EXCLAMATION JONES | D1

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IGNORE THIS POSTKTHANXBYE

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[bg=000000][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true] Primadonna girl All I ever wanted was the world I can't help it, I need it all The Primadonna life, the rise and fall LAYER ONE: CUTICLE NAME: Exclamation Jones GENDER: Female AGE: Seventeen DISTRICT: One Picture perfect with hair that looks like the gold the Queen spun from straw. She knows it too, as everyday it's curled or permed, straighten and changed because she knows they're all looking at it. Her hair's her treasure; that's why they call her shallow, vain. The Beauty Queen has to retain her throne and this is the way to do it. She buys the latest products from the Capitol, not only for her hair but for her blemished face, freckled with moles all over. But yet, it is those locks that get the most treatment, and they slowly are degrading, soon to leave her without the one thing that she's mastered. The hair flip as she walks by, the scent of strawberries and perfume and luxury that only the best can afford. She smiles and winks, buck-toothed pearly whites contrasting with the gap between her front teeth. The populace teases, calls her a beaver, bets ten bucks on her ability to whistle. Her eyes, legend says that they once were the muddiest brown known to mankind, but they seem to be emerald one day, amber the next, indigo the third. The eyes are known to be the window to the soul but when they look into her mechanical gaze all they see is the reflection from the facade. That's what scares them, that the five-foot-eight-112-pounds of flesh standing in front of them is a robot, invincible, perfect in almost every way except that very thought makes her the opposite. They can't see the scars hidden beneath, the squeaks and grinding of rusty parts and broken pieces. But sometimes they can hear it in her voice, her laugh that echoes but sounds as empty as a cavern. LAYER TWO: CORTEX EXCLAMATION, even a name that sounds fake. But she owns it and everything she says seems to be imperative, a little raising of pitch, a little louder amplitude. Bubbly and energetic, manipulative and cutthroat. There are many layers to Exclamation Jones, but the constant, annoying, nasal, high-pitched voice resonates with every personality change. Sometimes she acts like an angel, a serene goddess that you never quite knew existed. She gives to the homeless, the orphans, the destitute, cooking for them and handing out parcels like she's Florence Nightingale. She'll help you with your homework if you ask although with her reputation, one would never ask her for homework help lest they want to fail the next test. But then there's the 180 degree turn, to the who is an arsenal of secrets, the girl who keeps them for protection. The girl who strives to be the top of everything: top of the class, top of the social ladder, top of the food chain. Cutthroat, competitive, can't be trusted. High school is a lake of piranhas, snapping and clawing for the latest target. She sits above it all, untouchable, unflappable. But there are those moments, when she thinks she's alone, that you can see fragments leak out of their containers and out of her body. The glares, the shoulders that hunch forward, the shoulders that droop, the smile that fades for a split second before being plastered on once more. Her mask of makeup is flawed, that's for certain, and the thing that lives underneath may sometimes rise to the surface. LAYER THREE: MEDULLA I try. I try so hard. But it's never enough. They always fight, after he went through those battles, the twenty-three other to get back to her, to his beloved. That bond has tattered beyond repair, only superglued because of the watching paparazzi. And because they themselves can't duke it out on the arena, they turn to me and yell and scream and I'm never enough no never enough because they say so. And what they say is law. It's a warzone in my house, the picture-perfect dollhouse in the picture-perfect village in the picture-perfect district, the Capitol's toy, its own little dollhouse to look at, admire, but never emulate. Because emulating the dollhouse is never the right thing to do. The clothes are always too tight, too revealing, not revealing enough. The furniture is always too small to sit on, too uncomfortable to rest your head on. And the china dolls with their faces, never changing, always smiling or smirking or sitting there. Stoic. Perhaps it's our own fault that we turned out this way, turned into porcelain dolls that can never change their faces. I know we're odd, everyone else does too. Yes, the secrets. I keep them because I have to, because I know that the world is an arena, and the ones with no advantages, with no way to fight, no way to win, get killed in the Bloodbath. "Win or die," is what he says, and I know that he's right because he's been there firsthand, right in the metaphorical warzone that claimed twenty-three others but saved his heart for another day. Everything about me is fabricated, sewn up and stitched until I'm something else, something brighter and better and smarter and kinder who has all the answers to all the questions and knows how to use them. Or at least, that's the goal, the fated upgrade. For now I've retained all the answers, but the questions have still eluded me. But one day, the question will come and I'll be able to answer them and then I'll win, just like the two who live in the dollhouse with me. Winning is the most important thing. It always is. Always. FACECLAIM: Ashley Smith SONG: Primadonna Girl by Marina and the Diamonds PASSWORD: odair Inspired by the album Electra Heart and Irene Adler from Sherlock

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done!

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

Accepted!

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