Post by Deleted on Jan 16, 2014 21:51:02 GMT -5
Name:
Esther Salvera
Age:
16
Gender:
Female
District/Area:
District 2
Appearance:
I always notice my flaws before I notice my perfections.
My eyebrows are cowards. They hide on my face by making themselves a light blonde color, blending into my skin almost to an extent to which they aren't seeable anymore. I tried dyeing them once when I was younger. Dyeing them to a brunette color and the result was a disastrous pair of eyebrows that were even uglier than the ones before it.
My forehead is just slightly larger than it should be. It's noticeable, at least to me. My nose is slightly squashed and I have a small scar that is always caked in makeup on my right cheek. You may not be able to see it, but I can.
My perfections? I don't have many, at least to my self I don't. My cheeks are one, maybe. With their red coloring it makes it look like i'm always blushing, which personally I think makes me prettier. I'm skinny, i've always been skinny. That's both a blessing and a curse, I can't even tell you how many times i've had people think i'm starving myself or something. Surrounded by flaws are perhaps my greatest asset, my eyes. They're a bright blue, confident, unlike my eyebrows. On top of my pale complexion and rosy cheeks they stand out, contrasting against almost everything else about me.
Personality:
Deceiving.
I can fake a lot of things. Confidence, Kindness, Gratitude, Sorrow. My personality is ever-changing because I have the ability to do that. If i'm talking to you and I sense that you don't like my personality, I change it. It's really a simple matter, at least to me. But in this district, where the Careers run free and cliques and groups make up every part of my class and the kids my age, I'm gonna need to have the ability to change at a moments notice. Survival of the fittest, right?
But underneath that ever-morphing and changing personality is a self-conscious and unconfident individual. I can hardly make it through the day without finding something wrong with myself. Mirrors are my greatest enemy. When I was younger, before all these flaws and ugly aspects started to show themselves, I looked at mirrors as a way for people to see who they really are.
I didn't know that I was right, nor did I know that what I saw when I looked in the mirror would completely alter my own view of myself. I was right, mirrors do allow you to see who you truly are. No one person can fully see themselves if they don't have a mirror. But mirrors have a different purpose. Mirrors have the unparalleled ability to point out your flaws and make you see them forever and ever. What is seen cannot be unseen.
Things go downhill quickly if you point out something wrong with me. My forehead, my eyebrows, anything. Anything is vulnerable. I fear breaking down a lot. I fear just completely cracking because of some stupid comment that some insignificant person made.
My life is ruled by insecurities and false confidence.
History:
Small and delicate hands pulled an equally small and fragile body up onto the top of our large coffee table in the middle of our living room. I can still feel the exhilarating feeling of standing on top of that table, carefully avoiding the objects on the table as my blue eyes stared down the floating and mesmerizing object that had just hit the ceiling.
My target? A metallic red colored balloon that was left over from my brother's birthday party. I don't know what had intrigued me so much about the object, perhaps it was it's unique shape and form or maybe it was the color of it. All I knew was that I wanted it, and I would do anything to get it. That's why I had climbed up on top of the coffee table to jump and quickly grab the balloon string, before landing on my feet.
Oh, how I wish it were that easy.
I believe the last thing I saw before I jumped was my face reflected in the balloon, it's appearance distorted and twisted as the balloon's shape saw fit. Tiny feet pushed off the edge of the table before I dropped, barely making it half of the distance between the prize before I fell.
A quick drop to the ground before an equally small cheekbone landed against the hard surface of the marble surrounding our fireplace.
A quick cracking sound, before a liquid even redder than the balloon seeped out.
A scream.
Three months later I stood in front of the mirror that hung off of the back of my bedroom door, nervously touching the scar that now littered my face, it's jagged and defined appearance cutting down my rosy cheek.
It would be only a few hours before my life would be completely devoted to covering up that scar, among other things.
School. Fourth grade and in the second row vertically came the first of a series of comments that would destroy my confidence. The first was about the scar that was now on my face, from a mean boy who's name I didn't want to remember. "What is that ugly thing Esther?" I couldn't tell if the ugly thing was me or my scar. I chose that it was me.
Tears accompanied me on my way home that evening, and no amount of reconciliation or "he doesn't matter" comments from my parents could change them. It was done. The first stab at my outer shell, my confidence, had been taken and the first crack had started to show.
I started wearing makeup the next year, which only served to amplify the comments and looks from both teachers and students alike. A girl this young wearing makeup? It was preposterous. It started our with simply covering my scar, caking it with makeup (Starting out I wasn't very good at the whole makeup thing), but that only served to draw more attention to the scar area. My face looked even weirder with a patch of beauty product covering it. So I gradually started to do more and more, layering my face and it's imperfections until I saw them to be gone.
But they weren't. They were still there. They still hid under the surface and remember that crack in my shell earlier? It was about to spread.
The second comment of the three came when I was older, much older than before. Puberty had come and gone, and to others I appeared pretty. I wasn't. Makeup still rested on my flaw infested face, and after a series of... Unpleasant arguments with some girl in my class things finally came to a heat. I chose my words carefully, she didn't. "You makeup caked slut" A brief moment of utter shock from me and a smug smile from her before the sound of fingers hitting cheek echoed throughout the hallway. Now, the looks were even. Both equally shocked looks were latched onto our faces before a thin trail of red appeared right on the girl's cheek, a result of my fingernail puncturing her skin when I had slapped her.
Slut
I don't know why she didn't fight back, slap me back to try and knock some sense into me or something as I fled the scene, but for the second time in my life tears were my only companion on my walk home. But this time there was no support from my parents. No. Being the teenager I was I merely locked myself inside my room, refusing to come out until I had cried all the tears I could produce.
It would be a mere few months before the third crack would appear and my shell would shatter. At the age of 15 I briefly went through a stage in which my outfits became smaller and certain parts of my body became a lot more noticeable. You know what I mean. This, of course, was much to my father's dismay. No father wants to see his little girl become one of those girls before his very eyes. And for the second time things again came to a heat, an intense argument in which my father berated my outfit choice for the day.
"I don't want my daughter looking like some whore!"
His final sentence ended the argument, and started something entirely new. Almost as soon as my father said it he'd apologized. But what was done was done. Words were said and they could not be forgotten or erased by a simple apology. No, they were there, written on my face along with my scar, my barely larger than normal forehead and my cowardly eyebrows.
A door slam and crying were the only sounds that would be heard from the room of Esther Salvera that night.
When it would re-open there would be someone entirely new, in both outfit choices and personality. That shell had broken, it had fell to the floor like the first tear that had slipped off of her cheek had. But it gave way to a new type of shell, one that would not merely be broken by words or comments. No, that shell was there and it was there to stay.
A "stronger" Esther stood in her doorway then, and no matter how many comments she had to endure, how many tears she would shed, how many times she'd break, she would change herself to fit the people that had hurt her so.
She would change, and she would be there to stay.
Codeword:
Odair
Other:
