charlotte laine {one} fin
Jun 15, 2017 22:04:12 GMT -5
Post by solo on Jun 15, 2017 22:04:12 GMT -5
Charlotte Laine, D1
I've only ever been called Charlotte by my Mum and Da. I never liked the name, I always had a hard time pronouncing it when I was a child, it was too long, too girly. Not that I didn't like girly things. The name just sounded too much like it belonged to a princess, and I have never wanted to be a princess.
When I turned six, I asked that my name be changed to Charlie as my birthday present. Mum smiled and said we couldn't legally change my name, but that if I wanted, we could use it as a nickname. My parents used it sometimes. Most of the time, when they were serious, they'd use my full name. Skeeter was never a problem. He was four at the time, and already couldn't say my name quite right, so he was pleased to stick with the nickname instead.
I was never one of the prettier girls in school. Of course, in District One, parents pride themselves in the appearance of their children, but Mum and Da never put too much pressure on me to look good. The other girls pointed it out more when we were younger. My eyebrows were bushy, my nose was too thin for my face, I had no cheekbones, my hair was always tangled. I don't think I took any of it to heart. I was satisfied with the way I looked, and I always knew I didn't want to be like them. Sometimes Da would joke and tell me I should've been born in Ten, where I could ride a horse and herd cows for a living. But I don't mind it here in One.
Skeeter was born two years after me. I don't remember the day, but Mom does, and she said it was love at first sight. When I'm frustrated with him, she always reminds me that when he was born I declared it the best day of my life. I still believe that to be true. He means so much to me, and I love him with all my heart.
From the moment he was born, we were best pals, but probably not in the way you'd expect. We didn't run around playing tag or getting underfoot around the adults. We didn't plan epic pranks or build pillow forts together. But no matter what, he was always my best friend. He was always there for me when I needed to talk, always ready to listen, always offering whatever help he could, and I did the same in return. Of course, he was always the quieter one. He loved books above all else, and on my bad days, I almost thought he loved them more than me. But I know now that he doesn't.
It's a little, odd, I suppose, that I've always been the boisterous one. I've always been loud, occasionally to the point where it's obnoxious and annoying, but that's grown better with age. When we were little, I always wanted to be playing some sort of game that required a lot of movement. Skeeter, of course, wasn't always as excited about it as I was. He could curl up in his little book nook and stay there for hours on end.
I got used to it, and I made other friends to help fill the hours of my day. Mom tells me I was always good at making friends. I know I am, but I also know I have a harder time caring about what's beneath the surface. I don't want to know all their deep dark secrets. I don't want to know the things they've struggled with, the horrors they've witness, the skeletons that lie in their closet. I just want to know the happy things. I want to see their smiles, I want to make them laugh, I want to have a good time more than anything else. I don't want my sunlight to be blocked out by shadows. Da has told me that I should care more, that I should want to know more than just the first layer of the people I meet. But I've never really agreed with him.
I suppose one of my more redeeming qualities is my cleverness. When I was nine and Skeeter was seven, he ran away from home. I had been expecting it. I didn't tell Mum or Da, because I figured it wouldn't be that big of a deal. I knew it was going to happen, I was ready for it, so what could go wrong? And nothing really did, except that Mum told me I should've said something earlier.
He'd been reading this book you see, and when he gets particularly into a book, he likes to talk about it. Skeet doesn't do a lot of talking. But when he's found a good novel, he won't shut up. I think it's one of the things I really do love about him. The light he gets in his eyes, the distant smile, the excitement in the way he talks. It's refreshing. Even today, despite the fact that I hate reading, I could give you a thorough synopsis of each and every book he's enjoyed. Especially the one he'd gotten a hold of before he ran away.
When he finally did run off, it didn't take me too long to figure out where he was. Mum and Da were thrown into a panic, but I gave Skeet a bit of time, cause I knew he'd be mad if we found him right away. He was at the community home, of course. He had always talked about the warehouse in his book, the many orphans who lived their, what little food they got and how fascinating the whole thing was to him. I didn't get it then, and I still don't get it now. But it's Skeet. He's hard to understand sometimes.
As soon as we started training, I fell in love with the weight of a sword in my hand, the sound of a knife singing through the air, the solid thunk as an arrow hit it's target. I was a natural when it came to fighting. I could move with ease, I learned quickly. Some of the kids there called me a teacher's pet, but I didn't mind. I knew all of them wished to be in my position. But of course, they were never good enough, and I was alright with that.
Skeeter didn't get it when he joined me two years later. He'd been stuck indoors with his books for so long, I don't think he knew how to take on the world. I tried to make things easier for him. I would give him some tips, offer to teach him how to properly hold a weapon, show him how to defend himself. But he didn't want my help. He was never a fighter, but I was.
From the moment I started training, it had been my dream to volunteer for the Games. I had it all planned out. I was going to train and work as hard as could, and then when I was eighteen, I would volunteer and come back a Victor. But my love for Skeet held out over that dream. I remember I had it all planned out, that I would wait for a name to be called, that I would raise my hand and volunteer before they even made it to the stage. I was determined to make an impression. But just before the Reaping, when I could hardly take the excitement, Skeeter pulled me away from the crowd and begged me not to go. I had never seen that look in his eyes. The sadness, the pleading. I remember him saying, over and over again, I don't want you to die, I don't want you to die. I told him I'd be fine. I had trained for this, I was ready. But then he was crying and my heart was breaking and I knew I couldn't do it.
The opportunity passed and I watched it go by without moving a single muscle.
We're different, Skeet and I. Always have been, always will be. But I love him, he matters to me more than anything else in the world, and I knew his heart will shatter if I die before him. I don't want him to deal with that. So I carry on, for him.
When I turned six, I asked that my name be changed to Charlie as my birthday present. Mum smiled and said we couldn't legally change my name, but that if I wanted, we could use it as a nickname. My parents used it sometimes. Most of the time, when they were serious, they'd use my full name. Skeeter was never a problem. He was four at the time, and already couldn't say my name quite right, so he was pleased to stick with the nickname instead.
I was never one of the prettier girls in school. Of course, in District One, parents pride themselves in the appearance of their children, but Mum and Da never put too much pressure on me to look good. The other girls pointed it out more when we were younger. My eyebrows were bushy, my nose was too thin for my face, I had no cheekbones, my hair was always tangled. I don't think I took any of it to heart. I was satisfied with the way I looked, and I always knew I didn't want to be like them. Sometimes Da would joke and tell me I should've been born in Ten, where I could ride a horse and herd cows for a living. But I don't mind it here in One.
Skeeter was born two years after me. I don't remember the day, but Mom does, and she said it was love at first sight. When I'm frustrated with him, she always reminds me that when he was born I declared it the best day of my life. I still believe that to be true. He means so much to me, and I love him with all my heart.
From the moment he was born, we were best pals, but probably not in the way you'd expect. We didn't run around playing tag or getting underfoot around the adults. We didn't plan epic pranks or build pillow forts together. But no matter what, he was always my best friend. He was always there for me when I needed to talk, always ready to listen, always offering whatever help he could, and I did the same in return. Of course, he was always the quieter one. He loved books above all else, and on my bad days, I almost thought he loved them more than me. But I know now that he doesn't.
It's a little, odd, I suppose, that I've always been the boisterous one. I've always been loud, occasionally to the point where it's obnoxious and annoying, but that's grown better with age. When we were little, I always wanted to be playing some sort of game that required a lot of movement. Skeeter, of course, wasn't always as excited about it as I was. He could curl up in his little book nook and stay there for hours on end.
I got used to it, and I made other friends to help fill the hours of my day. Mom tells me I was always good at making friends. I know I am, but I also know I have a harder time caring about what's beneath the surface. I don't want to know all their deep dark secrets. I don't want to know the things they've struggled with, the horrors they've witness, the skeletons that lie in their closet. I just want to know the happy things. I want to see their smiles, I want to make them laugh, I want to have a good time more than anything else. I don't want my sunlight to be blocked out by shadows. Da has told me that I should care more, that I should want to know more than just the first layer of the people I meet. But I've never really agreed with him.
I suppose one of my more redeeming qualities is my cleverness. When I was nine and Skeeter was seven, he ran away from home. I had been expecting it. I didn't tell Mum or Da, because I figured it wouldn't be that big of a deal. I knew it was going to happen, I was ready for it, so what could go wrong? And nothing really did, except that Mum told me I should've said something earlier.
He'd been reading this book you see, and when he gets particularly into a book, he likes to talk about it. Skeet doesn't do a lot of talking. But when he's found a good novel, he won't shut up. I think it's one of the things I really do love about him. The light he gets in his eyes, the distant smile, the excitement in the way he talks. It's refreshing. Even today, despite the fact that I hate reading, I could give you a thorough synopsis of each and every book he's enjoyed. Especially the one he'd gotten a hold of before he ran away.
When he finally did run off, it didn't take me too long to figure out where he was. Mum and Da were thrown into a panic, but I gave Skeet a bit of time, cause I knew he'd be mad if we found him right away. He was at the community home, of course. He had always talked about the warehouse in his book, the many orphans who lived their, what little food they got and how fascinating the whole thing was to him. I didn't get it then, and I still don't get it now. But it's Skeet. He's hard to understand sometimes.
As soon as we started training, I fell in love with the weight of a sword in my hand, the sound of a knife singing through the air, the solid thunk as an arrow hit it's target. I was a natural when it came to fighting. I could move with ease, I learned quickly. Some of the kids there called me a teacher's pet, but I didn't mind. I knew all of them wished to be in my position. But of course, they were never good enough, and I was alright with that.
Skeeter didn't get it when he joined me two years later. He'd been stuck indoors with his books for so long, I don't think he knew how to take on the world. I tried to make things easier for him. I would give him some tips, offer to teach him how to properly hold a weapon, show him how to defend himself. But he didn't want my help. He was never a fighter, but I was.
From the moment I started training, it had been my dream to volunteer for the Games. I had it all planned out. I was going to train and work as hard as could, and then when I was eighteen, I would volunteer and come back a Victor. But my love for Skeet held out over that dream. I remember I had it all planned out, that I would wait for a name to be called, that I would raise my hand and volunteer before they even made it to the stage. I was determined to make an impression. But just before the Reaping, when I could hardly take the excitement, Skeeter pulled me away from the crowd and begged me not to go. I had never seen that look in his eyes. The sadness, the pleading. I remember him saying, over and over again, I don't want you to die, I don't want you to die. I told him I'd be fine. I had trained for this, I was ready. But then he was crying and my heart was breaking and I knew I couldn't do it.
The opportunity passed and I watched it go by without moving a single muscle.
We're different, Skeet and I. Always have been, always will be. But I love him, he matters to me more than anything else in the world, and I knew his heart will shatter if I die before him. I don't want him to deal with that. So I carry on, for him.
