Rarity Hawking | D1 | DONE
Aug 29, 2014 14:09:02 GMT -5
Post by Death on Aug 29, 2014 14:09:02 GMT -5
A/N: There's cursing in this bio, just as a warning. Use of G-D, F-bomb, s-word, etc.
[googlefont="Crushed:400"]r a r i t y s p a r k h a w k i n g
f e m a l e | a g e d 1 6
d i s t r i c t o n e
n o t h i n ' w r o n g w i t h b e i n g j u s t a l i t t l e b i t v a i n
w e n e e d a l i t t l e p r e t t y c u z t h i s c o u n t r y ' s i n s a n e
s o g o a h e a d a n d l a b e l m e w h a t e v e r y o u l i k e
b u t n o t h i n g s q u i t e a s s e x y a s a w o m a n i s f i n e
I am beautiful. I am beautiful and you have to know this just by looking at me. I’m a Rarity among these brutish careers. Just look at me, hon. You’ll see. Just give it a bit. Just look at my blue eyes. Aren’t they pretty, huh? They’re my grandmother’s. Just like hers, I should say. I’m not so sadistic as to steal my own grandmother’s eyes. They’re young eyes. Fresh, clear. Studded with long eyelashes that are completely natural all on their own.
All right. Maybe I put some mascara on them. But, I mean, who doesn’t, right? It makes them prettier and longer than they already are. So, you know what, screw you and your judgement. I honestly don’t give a damn about it. Okay. Maybe a little. But screw that.
So maybe if my eyelashes aren’t completely mine, you’ll see that my hair is. It’s all mine. All that luscious flowing and coursing of hair. It’s beautiful isn’t it? I bet if a guy bedded me, that would be his favorite part. Running his fingers through my hair. Well, maybe I’m exaggerating. But it’s soft and it’s long and it’s this rich dark brown color. Like coffee grounds. It even smells good like coffee grounds. Although it more often smells like some kind of darkly-scented shampoo. Something musky and sexy.
All right. Still not seeing the beauty in me, yet? All right. Let’s go to my face, then. Even my face shape is representative of rarity. It’s diamond shape. Get it? I have a strong jaw, with great cheekbones that show just enough to give my face that look of sexy, but not enough to make me look like a District 12 tribute. Ripred, those bastards are skinny. How they manage to pull out wins, I’ll never be sure.
All right, so maybe my face isn’t perfect. My lips are full, I guess, but they’re this shape that I absolutely hate. They’re like my mother’s lips. They’re just… lips. Not special or rare or anything. It’s like there’s no shape to them, since they don’t arc and point like other girl’s. I hate wearing brightly colored lipstick, since it doesn’t look right on my blobs that are lips.
But! I’ve got a nice forehead, right? It’s not too special, but it’s not horrendous like my lips. My nose is just a basic, run-of-the-mill nose too. It’s just straight and average sized. Not huge, thankfully, but also not small, thankfully. I guess that’s one thing I should be happy about. Although, I always wished it had a little snub to it like some of my friends have to their noses. It makes them look so adorable.
Eyes and eyebrows… Eyebrows aren’t really mine. Well, they are, but they naturally grow all over the place. I have to pluck them every couple of days since they’ll absolutely lose their shape if I don’t. But I pluck them well, I think. And they’re dark. Some of my blonde friends have eyebrows and eyelashes that just fade into their faces because they’re so light. My eyes—oh my Ripred. I’ve totally managed to master that sexy smoldering look that other girls do. I’m so proud of myself! You just have to make your eyelids droop a little and pretend that you’re always pissed off about something. I don’t know how it’s especially sexy to always be angry, but it seems to work for the other girls.
Still can’t see it? OH MY RIPRED! How much fucking convincing do you need?! I’M BEAUTIFUL, DAMNIT.
All right. Let’s just calm down, hon. Call yourself, Rarity. We’ll show them. Just move on past the face. Show them that body loads would kill for.
A neck. I have a nice neck. I like it, at least. Mother says it’s too thin for a potential tribute. Says it’ll be really easy to snap. But, if I’m thin and pretty, I’ll get more sponsors, you know? More sponsors means I’ll win. It’s easy math.
But you know where the money-winners are? My collarbones. Yup. And my shoulders. They’re so pretty. You can see my collarbones just enough so that you can tell I’m thin, but I’ve still got some meat on my bones. I mean, I don’t really eat much to make sure I can stay thin. Mom says it’s not good to have a constantly rumbling stomach. But you know what, screw her.
I mean, the tributes who eat loads and are never hungry get so weak from being hungry. Maybe I’ll be strong. My mother said that when her brother was reaped, he’d starved himself so many times before that he was weak and that’s why he didn’t win. But I watched the recaps. He lost because he screwed a girl and she slit his throat after it was over. He was weak beside he couldn’t keep it in his pants.
But I can. I’ve been so strong. I’ve sworn off boys until I turn 19. When I’m either 19 or a victor, I’ll screw whoever I want to and not feel a bit of guilt. Until then, though, I have to remain manless.
Anyways! Back to convincing you of my beauty. You’ll see it. I know you will.
I’m a wonderful height. 5’ 9”. I’m tall enough to be tall, but short enough to be dainty. I can put muscle on my bones and it’ll make me look hot instead of fat. Well, maybe not hot. But, you know what. Screw that. All the girls who have the boys fawning over them have muscles. I should have some more, but it’s just so difficult for me. I can’t explain it. I get tired so easily.
So, so easily.
Ripred, I’m weak.
Just a pretty face. That’s all I really am. All I feel that I am. Sure, I can recite battle strategy so fast it’ll make your head spin, but that’s all it is. A hoax. Something to make me feel good about myself. Something to make people say, “Oh my Ripred, Rarity. You’re so smart,” instead of, “Oh my Ripred. You’re so pretty.”
All I can do is memorize and recite. That’s it. I don’t even know if I’ve had an original thought. I believe what I’m told with the naivety of a child. A damn child. That’s all I am. Too goddamn trusting of the world and people around me. I’d love to be cynical. I’d love to be a sarcastic little shit that the Capitol folks seem to eat up. I’d have them eating out of my palms if I could be a strong, sexy vixen with a thirst for blood.
I didn’t even have the heart to put a hamster out of its misery. A stupid little hamster. How weak is that? No. Rather than drowning it quickly, or taking a knife and chopping off its head, I put it in a little towel and held it to my stomach while it squeaked with the pain and fear of death.
I’m weak. My sister? My younger sister? She’s strong. She’s gorgeous, strong, sadistic. Everything a Career district parent could ever dream of in a daughter. She says, tell me what I’ll be and I’ll become it. I say, tell me what you want and I’ll try my hardest but ultimately fail.
Just a pretty face. That’s all I am. A pretty face in a place where it only helps and doesn’t enable. An innocent child in a place where being one will get you killed so fast you wouldn’t even believe it.
Why the hell am I telling you this? Maybe because I can tell you can already see it. The insecurity that’s no different from herpes. Once you get it, it’s a life’s battle. It has its flare ups. And, when you have it, you rip people you come in contact with down to your level and give them a dose of what you’ve got.
I’m disgusting.
Oh, Ripred. I’m crying. Screw it. One second. Just let me dry my eyes and I’ll quit complaining.
I’m sorry you had to see that. Normally I can keep a lid on my feelings. I just pretend that I’m shallow and don’t give shit and most people buy it. I pretend to be a melodramatic airhead so that people can’t see what’s behind it. The fear that that’s all I truly am. An act.
I’m sorry. I’m act it again. The self-hate. Whew. Let me compose myself.
I’m a great actress and an even better liar. It’s a talent, I have to admit. I love to pretend to be who I’m not. Once my parents realized that I was so good at taking on new roles for myself, they enrolled me in some acting classes and prayed that I’d be good at something.
Generally, I can talk myself out of anything. You just have to tug on the right heartstrings. Manipulation is also a weapon at my disposal. My parents always encouraged that. Whenever I would manipulate them successfully, they’d always give me what I wanted. I mean, of course, that was the plan the whole time. The times I were most proud were when they didn’t even realize I was.
I’m a regular con artist. I slip into any role I need to. Right now, I’m the airheaded career daughter who everybody leaves alone because she’s worthless and just a pretty face. Which, I am, but I can’t let them know that that’s what I believe.
I’ve tried being a good person. Well, still try. Sometimes, I leave extra food out for the servants, since my parents don’t pay them very well. I also leave presents for them. Nice things that they could sell. I know they’re things I would never have wanted to use anyways (like a pair of hideous diamond and platinum skulls my Aunt got me for my birthday) but it’s the thought that counts, right? If it’s anything really expensive, I always leave a note with my stamp on it. Something that says, “I, Rarity Hawking, have given this away and have given permission for it to be sold for money.”
Something tells me that they don’t always sell the presents. I’ve seen the women wearing some of the jewelry. I think they might be unable to sell them, which makes me feel bad, so then I switch over to leaving food again. I use my own money on the food, too. My parents would kill me if they found out I left things for servants.
But, I guess it just doesn’t feel like enough. When I see the lower district tributes on the television, I join my family in jeering at them for their weakness, but, I can’t help thinking that I could be in their place. It was just an accident of birth that I was born to exceedingly wealthy parents. I could just as easily have been born into District 12 to a family of eight and never had enough food ever.
When I think about things like that, I just want to run outside and start screaming to the world, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry for being born wealthy and not giving another person a chance to be!”
You know I was born rich and stuff, but you don’t really know too much else about me. Let’s see. I was born September 18. 7 pounds, 6 ounces, 19 inches long. Third born child of Argus and Helena Hawking, but first to live past infancy. I would have had two older brothers if they had lived. Their names were Argus Jr and Jason.
I have one younger sister. Her name is Artemis. She’s just as I would imagine a goddess to be. Tall—taller than me and she’s three years younger! She’s still growing, too. She has really toned, nice muscles. Body like a swimmer. Long torso. Muscular legs. Strong, broad back. When I hear my parents talk about her, she’s always the “blunt little instrument.” I’m always the “precision instrument” but my parents never talk about that. They always talk about how disappointing I am to them. They talk about the lies they’ve spun for me.
“Training? Oh, no. Rarity rarely ever trains for anything, let alone for something so serious. She’s always diddling around with her plays and singing practice.”
Oh! That’s right! I can sing. I forgot to mention that. As a reward for behaving well at parties, my parents give me singing lessons. I love them a lot. My voice isn’t amazing, but it’s good enough to enjoy singing.
My childhood was pretty boring. I had a few friends who are still my friends now. Johanna, Kalinda and Melody are just a few of them. But my best friend in the whole world is Atlas. Atlas Lodine. He’s a quiet sort of fellow, but I think he’s amazing. We’ve been really good friends for forever. My little sister is dating his little sister. Our parents grew up together. It’s just sort of something we fell into, but it clicked really, really well.
Atlas and I used to get into so much mischief, you wouldn’t even believe most of the stories I’d tell you. Our favorite person to play with was Jeremiah, my parent’s butler who has endured so much shit from them, but still works at his job because he and my mother are such close friends you wouldn’t believe it. My father isn’t even unhappy about it. He gets a loyal butler that’ll put up with his shit and his wife gets a companion when he’s off monitoring his company and spending time with his friends. Jeremiah has been almost more of a father to me than my own father.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my father. He’s not abusive. He’s just super picky. I think he might have OCD, to be honest. It would explain why my sister has it. He’s always repeating things a bunch. He’s pretty controlling too. But he loves his wife and his children. He just has a weird way of showing it. Mother says when he works long hours and doesn’t come home, it’s because he’s trying to provide an incredible life for us and that’s his way of saying, “I love you.”
My mother is an okay person. She’s just as controlling as my father, but she’s also much more demanding. She pretty much lets me do whatever I want, though, as long as I meet her expectations. Train with Atlas for at least four hours a day using the schedule mother made for us. Attend my acting classes and practice my piano. Oh! I forgot to mention that too. I play piano. It’s fun. I’m pretty advanced in it, but I don’t spend as much time on it as I probably should.
Of all the people in my family, I’m probably the closest with my father—the man who’s never home—and furthest from my mother—the woman who never leaves home. Artemis I can take or leave. When we were little, we had a mutual hatred for each other. But then she realized that I could help her get what she wanted from Mother and Father and so she started being more civil. Now we have a favors-based relationship of convenience. It’s civil, and we respect each other, but that’s as far as it goes. We don’t hug. We don’t show much affection. We’re practically strangers to each other. But her girlfriend, Gaea, is really, really nice. She’s so sweet. Quiet, to kind of counter-balance Artemis’ loud rowdiness. She’s also quite the serious anchor for my sister. Prevents her from being too impulsive.
Atlas? What about him? I don’t know. We’re just friends. I mean, our parents probably would love for us to start dating. Their oldest children uniting their two companies? How great would that be for them? I guess I wouldn’t mind marrying Atlas. I love him, but it’s not like a love-love or a brotherly love. I can’t quite put my finger on it. But, we’re just friends right now and I have no idea what he feels about me.
It honestly doesn’t matter, since I’ve sworn off boys until I turn 19, or win the Hunger Games.
Life is pretty good right now. I’ve actually hit a place where I don’t hate training. I still get tired really easily and I get leg spasms and such, but Mother put me on some Iron supplements she said her doctor told her to give me and things are looking up. She says I’m probably anemic from not eating enough things with iron in it. I hate feeling tired all the time, so I’m going to try to eat a bit more. I’m used to be hungry anyways. I should be fine without food for, like, four days? Five? Before I start to feel truly hungry.
The Hunger Games… I wouldn’t freak out on the outside if I was reaped. I’d pretend. I’d be bubbly and happy and pretend like this was the best thing to ever happen to me. But on the inside, I’d probably be dying. Honestly, I couldn’t imagine leaving my family and friends behind. My sister is so confident she’d win that it’s not a problem for her. Me? I’m just a pretty face. How could I possibly win something like that?
But, I think, part of myself wants to give it a shot. I’d love to prove myself. I think, in the spur of the moment, I’d volunteer as tribute. I’d probably regret it, but you know what, screw regrets.
This pretty face refuses to regret anything.
Appearance: 956
Personality: 917
History: 1069
Total: 2942
Codeword: o D a i r
All right. Maybe I put some mascara on them. But, I mean, who doesn’t, right? It makes them prettier and longer than they already are. So, you know what, screw you and your judgement. I honestly don’t give a damn about it. Okay. Maybe a little. But screw that.
So maybe if my eyelashes aren’t completely mine, you’ll see that my hair is. It’s all mine. All that luscious flowing and coursing of hair. It’s beautiful isn’t it? I bet if a guy bedded me, that would be his favorite part. Running his fingers through my hair. Well, maybe I’m exaggerating. But it’s soft and it’s long and it’s this rich dark brown color. Like coffee grounds. It even smells good like coffee grounds. Although it more often smells like some kind of darkly-scented shampoo. Something musky and sexy.
All right. Still not seeing the beauty in me, yet? All right. Let’s go to my face, then. Even my face shape is representative of rarity. It’s diamond shape. Get it? I have a strong jaw, with great cheekbones that show just enough to give my face that look of sexy, but not enough to make me look like a District 12 tribute. Ripred, those bastards are skinny. How they manage to pull out wins, I’ll never be sure.
All right, so maybe my face isn’t perfect. My lips are full, I guess, but they’re this shape that I absolutely hate. They’re like my mother’s lips. They’re just… lips. Not special or rare or anything. It’s like there’s no shape to them, since they don’t arc and point like other girl’s. I hate wearing brightly colored lipstick, since it doesn’t look right on my blobs that are lips.
But! I’ve got a nice forehead, right? It’s not too special, but it’s not horrendous like my lips. My nose is just a basic, run-of-the-mill nose too. It’s just straight and average sized. Not huge, thankfully, but also not small, thankfully. I guess that’s one thing I should be happy about. Although, I always wished it had a little snub to it like some of my friends have to their noses. It makes them look so adorable.
Eyes and eyebrows… Eyebrows aren’t really mine. Well, they are, but they naturally grow all over the place. I have to pluck them every couple of days since they’ll absolutely lose their shape if I don’t. But I pluck them well, I think. And they’re dark. Some of my blonde friends have eyebrows and eyelashes that just fade into their faces because they’re so light. My eyes—oh my Ripred. I’ve totally managed to master that sexy smoldering look that other girls do. I’m so proud of myself! You just have to make your eyelids droop a little and pretend that you’re always pissed off about something. I don’t know how it’s especially sexy to always be angry, but it seems to work for the other girls.
Still can’t see it? OH MY RIPRED! How much fucking convincing do you need?! I’M BEAUTIFUL, DAMNIT.
All right. Let’s just calm down, hon. Call yourself, Rarity. We’ll show them. Just move on past the face. Show them that body loads would kill for.
A neck. I have a nice neck. I like it, at least. Mother says it’s too thin for a potential tribute. Says it’ll be really easy to snap. But, if I’m thin and pretty, I’ll get more sponsors, you know? More sponsors means I’ll win. It’s easy math.
But you know where the money-winners are? My collarbones. Yup. And my shoulders. They’re so pretty. You can see my collarbones just enough so that you can tell I’m thin, but I’ve still got some meat on my bones. I mean, I don’t really eat much to make sure I can stay thin. Mom says it’s not good to have a constantly rumbling stomach. But you know what, screw her.
I mean, the tributes who eat loads and are never hungry get so weak from being hungry. Maybe I’ll be strong. My mother said that when her brother was reaped, he’d starved himself so many times before that he was weak and that’s why he didn’t win. But I watched the recaps. He lost because he screwed a girl and she slit his throat after it was over. He was weak beside he couldn’t keep it in his pants.
But I can. I’ve been so strong. I’ve sworn off boys until I turn 19. When I’m either 19 or a victor, I’ll screw whoever I want to and not feel a bit of guilt. Until then, though, I have to remain manless.
Anyways! Back to convincing you of my beauty. You’ll see it. I know you will.
I’m a wonderful height. 5’ 9”. I’m tall enough to be tall, but short enough to be dainty. I can put muscle on my bones and it’ll make me look hot instead of fat. Well, maybe not hot. But, you know what. Screw that. All the girls who have the boys fawning over them have muscles. I should have some more, but it’s just so difficult for me. I can’t explain it. I get tired so easily.
So, so easily.
Ripred, I’m weak.
t o u c h m e t o u c h m e b a b y
b u t d o n ' t m e s s u p m y h a i r
l o v e m e l o v e m e c r a z y
b u t d o n ' t g e t t o o a t t a c h e d ,
t h i s i s a b r i e f a f f a i r
b u t d o n ' t m e s s u p m y h a i r
l o v e m e l o v e m e c r a z y
b u t d o n ' t g e t t o o a t t a c h e d ,
t h i s i s a b r i e f a f f a i r
Just a pretty face. That’s all I really am. All I feel that I am. Sure, I can recite battle strategy so fast it’ll make your head spin, but that’s all it is. A hoax. Something to make me feel good about myself. Something to make people say, “Oh my Ripred, Rarity. You’re so smart,” instead of, “Oh my Ripred. You’re so pretty.”
All I can do is memorize and recite. That’s it. I don’t even know if I’ve had an original thought. I believe what I’m told with the naivety of a child. A damn child. That’s all I am. Too goddamn trusting of the world and people around me. I’d love to be cynical. I’d love to be a sarcastic little shit that the Capitol folks seem to eat up. I’d have them eating out of my palms if I could be a strong, sexy vixen with a thirst for blood.
I didn’t even have the heart to put a hamster out of its misery. A stupid little hamster. How weak is that? No. Rather than drowning it quickly, or taking a knife and chopping off its head, I put it in a little towel and held it to my stomach while it squeaked with the pain and fear of death.
I’m weak. My sister? My younger sister? She’s strong. She’s gorgeous, strong, sadistic. Everything a Career district parent could ever dream of in a daughter. She says, tell me what I’ll be and I’ll become it. I say, tell me what you want and I’ll try my hardest but ultimately fail.
Just a pretty face. That’s all I am. A pretty face in a place where it only helps and doesn’t enable. An innocent child in a place where being one will get you killed so fast you wouldn’t even believe it.
Why the hell am I telling you this? Maybe because I can tell you can already see it. The insecurity that’s no different from herpes. Once you get it, it’s a life’s battle. It has its flare ups. And, when you have it, you rip people you come in contact with down to your level and give them a dose of what you’ve got.
I’m disgusting.
Oh, Ripred. I’m crying. Screw it. One second. Just let me dry my eyes and I’ll quit complaining.
I’m sorry you had to see that. Normally I can keep a lid on my feelings. I just pretend that I’m shallow and don’t give shit and most people buy it. I pretend to be a melodramatic airhead so that people can’t see what’s behind it. The fear that that’s all I truly am. An act.
I’m sorry. I’m act it again. The self-hate. Whew. Let me compose myself.
I’m a great actress and an even better liar. It’s a talent, I have to admit. I love to pretend to be who I’m not. Once my parents realized that I was so good at taking on new roles for myself, they enrolled me in some acting classes and prayed that I’d be good at something.
Generally, I can talk myself out of anything. You just have to tug on the right heartstrings. Manipulation is also a weapon at my disposal. My parents always encouraged that. Whenever I would manipulate them successfully, they’d always give me what I wanted. I mean, of course, that was the plan the whole time. The times I were most proud were when they didn’t even realize I was.
I’m a regular con artist. I slip into any role I need to. Right now, I’m the airheaded career daughter who everybody leaves alone because she’s worthless and just a pretty face. Which, I am, but I can’t let them know that that’s what I believe.
I’ve tried being a good person. Well, still try. Sometimes, I leave extra food out for the servants, since my parents don’t pay them very well. I also leave presents for them. Nice things that they could sell. I know they’re things I would never have wanted to use anyways (like a pair of hideous diamond and platinum skulls my Aunt got me for my birthday) but it’s the thought that counts, right? If it’s anything really expensive, I always leave a note with my stamp on it. Something that says, “I, Rarity Hawking, have given this away and have given permission for it to be sold for money.”
Something tells me that they don’t always sell the presents. I’ve seen the women wearing some of the jewelry. I think they might be unable to sell them, which makes me feel bad, so then I switch over to leaving food again. I use my own money on the food, too. My parents would kill me if they found out I left things for servants.
But, I guess it just doesn’t feel like enough. When I see the lower district tributes on the television, I join my family in jeering at them for their weakness, but, I can’t help thinking that I could be in their place. It was just an accident of birth that I was born to exceedingly wealthy parents. I could just as easily have been born into District 12 to a family of eight and never had enough food ever.
When I think about things like that, I just want to run outside and start screaming to the world, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry for being born wealthy and not giving another person a chance to be!”
v a n i t y
( p i c t u r e s i n m a g a z i n e s , m o v i e s c r e e n s )
v a n i t y
( t h e r e i s a c a m e r a , s o m a n y b e a u t y q u e e n s )
v a n i t y
( i t ' s s o g o o d t o b e )
f a b u l o u s a n d g l a m o u r o u s ,
w e l o v e o u r s e l v e s a n d n o o n e e l s e
( p i c t u r e s i n m a g a z i n e s , m o v i e s c r e e n s )
v a n i t y
( t h e r e i s a c a m e r a , s o m a n y b e a u t y q u e e n s )
v a n i t y
( i t ' s s o g o o d t o b e )
f a b u l o u s a n d g l a m o u r o u s ,
w e l o v e o u r s e l v e s a n d n o o n e e l s e
You know I was born rich and stuff, but you don’t really know too much else about me. Let’s see. I was born September 18. 7 pounds, 6 ounces, 19 inches long. Third born child of Argus and Helena Hawking, but first to live past infancy. I would have had two older brothers if they had lived. Their names were Argus Jr and Jason.
I have one younger sister. Her name is Artemis. She’s just as I would imagine a goddess to be. Tall—taller than me and she’s three years younger! She’s still growing, too. She has really toned, nice muscles. Body like a swimmer. Long torso. Muscular legs. Strong, broad back. When I hear my parents talk about her, she’s always the “blunt little instrument.” I’m always the “precision instrument” but my parents never talk about that. They always talk about how disappointing I am to them. They talk about the lies they’ve spun for me.
“Training? Oh, no. Rarity rarely ever trains for anything, let alone for something so serious. She’s always diddling around with her plays and singing practice.”
Oh! That’s right! I can sing. I forgot to mention that. As a reward for behaving well at parties, my parents give me singing lessons. I love them a lot. My voice isn’t amazing, but it’s good enough to enjoy singing.
My childhood was pretty boring. I had a few friends who are still my friends now. Johanna, Kalinda and Melody are just a few of them. But my best friend in the whole world is Atlas. Atlas Lodine. He’s a quiet sort of fellow, but I think he’s amazing. We’ve been really good friends for forever. My little sister is dating his little sister. Our parents grew up together. It’s just sort of something we fell into, but it clicked really, really well.
Atlas and I used to get into so much mischief, you wouldn’t even believe most of the stories I’d tell you. Our favorite person to play with was Jeremiah, my parent’s butler who has endured so much shit from them, but still works at his job because he and my mother are such close friends you wouldn’t believe it. My father isn’t even unhappy about it. He gets a loyal butler that’ll put up with his shit and his wife gets a companion when he’s off monitoring his company and spending time with his friends. Jeremiah has been almost more of a father to me than my own father.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my father. He’s not abusive. He’s just super picky. I think he might have OCD, to be honest. It would explain why my sister has it. He’s always repeating things a bunch. He’s pretty controlling too. But he loves his wife and his children. He just has a weird way of showing it. Mother says when he works long hours and doesn’t come home, it’s because he’s trying to provide an incredible life for us and that’s his way of saying, “I love you.”
My mother is an okay person. She’s just as controlling as my father, but she’s also much more demanding. She pretty much lets me do whatever I want, though, as long as I meet her expectations. Train with Atlas for at least four hours a day using the schedule mother made for us. Attend my acting classes and practice my piano. Oh! I forgot to mention that too. I play piano. It’s fun. I’m pretty advanced in it, but I don’t spend as much time on it as I probably should.
Of all the people in my family, I’m probably the closest with my father—the man who’s never home—and furthest from my mother—the woman who never leaves home. Artemis I can take or leave. When we were little, we had a mutual hatred for each other. But then she realized that I could help her get what she wanted from Mother and Father and so she started being more civil. Now we have a favors-based relationship of convenience. It’s civil, and we respect each other, but that’s as far as it goes. We don’t hug. We don’t show much affection. We’re practically strangers to each other. But her girlfriend, Gaea, is really, really nice. She’s so sweet. Quiet, to kind of counter-balance Artemis’ loud rowdiness. She’s also quite the serious anchor for my sister. Prevents her from being too impulsive.
Atlas? What about him? I don’t know. We’re just friends. I mean, our parents probably would love for us to start dating. Their oldest children uniting their two companies? How great would that be for them? I guess I wouldn’t mind marrying Atlas. I love him, but it’s not like a love-love or a brotherly love. I can’t quite put my finger on it. But, we’re just friends right now and I have no idea what he feels about me.
It honestly doesn’t matter, since I’ve sworn off boys until I turn 19, or win the Hunger Games.
Life is pretty good right now. I’ve actually hit a place where I don’t hate training. I still get tired really easily and I get leg spasms and such, but Mother put me on some Iron supplements she said her doctor told her to give me and things are looking up. She says I’m probably anemic from not eating enough things with iron in it. I hate feeling tired all the time, so I’m going to try to eat a bit more. I’m used to be hungry anyways. I should be fine without food for, like, four days? Five? Before I start to feel truly hungry.
The Hunger Games… I wouldn’t freak out on the outside if I was reaped. I’d pretend. I’d be bubbly and happy and pretend like this was the best thing to ever happen to me. But on the inside, I’d probably be dying. Honestly, I couldn’t imagine leaving my family and friends behind. My sister is so confident she’d win that it’s not a problem for her. Me? I’m just a pretty face. How could I possibly win something like that?
But, I think, part of myself wants to give it a shot. I’d love to prove myself. I think, in the spur of the moment, I’d volunteer as tribute. I’d probably regret it, but you know what, screw regrets.
This pretty face refuses to regret anything.
l o o k a t m e ( w a t c h a l o o k i n ' a t )
l o o k a t m e ( w a t c h a s t a r i n ' a t )
i ' m c o m i n ' a r o u n d , i ' m s i p p i n ' o n a n d r e
i t ' s t i m e
i h e a r d t h e c u t i e ' s i n t h e b a c k , s t a r t i n t h e p - p a r t y l i n e
l e t ' s d a n c e ( q u i c k r o u n d )
w e ' r e i n t h e v a n i t y h o u s e
w e ' r e c o v e r e d i n s e q u i n s , d i a m o n d s ,
w e ' r e h a p p y ' c u z w e ' r e s h i n i n '
l o o k a t m e ( w a t c h a s t a r i n ' a t )
i ' m c o m i n ' a r o u n d , i ' m s i p p i n ' o n a n d r e
i t ' s t i m e
i h e a r d t h e c u t i e ' s i n t h e b a c k , s t a r t i n t h e p - p a r t y l i n e
l e t ' s d a n c e ( q u i c k r o u n d )
w e ' r e i n t h e v a n i t y h o u s e
w e ' r e c o v e r e d i n s e q u i n s , d i a m o n d s ,
w e ' r e h a p p y ' c u z w e ' r e s h i n i n '
Appearance: 956
Personality: 917
History: 1069
Total: 2942
Codeword: o D a i r
