Romana Izar | District Eleven {FIN}

[kap]

Romana Izar

Age Nineteen
Female
District Eleven

"No!" I screamed. "She can't be dead! She can't be!" I yelled at the television screen as the body of Salome Izar fell to the ground. She had been my cousin, and one of the few Izars outside of my direct family that I had ever even spoken to. We may not have been extremely close, but I still cared about her, and couldn't stand to see her die. I didn't want to believe that she was truly gone. Though, it was hard enough for me to believe that she had volunteered for it, either, and I still didn't know why.

"Romana, dear, please, it's okay. You'll be okay," Mother told me. I didn't believe her, though. I knew nothing would ever be okay for me again. I couldn't just let things like that happen and not feel the way I did. No matter how much my mother tried to calm me down that day, it didn't work. When I saw Salome die, I fled from the room, and left the house, storming down the street, not knowing where I was headed. All I knew was that I had to get away from there.

"She has to come home alive," I told myself. "There's no way someone as strong as her can be dead." I didn't feel that she could possibly be gone. Surely it had to be a hoax, right. Wrong. The Capitol wouldn't fake the death of a hardly known volunteer girl from District Eleven in a game of fifty-two tributes. To them, she wasn't important. To me, she was. I don't know how long exactly I wandered the District that day, but it was after dark by the time I got home. When I returned to my small house, I was enveloped into the arms of my mother, and I started crying on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, dear. There's nothing I can do about what happened, but I'm here for you, okay?" My mother was trying her very best to comfort me, as she always did. I didn't verbally give her a response, but as my sobbing increased, she ran her fingers through my curly, dark locks of hair. I've always looked similar to the rest of the Izar family. My dark eyes are like those of the rest, and my skin tone is very similar as well. That's something I've always liked about myself, being able to look even remotely similar to my beautiful cousin, Salome.

"I'll try to be strong, Mother, okay?" I say to her as she continues to hug me tightly. Time starts to move on, but it's difficult for me. The 75th Hunger Games have come and gone, as those after will do, too. I've begun to shut people out, aside from those that are family, or who are kind from the start. Trust issues are ever-present with me, as it's hard for me to think that everyone is on my side. For a while, I even tried to distract myself from the pain by getting a job at a local bakery. It didn't last long, though, as I couldn't concentrate well enough on what I was supposed to be doing and got let go from my place of employment. Ever since, I've just focused on my school work the best I can, and tried not to think about everything that's bad about the world.

"Romana, please, you don't need to shut everyone out. We want to be here for you," my mother would beg of me. I'd try my best to listen to her, but I'm too paranoid to trust many people. Although I've become a bit emotionally stronger than I used to be, and I've vowed that I won't give in to the pain, it's still quite difficult. My mother's smooth hands caress my rough ones as she tries to keep me calm. I embrace her in a hug once more, holding her tight, not wanting to let go. My little sister, unaware of what happened with Salome, will come running into the room, her eight-year-old little self, trying to figure out what's wrong, and why her big sister is crying. It's hard for me not to tell her the truth, but I don't think she can handle it yet.

"I'm okay, Maria, okay? There's nothing to worry about," I'd lie to my little sister. I hated telling lies, especially to family, but it was meant to protect her. In reality, I'd never be truly okay again. Maria would tug on my nice shirt to get my attention, and I'd smile at her, hiding the sadness that was likely still revealed in my eyes. She'd tell me about her day, and ask me about mine. I'd listen to her stories, but never share my own. Or, at least, I'd never share the important ones. I'd simply tell her the average, everyday happenings of my life, which still seemed to make her happy.

"Thank you, dear, for taking care of your sister like that. She doesn't need to know about Salome," thanked my mother. She was always such a kind woman, which, I suppose, is where I get my kindness from. Although I'm often depressed, I can still be an individual with a very friendly soul. My mother touches my face gently, wiping away my tears from my acne-scarred face, and tells me everything will be okay. For once, I try to believe her, too.

[kap]

Done!

[lance]

ACCEPTED!