.:i'll:.:keep:.:trying:.:to:.:figure:.:this:.:life:.:out:.

.: b a s i c . i n f o :.
Step to the left, step to the right,
Center of the floor looks safe tonight.

Isn't it sad that she can't even remember her own last name? Stripped of it the moment she was placed in the orphanage hidden high up in the hills of District Five, the teenager only goes by Lilith now. A single child before her parents were killed, she technically has no brothers or sisters, but she considers all the other kids in the orphanage to be half sibling, half child to her. And a job? The idea is laughable. The seventeen year old is busy enough acting as mother to all the orphans. While she's constantly trying to tell the kids otherwise, her life is falling apart, piece by piece. And with a whole world balanced on her shoulders, if Lilith falls, it's likely she'll take part of the orphanage down with her.

.: a p p e a r a n c e :.
Will I face it? Can I take it?
Layin' my soul on the line.

While Sycamore House lacks many things, a mirror can still be found among it's few possessions. An ancient thing with a twisting, elegant gold frame and a thick coating of dust and grime around the edges, it is almost as archaic as Miss Aggie herself. Though cracked in some places and as dirty as anything else in the house, its ornateness seems almost alien in our orphanage, though all the furniture is probably just as aged. Funny, isn't it, how though I spend what feels like hours brushing the younger ones' hair and straightening their clothes in front of it, I hardly ever pay attention to myself? I always stress the importance of appearances to them all, because if seen outside in wrinkled, ragged clothes and with tangled hair, they could shut down the orphanage and split us apart, and then where would we be? And yet, since I go out so little, I rarely focus on the skeleton in the mirror, the ghost of a nightmare who stands behind those pretty children with her lips pulled tight in plastic smiles just barely hiding the tortured soul within.

And maybe that is why I jump every time I catch my own reflection in it, shocked by what I see. Though the children are used to my looks, I am certainly not. While I was never very fond of keeping up my own appearance, I still don't want to believe that the creature in the mirror could actually be me. She looks dead. Or at least, to me she does. Like some sort of ghost. When I was younger, I simply glowed health, with round, full cheeks, limbs perhaps a bit pudgy, and eyes that outshone the stars. But it seems that 'motherhood' has changed all that, turning me into a walking, breathing skeleton. And even then, feel my own breath escaping me, I sometimes wonder if I really will find a pulse underneath the delicate skin of my wrist.

I suppose that my hair has not taken too terrible of a toll. It stays clean, anyway, or at least as clean as anything can be in Sycamore House. But it's been a long time since we could spare a coin for the barber and so for a long time I just let it grow, out into tumbling, curling tendrils. Once one of the children (I cannot remember which) told me that the locks sometimes looked like snakes twisting themselves into coils not unlike Medusa's, an ancient tale of some fallen empire that I sometimes would read to the youngest before they went to bed. That was when I decided to start cutting it, and cut I did, chopping at the ends with old scissors I had found in a drawer. Though incredibly uneven, it was at least shorter, falling only to just below my shoulder blades. Still dissatisfied, I got into the habit of yanking it up into a messy bun every morning. Even then, some of the shorter locks fall out and hang down near my neck, refusing to be tamed. I suppose that ever since I was forced into the orphanage I have been at war with the chocolate strands, but they hardly seem of matter now. The kids are my first priority- anything else seems foolish in comparison to their needs.

So perhaps my hair has paid the price of being orphaned and forced into motherhood, but it is barely noticeable in comparison to my face. Yes, my face has surely taken the worst of the consequences. Skeletal, haunted, and empty, I look like someone who just recently crawled out of their grave when it really would have been much better if they had just stayed there. I don't have wrinkles, though they are sure to come, nor do my features reflect an age different than my own sweet seventeen years of horror, but thing have been stolen at it that really should be left in their proper place or else leave the victim looking starved of life. And the thing is, I'm never getting those things back. No, this kind of theft is permanent, and while a person may not be able to put their finger on what is missing, it is indefinitely clear that something about my face is off.

It isn't in the forehead. Those rather long and lined with creases (I refuse to call them wrinkles because they aren't), it makes my face look a bit lower set than it should be and gives the illusion that my face is longer than it really is. Since my hair is most often pulled away from it, this is only emphasized further. Often little wisps of hair will fall just past my hairline, but other than that it remains undisturbed and perfectly obvious. And, of course, my eyebrows are closer to my eyes, only making the whole situation worse. Looking thick though not long, they are most often drawn together in a frown and are just as dark as my hair is. Never once have I considered plucking them, for I am just certain they would only grow back looking ten times worse than the originals.

I suppose that it is my eyes that are most affected by "motherhood". Wide and rimmed by long, thick, dark eyelashes, they might be pretty if it weren't for the haunting look in them. The color of frost, they are two empty pools of ice. Not dead, but not quite alive, either. As if the stolen thing had once lived in my eyes and left them empty and longing. They only light up when one of the children manages to make me laugh, and even then just a little bit. They say that I always seem to me staring into the distance, my eyelids falling in exhaustion. Little crinkles branch off the outer corners when I laugh, but such a thing is rare. Sleep deprivation has painted big, dark circles underneath, and still no one suspects. Perhaps it is for the best. The children are getting older and smarter, now, and I must be wary of all of them, especially Edgar. If any of them ever found out, it would be disaster.

I have never really cared for my nose. Though long and slender, it ends oddly and abruptly, and the bridge is flattened slightly from when I smashed it against a table in my younger years. My nostrils are small, though at times they seem to be two different sized. I've always had problems with nosebleeds, especially during the summer. Miss Aggie, who knew my parents distantly, used to say that they had trouble with them, too, so I guess I inherited it from them. It's a problem that I've tried (and failed) to control over the years, for when one starts I must leave the children to themselves. All in all, I regard my nose with extreme distaste on the rare occasion that I look in the old mirror.

The plains of my face are sharpened and narrow, with high cheekbones and an angled jawline. My ears are rather pointy, too, and also a bit on the small side. My chin ends in a slight point and my cheeks are hollowed out by hunger so that my face looks practically skeletal. Rarely does my expression morph out of it's normal calm, cool, collected mask. Perhaps that is what makes me look so different. The emptiness of my face makes me look like the ghost of a person. Alive, but just barely.

My neck is a tad bit too short, and slopes down into bony shoulders that are firmly held straight around the children but slump down in defeat everywhere else. They lead into arms that are far too thin and elbows that are very prominent. One could easily touch their thumb to their middle finger around my wrists, so thin and small. My hands are scarred and bruised, with nails that are short and rectangular with jagged edges from my biting them so much. A layer of dirt can always be found under them no matter how much I wash my hands, to my great annoyance.

Hunger has shaped my torso into curves, but they are always hidden by loose fitting clothing. My hips are wide and lead into long legs that make up for much of my 5'4" of height. My legs, like my arms, are very thin, barely looking like they could support me, and my knees seem large in comparison. My ankles, too, are rather prominent, leading into feet that are a bit too small for my body and toes that are long with almost nonexistent toenails.

I can't afford fancy clothing, so most of my clothes are worn, too big, and covered in stains from taking care of Ara. I do have one or two clean outfits, but I don't wear them anywhere except in public. I have to give a good impression, and make it look like we're all being properly taken care of. All my other clothes, however, have been washed together improperly so many times that they've all faded into a dusty brown colors so that I match the house. I have a necklace that I always wear, too. A clock mounted against old bronze, given to me by my parents.

I really do look like a mother, I suppose. Worn down and always tired. The responsibility has taken it's toll on my body, and that's not even the worst of it.

The real place where damage hides is in my mind.

.: p e r s o n a l i t y :.
Will the spaces absorb me?
Will the walls live my lies?

I'm not meant to be a mother.

Not yet, anyway, though I'd never admit it in front of the children. It's not so much that I can't or won't be a mother- after all, I have been one for the past seven years. It's more that I'm not ready to be one. I'm seventeen years old. I should be going out to eat with friends and dating boys rather than changing diapers and trying to hold a group of orphans together. The responsibility is far too great for someone of my age, and yet I must manage it or else lose my family yet again.

I love the kids. I really, truly do, and there's hardly a thing in the world that I wouldn't do for them. I'll morph myself into whoever or whatever I need to be for them, even if it means giving up being a teenager and putting myself through enough stress to drive me insane. They're all sweet children who have gone through a lot, and I just know that if I can't fool the Keepers into thinking that Miss Aggie is doing a wonderful job taking care of us, we'll be split apart and they'll be put into orphanages far more cruel. It's really not fair, but I guess that's how life is. I know it won't be like this forever- eventually we'll all grow up and then life will be normal for everyone. For now, I'll just have to deal with things as they are and give up my teenage life in order to be there for them.

Edgar's a huge help. I don't know if I'd be able to handle all of them without him. He's the only orphan that I don't have to treat like my own kid- instead, he's like my brother. Strong, tough, and just as passionate about these children as I am. Still, not everyone can be perfect, and Edgar is no exception. Though I appreciate him, his temper makes it harder for me to trust him. Not yet, anyway. And the way he handles things are not right- sure, I'd love to go out and punch a few people when I get mad, but that's not how things work and he's got to realize that. He doesn't seem to realize that we're all reliant on him and he just can't be unreliable like that.

Arwen is the eldest of the kids if you don't count me and Edgar, which I don't. Stubborn and strong, I've always admired her attitude toward life though not toward people. She's sarcastic and perhaps a bit rude at times and though I've often tried to fix these things I by now realize that Arwen cannot be changed. She is herself and no one else and while I know I should be proud of this, it often makes me worry. Out in the real world, people don't like kids like Arwen. The Keepers would surely take her away in a second if she was on her own, for who knows what kind of things she could say to offend them? Though I love Arwen just as I love all the other kids, I would be lying if I said that we have never butt heads. She knows how to get under my skin and is the only one who can make me feel like a teenager, which frustrates me because I can't be a teenager- I have to be a mother.

Silas, the second eldest, is one I am truly grateful for when it comes to Arwen and when it comes to stability in general. He is the only one among us who can really control Arwen's short temper, which has resulted in a friendship between the two that I'm glad exists. I don't think I've ever seen Silas get mad- he's calm, quiet, and firm in a way I wish I could be. Sometimes I fear for him, though, concerned that perhaps there's something behind that stability that he's trying to hide from the rest of us or perhaps even himself. I'm always very gentle with him though I know he doesn't need it. It's just that sometimes I feel like being sane in the midst of our insanity at Sycamore House must be especially hard for him, and he deserves at least one person who acts like a normal person around him and doesn't make things even more complicated.

Ruth is one that concerns me especially. Shy and quiet, I am both thankful for and fearful of the way that she never puts up a fight. Creative and hopeful, I can tell that she wants to escape from her cage of shyness but has yet to figure out how to do so. I suppose that Blaire isn't the only one who's protective of her- if you hurt a hair on her head, I will not hesitate to go on the offensive, though using words rather than fists. I can tell that Ruth wants to escape this kind of protection and become more independent, but as long as she is as fragile as she is, her brother and I will continue to guard her fiercely.

Her twin, Blaire, has a policy of trusting no one when it comes to his sister that makes him seem both over protective and extremely sweet at the same time. Though he doesn't need my protection I give it anyway, because I know that he has a soft heart and he's so concerned with guarding Ruth's that he forgets to guard his own. His abusive past makes it harder for him to love and trust but that's okay because I'll keep caring for him, anyway. I sometimes feel that, on a smaller scale, Blaire knows what I'm going through. He knows what it's like, trying to keep the cruel world away from someone you care about. Except I'm doing that for seven people and he's only doing it for one.

Septimus is trouble, but I love him anyway. Somehow he finds joy inside the bleak walls of Sycamore House, though if he could find it a bit more quietly and less explosively it would be very nice, especially since I'm usually the one cleaning up after his messes. Knowing his past, I'm always sure to give the attention he deserves and am always trying to find new ways to show I care about him- he's a smart boy who shows great promise and he deserves to have someone who loves him like his mother never did.

Lalia is the one that I'm not really sure how to handle. She's more of Edgar's kid than mine but I still love her half to death, wishing there was some way that I could help her or calm her down during her fits. Life has been hard for her and I can understand that, though I think sometimes Edgar understands that more. I try to help her, I really do, but more often then not it isn't me who calms her down and that worries me. I don't want it to affect my relationship with her, because I love her just like I love all the others even if I can't help her like I can help them.

Ara is the baby, brand new to the orphanage. She's the one that needs the most attention and the most protection, and I grudgingly give it to her, hoping against hope that being an orphan won't change her the way it's changed the rest of us. Sometimes it feels like Ara is the sanity in my life, the one constant who rarely changes. Fresh and new and totally innocent, I look to her as a distraction and would do anything it took to ensure her safety and well being, even if that means giving up my own.

Though around the kids I pretend to be as stable as a mountain, I am weak and I hate myself for that, getting upset over every little thing and feeling like my life is over when one of the kids is mad at me (which is almost always). I'm a teenager forced into a motherly position, but there's a reason that most teenagers aren't mothers. Sometimes I feel like when I was younger, I was far more confident in myself and much more stable. I don't know. I guess I'm so busy being strong for everyone else that I've forgotten how to be strong for myself.

It's easy to strike me down but just as easy for me to build myself back up, healing battle wounds with promises that someday this insanity will all be over and expanding lies outward around myself so that I almost believe they are true. I know this life will leave me scarred but sometimes I pretend it won't, that it'll all be okay when I get older. For most orphans eighteen is the age of freedom, but it isn't the same for me. Maybe for Edgar, depending on his choice, but not for me. No, I'll wait until each and every one of them have fled Sycamore House into adulthood and then I'll adopt Ara myself. I am certain that I will never find a man who will learn to love a soul as broken as my own, and so I prepare myself for a long life alone watching the other succeed and being happy for them all because I'll never learn to be happy for myself.

I think about these things when I lay with eyes wide open in bed at night, twisting and turning under my covers and dreading what I know must come eventually. They'll never find out, though. Not if I can help it. The somniphobia that paints dark circles beneath my eyes will remain a secret, always and forever, screams in the dark muffled by my pillow and tears always wiped away before any of the children can see them. If, by chance, any of them do hear anything, I always quickly use nightmares as an excuse. I don't want them to find out for fear that they will try to help or feel stressed about it themselves- the somniphobia is my problem, not theirs.

.: h i s t o r y :.
Smiling face that no one knows,
Singing 'bout the passion in my soul.

My parents longed for a child for a long time before they had one. I was born on a humid day in August, my screams carried along a wind thick with the heat. My parents had never been my proud as they stared down at my tiny face, twisted up and bright red as I howled. Their own little girl. And for a moment, things seemed perfect. They had their child and I had my parents and that was all that mattered for the time being. But things change, and with time, so did I.

I was normal in the beginning, but I suppose everyone was. I cried. I ate. I soiled about a thousand diapers. My parents looked about a decade older after spending just one year with me- I was always waking up in the middle of the night crying my eyes out. This was normal, though. I was alergic to normal formula so my parents had to get me a different kind. Nothing special, really. I was a chubby baby with what my parents called "the bluest eyes they'd ever seen", and I suppose, at the time, it must have been true. When I first learned how to make sound, they couldn't get me to shut up. My first word was "mama". Wrinkles began etching themselves into my parents' faces as the effort of taking care of me became greater, but we were a happy family, the three of us.

At the age of two, I was very adventurous. My parents bought me all kinds of little toys to play with, but I prefered breaking into the cabinets and playing with the glass dishes instead. This, of course, didn't go over well with my parents, who immediately childproofed the house. I was a little chatterbox who loved to explore and draw all over the walls. Needless to say, I was certainly a little handful. My parents loved my anyway. I loved both of my parents a to death- I cried whenever they were away for too long. I got into all kinds of trouble with my babysitters. There were multiple ones, and all gave up on me after a few tries of trying to control my eager attitude.

At the age of three, I was running and laughing and becoming very entranced with games of pretend. I loved to be the fairy princess who had to be rescued from the evil step mother or something of that sort, but always added my own little twist onto the age old stories. My parents were amused by the little dances and performances I would put on for them, singing in a very off key voice with a slight lisp that everyone thought was extremely cute. There were some other kids in the neighborhood my age, all boys. I sort of became a tom boy after hanging out with them, scraping my knees and rolling in the mud and playing dinosaurs rather than princesses. We played rough sports where I got pushed around a lot and I learned how to be tough. No, it didn't take me long to grow out of my sensitive stage of frilly dresses and glittering pink lace.

When I was four and sent to preschool, none of the other little girls wanted to play with me because I didn't like doing the same things they did. I got used to hanging out with the boys, pretending we had super powers and soaring all around the room. I admit that sometimes I was the damsel in distress, because I was the only girl, but I didn't mind. I was just glad to have friends, and as for the other girls... well, they could laugh and point all they wanted. It didn't make their stupid dresses and tiaras any more appealing to me. The teacher got used to not running with Band-Aids every time I fell down, because my early years spent with boys taught me not to cry when normal girls would be bawling their eyes out. I guess my abnormalty started at a young age. Either way, my fourth year could in no way compare to my fifth.

The problems started when I was five. It was nothing with my social skills- sure, I was playing mostly with guys, but that didn't concern my parents too much. What did concern them was when I started sobbing about how I didn't want to go to bed because that was where the monsters were. They did everything they could- they purchased a nightlight and read me stories and let me sleep at the foot of their bed. None of it helped. Eventually, my mother just started climbing into bed with me and holding me until I stopped crying and fell asleep. Somniphobia, the doctors called it. Fear of sleep. At first, by parents didn't understand. They thought I had nightmares and tried to soothe me when I woke up screaming. What they didn't understand was that for some reason, I was terrified of the idea of falling asleep, into complete vulnerablility and darkness where I couldn't see or hear or taste or feel. I was absolutely horrified by the idea. There was nothing they could do, really. I know it killed them to listen to me scream and sob, but they were helpless in the fight against my condition.

At the age of six, I learned how to hate. My best friend was a boy named Johnny, and we could rarely be found without the other. We loved playing together and imagining and just having fun, and he lived close, so we could play together all the time. Johnny had an older sister named Amy who was always encouraging our playtime. She was a sweet, pretty girl who loved to laugh and who had a smile like sunshine. When I was six years old, Amy's name was called at the Reaping. I remember mother gasping and father putting a hand on my shoulder. I remember hearing Johnny's mother shrieking and Amy being lead up to the stage. I remember being very confused, and then seeing the look on Johnny's face and the realization hit me. Amy was going into The Hunger Games. Amy was going to die.

And that was when my hate for the Capitol bloomed.

Johnny and I watched together. She didn't make it far. The second to fall. We both cried. After that, Johnny's family moved away. Johnny and I grew distant, and I made new friends. But the anger was still there. The feeling that it just wasn't fair that she had been taken away and killed for a fault that wasn't even hers. My parents warned me not to say things like these out loud, so I kept silent, for them. But there was something growing within me. Something spreading, like a horrible disease. I didn't know I could feel that way about anything. Six year olds probably shouldn't hate. But I'm sure a lot of them do in Panem.

As I grew older, my hatred became more thorough. More children were sent off to die, and the fear that perhaps one day I might be among them scared me horribly. I wanted to get away from the Capitol. I wanted to get away from Panem. But where else was there to go? And I couldn't leave my parents behind. Even my seven year old mind recognized that. No, I'd wait until I was older and wiser before I left. And so I continued to live as a normal seven year old, making new friends, some girls but most boys because I remained a tom boy. I did decently in school. I continued to have horrible problems with my somniphobia. Just the usual.

At the age of eight, I was showing great promise in the area of writing and doing poorling in mathematics. I was wonderful at spelling and grammar, winning my school spelling bee, and I did wonderful in gym. I failed miserably at science, telling my parents that it was extremely boring. I often climbed trees and hurt myself falling out of them, but my parents got used to it. I was a tom boy, after all. Things went normally enough, and they stayed that way at the age of nine.

Everything changed when I turned ten.

I was older and I was wiser. Not old enough or wise enough, but that didn't matter to me. I had a lousy teacher and managed to run away during play time outside. I grabbed some food I had hidden and tried to escape through the fence. Within minutes the Keepers found me. There was no doubt about my intentions. My parents were immediately blamed, and their punishment was death. Mine... mine was far worse. They left me completely untouched and shipped me off to the orphanage. Miss Aggie was nice enough, but she could not heal my conscious. I killed my parents. Their deaths were all my fault. Who would hold me while I cried now? Certainly not any of the other orphans or Miss Aggie. No, I was all alone now.

The next few years, I watched the older orphans get adopted. A few were interested at me, but all turned me down and chose another when they found out about the somniphobia. Miss Aggie knew, of course, but I begged her not to tell any of the other orphans. Surely they would call me a freak, and I needed some friends. Eventually, Edgar and I became the oldest orphans. We quickly recognized that Miss Aggie's mind was slowly deteriorating, and became kind of the new parents of the household. I took care of the younger children and so did Edgar. We both struggled to keep Sycamore house under control and keep our family of orphans safe, but I don't think the stress has been easy on either of us. We're just seventeen. We aren't ready to be parents yet.

So that's where I am now, I suppose. Falling apart, drowning in my secret, and as alone as ever despite all the kids. I don't have a bright view of the future, but then again, I don't look forward that often. It seems like all that matters right now. Taking care of my family, staying sane despite the somniphobia. Things are rough, but I'll get over this stage of my life. The only thing that concerns me are my memories. The ones of my parents. Those... those will scar me for life.

Because I still long for them when I'm screaming into my pillow at night.

.: c o d e w o r d / o t h e r :.
Take a chance.
Learn a new dance.

Her Face: Anna Popplewell

Her Song: Dancing on the Edge of a Dream, by Sarah Jarosz

Her Voice: Mia Wasikowska

Her Inspiration: None

Her Purpose: Sycamore House plot, by Clover