ELLA SOFIA RAVENSTONE

17 Years Old
Female
District 3

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Doing
Thinking
Talking
Listening
Singing

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Look me in the eyes. Look deep into my bright blue eyes.

Actually, my eyes aren’t really blue. I was born with dark brown eyes, just like the rest of my family. But I hate my family so much, and to be honest, I’ve never really fancied brown eyes. So I wear blue contacts instead. Due to my bad eyesight, I should be wearing contacts anyway, so what difference does it make if I change my eye colour? Hardly anybody notices anyway.

Anyway, you’re looking into my eyes. Right, right. As you move past my eyes, down my shoulders, you notice soft, silky layers of dark brown hair. Or maybe it’s black. Or it could even be a light brown colour. And are those blonde highlights? It’s quite amusing, really, to watch people contemplate over something as small as my hair colour, when there are definitely more important things that one couldn’t help but notice.

For example, if you look down past my leg, you will notice that my right knee is oddly shaped, and quite deformed. This causes me to have a horrible limp, but I’ve adapted to the oddity as life goes on. There’s really only two options – you can sulk around and be pissed at the world, or you can pick yourself back up off the ground and get on with living your life. I choose to do the latter.

Most of the time.

As your eyes move back up from my legs, up to my small delicate hands and long, dainty fingers, you search out my face. A small oval of perfection.

Pfft.. yeah right! How naïve can one person be?

Perfection is so over-rated. Nobody can be fully flawless, and if there is someone who is, tell me about them and I’ll personally track them down and shoot them in the head. I’d make the death quick, though. No need to waste time on somebody as shallow as them. But that’s getting off track. Ah yes, my face. You’ve already come to terms with my hair and eye colour, but what about the other facial features? It would only seem fair to try and explain them to you.

My lips. More specifically, my smile. I love smiling, I honestly do, and I often have a big grin on my face, wherever I go. Not a small, timid smile, but a bright, beaming one. I’m glad to say that my happiness tends to rub off on others around me, which is nice. It’s good to feel like you’re making an improvement in another person’s life. As much as I love smiling and being happy, I must admit, the smile is usually fake. It’s meant to hide the pan I can still feel inside, and it almost always does.

Almost.

Now as you move past my lips, you notice my high cheekbones, which I am completely insecure about. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: They’re just cheekbones, get over yourself... Well sorry for pissing you off. I’m just being honest. I don’t feel bad about many things about my appearance, but when I do find something I don’t like, I try and do everything I can to fix it. Just like with my eyes, I have tried many times in the past to lower my cheekbones in various ways, but nothing ever seems to work. I guess they’re not entirely bad, and after all, there’s worse things to worry about, I suppose. But if I ever make it to the Capitol, I’m going to get some treatment or something there. I’m sure they would have something; it’s the Capitol, for crying out loud.

The last thing about my face is the skin on it. The skin covering my whole body, in fact. It is quite flawless, with no sight of pimples or blackheads or such. I guess you can mark it down to good genetics, as I’ve never had to lift a finger to maintain my skin. If one good thing came out of my parents, they made me look decent enough to not be considered ugly. Which is nice.

The very last thing everybody notices is my height. You’d think that it would be the first thing to notice, but it never is. Maybe they just get so caught up in everything else that they just skip over those details like that. I’m incredibly tall. I mean, 17 year olds are supposed to be tall, but I’m just tall. Like, 6’3 tall. I don’t mind though. I’d much rather be tall than short. Imagine having to walk around looking up at everything all the time. I mean, looking down all the time can be frustrating, but I don’t usually associate with people younger than 16, and that’s when I’m feeling more generous, so there’s never really a need to look down on people who aren’t even worth my time.

Unless of course you want to kill them.

(( P E R S O N A L I T Y))

Probably the most obvious of traits that I show is my bluntness. I’m known for speaking my mind without really caring about what other people think, which can sometimes land me in trouble. For instance, I’m quite honest but don’t care if I hurt people with my honesty. After all, the point of being honest is to be honest/ No use in softening the blow if you’re going to say something mean. The way I see it, you should just get it all out there in the open.

Unfortunately, people view this as a negative thing. Apparently it makes me mean. I mean, I don’t think I’m that mean. Everybody tends to like me. Whether it’s because I’m always trying to be happy or whether it’s just because I’m easy to get along with, I don’t have many enemies. I’m always trying to look out for other people and help them as best as I possibly can. There’s really no use in not trying to get along with other people. All it does is ostracise yourself from the people around you, and then where would you be? Lonely, cold, abandoned, cut off from the things you love.

Actually, I’m like that now.

I try to look on the positive side of things, but there’s always the negative. I can never seem to shake it off, and usually the smile plastered onto my face does a pretty good job of keeping my inner thoughts hidden. I’m not one to go around the place being horribly depressed, and don’t usually like to draw attention to myself. You may often see me walking around like a loner, but that’s okay. Nobody to distract you, I suppose. It doesn’t even matter if other people think I’m weird; that’s just time that they’ve wasted on caring about me. Their loss. It doesn’t even affect you if you just act like you don’t care, and just stay laid-back throughout the whole situation.

Of course, most people don’t think of me as weird, as such. I’m well known around the District, but I’d just prefer to be left to my own. There’s nothing wrong with me (unlike some of the nutcases that live here), so really, there’s not even any need for them to think of me as weird. I always try o make the best of a bad situation, and unfortunately I find myself in quite a few of them. Even if I’m not meaning to get into trouble, I just always happen to be caught in the middle of it. Not my fault, but whatever. At the end of the day, nobody’s really going to believe a pathetic 17 year old over someone as official as a Peacekeeper. So you just get on with life. I tend to do that a lot. And when I am in the middle of something, usually I just act all sweet and innocent. Ha, that always confuses them, and usually I get away with it even though I didn’t do anything to start with.

Well, maybe sometimes. But that’s another story.

As mentioned before, I’m quite tall. I think it tends to get the best of me, because I seem to think I’m a lot better than most people. Not stuck-up, as such, I just like feeling more superior to others, standing above others, if you please. Of course, it’s quite easy to stand above others for me, being so much taller than everyone else around me. But when people look up to me, I want them to see me as an independent, strong-willed girl, who shouldn’t be messed with. Approachable, but dangerous. That’s who I am.

Apart from wanting to be more superior then other people, I guess I’m also quite modest. Yes, I guess the two don’t really go well together, but I don’t like being told how good I am. I like to think it to myself, but when other people mention something nice to me, or show me interest, I go shy. I can’t help it. I’ve never really been praised or appreciated much, and I never got anything like that from my family. Oh. What a joke. My family showing interest in me? Please. We can only dream, I guess.

I’ve always had a bad childhood, but that never gets me down for too long. You grieve, you get on with life. I vowed that I would never turn out like my mother– maybe that’s why I’m so nurturing to younger people. Unlike small, annoying teenagers who think they own the world, I have a soft spot for young children. It’s quite funny, really, that I care so deeply about young kids and babies, but after going through what I went through as a child, I guess it just wouldn’t feel right to treat them the same way I was treated.

Above all these traits, the strongest of the all would definitely be my bravery. I’m not scared of anything. Nothing fazes me, not even death itself. Actually, I look forward to the day where I will finally come face to face with my death. I guess it sounds kind of creepy, but I just keep living in the moment, doing crazy, outrageous things. That probably helped build up my bravery a little as well. I never do anything too outrageous, but like I said before, I am often found in trouble.

Sometimes it is my own fault.

It’s also quite well known in District 3 that I have terrible eyesight. I mean, absolutely shocking. That’s why I needed the contacts in the first place, but to be honest they don’t do much to help me. The only thing that they’re really useful for is changing my eye colour – ‘cause really, who wants brown eyes? Ick. Everybody knows I wear contacts, but hardly anybody knows my real eye colour is brown. I’m so embarrassed about that. If anyone found out… too horrible. But now’s not really the time to be complaining about eye colour. What I do lack in sight I make up for in hearing. I can hear things from a mile away that nobody else could possibly dream of hearing. Whether it be from genetics, or having to be so careful, so cautious when I was younger, I have remarkable hearing ability.

On top of it all, my one simple wish is to be free. To be free.It sounds so vague, but to me it’s everything. Sometimes I just wish I could be like a butterfly, roam anywhere I pleased, live without worries. Practically the complete opposite of what my life right now. I feel chained, trapped, with nowhere to go. I’m my own person, so even if I did get the opportunity to leave and never come back, I doubt anybody would miss me. The only way that I seem to be able to keep moving forward and hoping for a better day is by singing. It’s like a therapy, and it’s beautiful. My voice – I don’t even know if I can sing or not – sounds (to me, at least) like everything pure and sweet rolled into one. Everything is always eerie quiet whenever I sing. Ugh, I’m too vain. Listen to me, rambling on about how great of a singer I am. I may as well make a career out of it, that’s the way to go. Though I don’t really see why I’m mocking singing. It’s amazing, the best thing in the world. But I’m weird like that, so get used to it. Typically, nobody ever hears me singing – imagine that?! It seems like such a girly, weak thing to do, and I’ve worked so hard to build up a character that everybody believes is strong-willed and bold. As much as I love singing, I wouldn’t throw everything away for it. If things had been different in the past, then maybe I might have. Because, I’m not a bad person.

Underneath everything, I’m nice. I’m a good person.

(( H I S T O R Y ))

I was born just a little over 17 years ago. Even then, when I was only minutes old, I somehow seem to remember those details of that evening. It’s the only thing I can remember of my very early childhood, and the next memories don’t come back until around the age of 6. But on the evening of my birth, I can remember everything. The cold room in which my mother had given birth to me. The chill in the air at my arrival. The silence that seemed to go on forever. Body heat radiating from every way, making the small room feel like a furnace. My father’s heartbeat close to my own as he cradled me in his arms. The meek light coming from a nearby fireplace. The one night the power had been out. Of course. But that was where they had got my name from. The fireplace. Ella, of course, means bright light. It’s quite fitting when you think about it. It was quite strange, really, how both my parents came up with my name. They only had to glance at each other before the words left their mouth: Ella.

And that’s all I can remember.

Oh yeah. I haven’t really said much about my family. So I suppose I should continue from there. It can only get better, after all.

Hopefully.

I keep going on about how horrible my family is. Well, that’s not entirely true. My father, he’s the best. I’m so grateful, so thankful that he was there, and brought some – if only a little – sanity to my life. But it’s my mother that I hate the most. Growing up, we never really got on well together at all. I always turned to father when I was in need of help, or my older brother, Spencer. He’s dead now, though. He died a few years ago. He was only 17, whilst I was only 10, too young to know about the Games which had sealed his fate. Huh. 7 years seems to go so quickly, and you don’t even notice. As a young girl, I guess I was never mature enough to talk about important things with Spencer, but he didn’t mind. He was determined for me and my younger sister to grow up differently to him, and to not have to put up with the crap from my mother. But he died before I could really quite understand what he meant, or really understand what type of person he was.

I wish I knew him. I couldn’t ask my mother about it, for she hates me and hated him even more than she does me. I couldn’t ask my sister, little Pearl, as she was too young to even know who Spencer was. She still doesn’t know, as nobody talks about him much anymore. I occasionally hear mother’s tortured cries of pain at night whilst she’s sleeping, and hear Spencer’s name mixed in the jumble, but it’s not even worth confronting her about it, as she’d just deny anything I said. I suppose I could ask my father more about Spencer, and if I actually could, I would. But he’s long gone, died a few years ago, but not before having to suffer having Spencer around no more. A few people say that he died from shock of Spencer’s death, others say it was the strain of having to raise me and Pearl on his own, with mother having her fits every day, whilst mother says that it was coming for him anyway. Personally, I think it was probably a mixture of a lot of things, piling up on top of each other until it all got too much, toppling over and crushing father in the midst of it all. It was quite a complicated thing for a 15 year old to understand. I tried not to think about it too much, but I knew he was going to die soon. He knew it too. Even though he hadn’t been very old, he’d suffered a lot more than anyone his age should have to endure. I know that it must have pained him to leave Pearl and I alone, but he took care of that before he went.

”Ella, I know what you’re thinking, but I have to go. I can’t stay here any longer.”

”No, father! Don’t leave me here alone! I – I need you..”

”You’ll be alright. Even though you’re only 15, you know how to look after yourself a lot better than I did when I was your age. Listen Ella, listen close. When you turn 17, I want you to leave your mother and Pearl behind. Don’t look at me like that, just listen. Pearl, she’ll be alright. She’s a lot stronger than you’d think. I’m not telling you to abandon them, but I want you to go, make your life worthwhile. You’re quite something special, and I want you to remember I will always love you.”

After that father had disappeared. I hadn’t followed; he wouldn’t have wanted that. But the next day his body was found dead, and I found that I was a hollow shell. He’d always been there when nobody else had been, he understood me better than anyone. I mean, I had my friends. They were good to me, but the bond between father and I was too strong for words to describe. I got on alright, always remembering father’s final request for me, and having dealt with death of a loved one before. So when I turned 17, I did exactly what father had wanted me to do.

I left home.

It wasn’t too hard to find a nice little hut to live in. Being 17 and all, I was offered a house right away, and I guess it helped that I wasn’t dog shit ugly. I was more than capable of looking after myself, and even thought it would be easier living by myself than with Pearl and mother. I’d always been quite independent, so this was just a new chapter in life. No longer would I have to put up with mother’s evilness. There were many nights I worried about Pearl, but she visited me often enough that I knew she was fine. Of course, she could have come and lived with me, but I didn’t want her to have to rely on myself. I wasn’t a good role model, and even though mother wasn’t much better, it would be better for Pearl to grow up with her. I’m sure one day she’ll do the same thing I did. Father would have liked that. Even to this day, I live in my own little hut, and work in the boring factories a few days a week to support myself.

I can still remember the night after father’s body was found, and can remember feeling hollow about his death, but determined to do anything I could to keep his promise. I got on with life.

But Pearl was a completely different story.

I mean, of course I missed father. I would even go as far to say that I miss him more than Spencer. But Pearl, she’d never dealt with death until father was gone, and she hadn’t taken it too well. She’d never known Spencer, and had only been one when he’d gone to the Games. There’s a full 9 years difference between me and her, so it’s hard for her to understand some of the things that I understand, and is also difficult to talk properly to her. I guess it’s similar to how Spencer felt talking to me all those years ago. When father died, she had no one but me. I was there for her those long, dark, sleepless nights, when nobody else could be, and nobody could come close to understanding the pain we’d all been through. For a few months there I was the sole provider, with mother refusing to do nothing but lie around the house all day, expecting me to wait on her. But then, as time passed, Pearl realised very quickly how much I needed her help if we were going to survive. At the young age of 6, she was already helping more than I ever had when I was her age, and due to this she’d lost a lot of her childhood, never really having a very sheltered lifestyle as I had.

Though I can remember this one time, when I’d thought Pearl had gone too far from the District.

I was in a panic. I didn’t think I could live with myself if I lost her as well. It was only a few weeks after father’s death, and she’d run away from the house, wanting to be alone. I blindly followed her, having no sense of direction whatsoever. I collapsed on the ground at the outskirts of District 3 and began crying. It had been so long since I’d cried that I almost forgot what it felt like. The wet tears were streaming down my face, and I couldn’t move. A voice coming from behind me released me from my own fantasy world and I furiously wiped tears away from my eyes. I was relieved to see that it was Pearl, standing there, and as she ran to me I outstretched my arms, welcoming the hug from my precious sister. As we pulled ourselves away and began the walk home, Pearl stopped suddenly and led me off in a completely different direction. I had no choice but to follow her.

As we continued walking I could hear faint whimpers coming into focus. I tried to call out to Pearl, but she was miles ahead of me, so I had to follow, even though all my instincts told me to stop. As I raced to Pearl, I noticed that I’d never been this far out of the District, and everything felt creepy. I tried to tell Pearl to leave yet again, but she didn’t reply. For a moment I was worried I’d lost her again, but then I noticed her silhouette stopped up ahead, staring into the distance. Whatever was out there was frightening her. I grabbed her hand and turned to leave when I heard a scream coming from behind me, where Pearl had been facing moments earlier. I froze in position, afraid that somebody had noticed us here. Clutching Pearl’s hand tightly and gently kissing her forehead, I told her to wait for me at the outskirts of the District. She left without a word, and I crouched down, itching to get closer, curiosity getting the best of me. My hands shook slightly but I wasn’t afraid. I was never afraid, never had been.

But that might change after tonight.

As I crept behind a tree, I peeked around the trunk and swathe horror before me. I clamped my hand over my mouth in order to stop any sudden sounds escaping, anything that could give away my whereabouts. The scene before me consisted of 3 people – 2 men and a woman – two of which appeared to be Peacekeepers. The man and woman looked pretty buff, whilst the other man was crouched on the ground, shivering, nothing but skin and bones. A scrawny little thing. I felt pity instantly, but it was quickly replaced by a feeling of dread. There was no doubt in my mind they had been torturing the poor man, which immediately made me assume he must have been a criminal. It wasn’t like Peacekeepers to go around hurting people on purpose.

… Wait, scrap that. It’s exactly like Peacekeepers to go around hurting people.

But something about this situation didn’t seem right. I felt certain this man was bad, and even though I wanted to leave, I couldn’t pull myself away. As the 2 Peacekeepers propped the limp man up against a tree, the female turned to pull something out of a backpack that had been concealed in some bushes until then. I strained my eyes, trying to get a better view of the object in her hand, and realised suddenly that it was an electrical device, one that people would use for torture. In the blink of an eye, the female was upon the scrawny man, and was zapping him repeatedly with the device, each zap followed by a chorus of tortured screams. He must have died after the 3rd hit or something, but that didn’t stop the male Peacekeeper from having a go. I pulled my eyes away, disgusted for having watched such a thing.

From that day on, I was terrified of electricity.

I know it’s stupid, seeing so I live in the District that is responsible for electricity, but after that incident I was never quite the same. The only thing that even came close to calming me down was singing.

From a young age, I’d been a singer. And a good one, at that. According to father, I used to always leap around the house singing. How embarrassing. But I guess I must have really enjoyed it; not a day went by where I wouldn’t sing. Well, up until my mother yelled at me for being so ridiculous and told me to find a real hobby. So that shut me up. But after the electricity incident, I found that one day I randomly began singing again. I felt the happiest I’d felt in a long time, and once I started I couldn’t stop. Unfortunately, I was only 15, and still hadn’t left home, so mother heard me and immediately scolded me for doing something so immature. But as I crawled into bed that night, I couldn’t help singing softly to myself. I guess the rest is history. Now I sing every day, but only to myself. Nobody knows I do, not even Pearl, who I adore so much. If anyone found out, I’d be the laughing stock of the District. I have a reputation to live up to, one that I’ve been working on for years.

Still, there’s always a soft side to everything.

But I know that they would be proud of me. They’d be watching from up in heaven if there ever was such a place. I’d hope that they’d be gazing down, smiling, right now, happy with how I had developed over the 17 years of my lifespan. And I can only hope that one day I would join Spencer and father up there, or wherever they are, and we could meet up again. I look forward to that day, and eagerly await it. But I’m not ready to die. Not yet at least. Not before I can finally flee this place and settle down somewhere nobody else knows about, a place where I can just be me.

I want to be free.
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