Keelan Faye D11 ~Done~

[Emma]

Name: Keelan Faye
Age: 16
Gender: Female
District/Area: District 11
Appearance:

-Brunette
-Green eyes
-Slightly Freckled

Personality:

-Humorous
-Little Flirty
-Very kind
-Soft hearted

History:

-Regular
-Hungry
-Work

Codeword: odair
Comments/Other:

[Emma]

{keelanfaye}




There are places I remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain

name keelan.faye (key-len)
age sixteen
gender female
district/area district 11
nickname(s) "kay"
sexuality bisexual

‡ Physical ‡

My skin, soft and thin. It tends to be the colour of sand. Pale, dry sand. The kind you see on a tropical beach or perhaps a dry field. Light, dusty, with no opaqueness. If you look from a far, I may look like a patch-work of blue and purple strings, tangled together under my skin, like they were painted there before they lay my skin on. They travel through my body. Strength, wisdom, and fear, run threw these strings. Pulsing threw my fingers and toes, and my brain. Feeding it warmth, and everything it may need. My veins, the pack mules of my body, carrying all the nutrients to the outer tips of me. My skin contains what my bones can not.

My limbs, thin and feeble, carry me where I tell them. The workers, and I call them. My arms stretch beyond my hips, my fingertips finally reaching half way down my scrawny thighs. Thighs placed on nimbly knees. The scrawny knees on teeny, bony shins, and finally ending with my "chicken" ankles. They stride with great lengths, proudly as they swing in a beat, consistent with the thumping of my heart, pounding in my chest, beneath those visible ribs. My bones contain what my muscles can not.

Upon my slim shoulders, rests my neck. Long and slim. Sitting in my collar-bones, which protrude in a horrible way. My head is very skim. My chin is a point, trimmed nicely. My cheeks are shallow, sunken into the structure of my skull, as if it fears the air around it. My cheekbones forming the top of my cheeks, like holding my eyes on a solid pedestal. Stone, marble maybe, representing the spot from the sun, signs from the hours of my work in the fields. Freckles, if that's what they call them. I only have a few of these. I wished that I would tan. Then I wouldn't burn. Speckles, Freckles, dots, whatever you may call them, they lightly accent my face. Lightly. Sharp eyebrows hung like banners over my eyes, matching my hair in colour. My hair, long and enviable. It waves naturally, preventing me from having to deal with it. It matches the colour of coffee, coffee with a pinch of cream. Flowing down my back like a great, rich, caffeinated drink. My humor never fails to surprises me. My head thinks up what my limbs can not.

My eyes are my favourite quality about myself. My eyes, the center of a face. My face. You can tell everything about someones mood by gazing into their eyes. What they're feeling. I wonder what my eyes look like. When I am full of emotion, what do they reflect? How do people see them. Their colour. Is green. Green as a fern just before fall. Deep, olive-ish green, with flecks of yellow-gold, like the leafs of the fern, ready to turn yellow and die. But just getting ready. It is strange sometimes, because even how much I deny that the colour will fade, they seem to turn more yellow with every passing day. Like a fern leaf. Maybe it's just physiological. My eyes reveal what my face does not.

‡ Mental ‡

Bisexual. It's a word that follows me around. There she goes. The one who likes boys and GIRLS. It's like a half of me. The evil half. I hate her. She takes over me. Sometimes, she dares me to look at that girl. In the eyes. Glance at her ass as she passes. Maybe even dare talk to her. She gets me in trouble, the side that's hot for girls. Girls, boys, girls, boys. It's a struggle. I prefer boys, for the sake of my image. But I don't care. Romance is a word that is in my dictionary, but the definition is different from most people's. Romance- noun -A feeling in which your alone, but with someone. Whether the gender, I never seem to feel that explosive feeling in your tummy. Sometimes it happens, if I'm super into them. But usually it makes me feel guilty, or regret it more than anything for a few days. But then I long for another once I get over it. Maybe I'm incapable of affectionate love. A freak of nature, never meant to have children, but just happens to be on the earth, a waste of space. A waste of a human, one who can't decide which sex she likes, no love, and no life. Romance.

Coward. It's been spat in my face before. Name-calling. I fear authority, I fear hunger, and I fear death. Death. Even the word gives me shivers. I don't understand it. What happens after the life drain out of you? Is it all over? Or is there really life after you-know-what. Do you drift off to another life? Sleep on a bed of clouds and watch the other people who are still down there struggling? If only that were the case. I like to think of myself, a transparent ghost, sitting in a bathtub of steaming, sweet-smelling water, feasting on a yummy pastry, conversing with the ones I love, with no troubles at all. If that's what life after death is like, I'm in. But I don't know that. And that's whats scary. Maybe you just die. You don't leave, just fade away into the cold darkness. I shudder at the thought. Fear- noun -Something that makes the pit of your stomach drop, something poisonous. I fear anything that isn't normal. Normal is my thing. Except for the part of me being bi. That's not normal around here. Normal as in, not in trouble, the idea that I made someone mad makes me feel like someone punched me in the gut with a fist labelled "guilt." I am scared of threatening people. People more popular, or bigger than me. People with power. If you confront me in the woods, or a dark alley, I won't fight. I will probably run away, climb a tree or building and hide. Violence isn't my thing. Fear.

Dreamer. I'll admit it. I dream. I dream all day. It keeps my mind off of the work, the pain, the gossip, and most importantly, it keeps me from turning on myself. Turning on who I am. Keelan Faye, not some great rebellious leader or something. No way. "Keelan?" They would say, "Keelan Faye? She would never!... She couldn't ever! She waltzes to her own tune, that one, soft in the head, and not to mention her heart!" I'm like the devil around here. Evil, poison to the mind of children. I find that kinda weird considering I never talk to anyone who isn't my friend or family. It's not like I plant terrible things into the minds of others. I dream yes. But not to other people. Dream.- noun, verb - A place where you go, inside your head, where no one can reach you and invade your esteem. "Head in the clouds."Just the way I like it. I go inside my head. It's nice and cool in there. You float around in the darkness, like smoke, dancing in your own pattern. Nobody in in there, no one but me. Its my place. But I'm not there all the time. I'm there when I work, but some people call me lazy when I think while working. I zone out, even hum, and forget what I'm doing, and barely put any work into it. I'm not useless or lazy, no matter how many people say it. Dream.

Delicate. Is being fragile possible? Mentally? I prefer the term insane, or unstable. Delicate makes it sound like you will shatter, like a piece of china. But your person can't shatter? Maybe you can, but I have never seen it. I have seen people go insane, slowly. I myself am insane. Crazy. I whisper to myself. But isn't that normal? I have always thought it was. Normal. The way I think things threw is a bit strange. But normal. Don't make Keelan too stressed or she may rip your head off. Or she might just fall down in a heap and weep, doing nothing to stop the flow of useless tears. Insane- noun, verb- A state of mind in which a person is confused as to who they are. Being insane isn't bad. Just violence is bad. Someone who is crazy for violence is bad. The ones who whisper to themselves are the ones who are the most normal of all people. It's just everyone else who are the crazy ones.Insane.

‡ Where I Have Been. ‡

Infant.

16 years ago, I was born. It was a winter morning. Wednesday. My father is superstitious. "Wednesday's child is full of woe." I have always been trouble from the start. Or so he says. I think he may hate me. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because of Wednesday, but that's no reason to hate your child. No reason. Perhaps it's because I'm bi. He's very traditional. I was not a fat baby. Rolling around our tiny farm house in the country, in a hamlet near the fields where we work. Wheat. I toddled around the house, helping to weed the gardens, as we were and are always hungry. I don't remember those years much. I remember the day that Sage was born. Sage, my dear sister. My best and only friend. I was 3 years old on that day. It was a summer night. Saturday. "Saturday's child works hard for it's living." She was automatically Father's favourite. And she lives up to her line in the silly poem. She is a hard worker. She works crazy hard. She is crazy, like me, but she will do anything for a spare coin. Anything. It worry's me. She's only 13. Dear little Sage. Don't hurt yourself out there in the world.

Child.

Work. Work is the key. The key to everything. It's all I have known. During the season when we aren't waiting for it to grow, the planting, the harvest, anything else, we work. No sleep, no meals. Your practically dead by the end of it. You insides hurt and your eyes are always full of sand. Sleep deprived children, hungry children, hunched in the fields where I work. The adults run the old, rusty, machinery, but we get to pull weeds, and tend the gardens by hand. Back breaking, skin burning work. I hated every second, and still do. But I dealt with it. I had no other option. Peacekeeper infestation. Someone should control them. Use some pesticides or something. How I hated them. But I never said it.

Teen and Onward.

Being a teen is awkward. And everyone knows that. Acne, puberty, confusion, the point where you feel like your head is full of nothing but air. The struggle of sexuality. That's all when I started to notice things about myself. My body, bony and ugly, nothing compared to the TV stars from the Capitol. And my clothes. I can always been seen wearing neutral colours, with the occasional bright. My house, a tiny, 1 bedroom home, which I have always shared with my Mother, Lucia, my Father, Libo, my little sister, Sage and our vermin catcher, Gingy. He is a good little cat, feeding himself and keeping the rats under control. Lucia, my mother, I never used to see much of. She would always work overtime to feed us another mouthful. But now that we are older and we work also, she is home more. Beautiful. She is so beautiful. You can see it through the sunburn scars, the age lines and the pain in her eyes. My father is a bulky man. Skinny, but wide. Sage is blonde, but other than that, she looks just like me, with the same fern eyes and freckles. Sage. My possesions include a single black thread with a little black bead on it, with an eyeball engraved in it, and a little ball-point pen with a little bit of fake silver on the tip. Everything else around here is either rusty or drab in colour.
Hunger. Pain. They are no strangers to my family, and not my district either. District 11. The second poorest, hungriest district in all of Panem. Only after 12. Not much a difference though. It's funny how the district who produces most of the country's food is one of the least well-fed. 12 produces minerals, it would be expected for them to be a bit on the slim side, but not us. We should be the best fed. But we have more mouths to feed. Starving children, working in the fields to put your food on your table. How guilty do you feel now.

‡ Comments. ‡

thoughtstextmoodswordsothersnotes
odair
Song: In My Life -The Beatles
Faceclaim: Maddie Kulicka

All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all

[Emma]

Finally Finished! Phew XD

[Emma]

Bump.

[Emma]

Bump

[[ retro gm ] angel lí ✨]

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