at her door, although they merely poked in their heads and asked if she was ready. Lilith would turn and smile, and she would say, "Ready." Her parents would walk down the hall, and she'd give one last glance to her reflection before she exited, noting how she didn't really look different from how she usually did, a contradictory, uncertain young girl. But most people would not see that.
After all, looks could be deceiving.