[justify]
Ruth sycamore.

1 4 / Y E A R S / O L D
F E M A L E
D I S T R I C T / 5

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Doing
Thinking
Talking
Listening

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"P A I N T I N G / P I C T U R E S / W I T H / M Y / M I N D"
"M A K I N G / M E M O R I E S / U S I N G / M Y / E Y E S"

appearance.

We’re all entitled to the right to not be misjudged right?

That’s hardly ever the case. When I look at someone, anyone, the first thing to go would be my eyes. If the purple bags placed underneath them were not enough to enhance the rich brown colour of my eyes, then the long lashes protruding from my eyelids should be. Dead straight hair floats around my oval-shaped face, framing my head nicely. My hair is quite easily managed, which is a good thing as I don’t have much time to ever do anything really fancy with it. I’m not sure where I got my straight hair from. My brother, Blaire, has straight hair like me. It obviously didn’t come from my father, and I wouldn’t know what my mother’s hair was like.

I guess I never will.

I don’t ever dress grandly, nor does anyone have the need to feel jealous of me. Why should they? I’m so insignificant, compared to anybody else, and I often fly under the radar. My clothes also help me to blend in, my normal outfit usually consisting of a light jacket that does nothing to keep me warm but is more for show, and a pair of short pants. However, I own a couple of nice dresses, but I don’t tend to wear them much. I don’t want to stand out from the others that live at Sycamore with me, but sometimes when I’m all alone, drawing my thoughts, I grab a dress and clutch it tightly, as if it’s going to somehow give me inspiration.

Is that weird?

People view me as a weakling, I guess you could say. Even though everyone has a right to be treated equally, I cannot help but hear the comparisons that are so often made between my brother and I. I’m not as short as he is, but I’m not far off it. The only things that help enhance the idea of me being taller than I actually am are my legs. They’re long and tanned, just like the rest of the skin covering my fragile body, also complimenting my hair quite nicely. I’ve never really been unimpressed with my appearance, even if people do tend to judge me unfairly on it.

Blaire is a little more sensitive to people’s comments than I am. I often have to remind him to not let it get to him. That’s all they want; a reaction. Even though he is older than me, he’s not as smart as me. Don’t get me wrong, I love him to pieces. We share so much in common. Brown eyes, black hair, tan skin, short height. Still, there are many things that we do not share in common at all, things that would make somebody doubt if we were even twins or not. Some of the things he does can just really annoy me. He’s always so protective of me. I mean, I know I look like a little doll who’s about to collapse at any moment, but I can look after myself, you know? I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that. It would break his heart. Instead I put up with it. Blaire’s already been through a lot, and I think it all affected him a little more than it affected me. I know he was hurting, but really, to go as far as give himself a tattoo?

Eh, who am I kidding, I’ve got the exact same one. He gave it to me. It’s permanent, and also a reminder. A little ‘X’ located on my right side. It was so long ago, I can’t even remember if it hurt or not. But it’s there, and it’s real. I guess that no matter what we go through, we’re always gonna be together. Which is nice.

"F I L L I N G / U P / M Y / H E A R T"
"W I T H / G O L D E N / S T O R I E S"
"W H O / A D D S / S O M E / S P I C E / T O / T H E / R H Y T H M / O F / L I F E"

personality.

“Ruth, I know we don’t talk much, but tell me. How would you describe yourself?”

“It’s rather complicated, father.”

“Never mind, try explaining it to me.”

“Well… I imagine it’s somewhat… like a picture..”

“A picture? Are you out of your mind?! I regret even asking you. Your problem is that you spend too much time imagining. You’re destined to be a failure. Go to your room now!”

That was on one occasion that my father had actually been nice to me, actually showed interest, and tried to get to know me better. Only it wasn’t what he had expected.

Maybe he would have known that if he actually cared about me.

I had meant what I’d said, though. The only way that I could look at things in life was to imagine them as a drawing, or a painting. I had always found it much more expressive and also a lot easier to try and get your feelings across. I guess that just comes from spending so much time by myself, though, from reading and writing and drawing.

Drawing. The only thing I know how to do properly.

I’m a dreamer, I guess you could say. When I imagine things that I want very badly, a wonderful picture that never fails to present itself in times of longing is always visible. The clouds in the clear blue sky are light and fluffy, the purest white colour. The grass is unbelievably green, soft to the touch. The sun high in the sky is not just a yellow ball of fire, but also pink, orange, peony and marigold, overlapping to create a piece of art. Covering the lush green all around me for miles and miles are flowers painted in different shades of pink and red, one of the most calming things that I enjoy drawing. I would often draw this very scene in my spare time, which I happened to have a lot of. I dream of the things I long for in life almost all the time, causing the beautiful image to resurface whenever I long for independence and acceptance. I often feel that I’m too dependent on others, though I guess that’s not really my fault. It is Blaire who insists on staying with me, checking up on me and not letting me do anything reckless or dangerous, after all.

Just like in a picture, there are many different interpretations and layers of my personality. In every picture or painting, there is so much more than meets the eye upon first glance. When you look at me, most people would immediately think of a small helpless child who doesn’t know any better than to hide away in her own little place and ignore the world around her. However, there are certain aspects that one must look into to get a full understanding of who I really am and how my mind really works. Just like in a picture.

Of course, those who describe me as shy and weak are quite accurate. I am incredibly timid and don’t tend to come out of my own mind too much. But it’s not like I don’t want to. I’d love to build better relationships with the others, but I guess I just can’t muster up the courage to do it. Sometimes I just feel like a nuisance, like one more thing for the others living at Sycamore House to put up with. I’d love to get to know everyone a little better, but I think they perceive me as someone who wants to be left alone all the time. I’ve told myself that enough now that I’m starting to believe it myself. Now I just tend to go along with it. I know that they don’t view me as dumb; I’m probably one of the smartest amongst the others. But I also have many conflicting emotions towards the others.

Sometimes I feel upset that I seem so lonely all the time, and feel like I should be given more attention. Then again, that’s just being selfish, I suppose. Other times I just want to curl up next to Blaire and pour my heart out to him. I’m sure he’d love that, and love the feeling of being close to me, but then other times I feel so angry at him for treating me like a little girl. I know that being twins we’re bound to have our arguments, but I just wish he would give me a little more space. I’m not the babyish girl that most people think I am. It’s quite annoying. I also feel frustrated when I try to help the others. Everyone needs a little bit of help, even if they don’t want to accept it.

That’s just the kind of person I am.

And then there’s another perspective from which one can view the painting. Underneath the shy outside demeanour, all I really want to achieve in life is a feeling of acceptance. All my life I’ve never really felt accepted or had a true sense of belonging, and often feel judged differently for whatever reasons people can think of. When I’m older, and my drawings are famous all over Panem, nobody will remember the foolish little girl who was scared of her own shadow. No, I’ll be respected and viewed seriously. I’ll learn to become more independent, and lead a less sheltered life. That’s what I strive for, anyway. And one can dream, right?

So long as those dreams are not knocked down as easily as they can present themselves and be planted firmly in one’s mind.

"W E L C O M E / S U N R I S E"
"W I T H / T H E / M O R N I N G / G L O R Y"
"I V E / C H A N G E D / M Y / M I N D / T H E R E / I S / N O / S I M P L E"

history.

I don’t remember much of my childhood. I guess I spent most of it drawing, burrowed in a book, admiring the beautiful world around me. There aren’t really any good or bad memories that seem to present themselves, apart from my father’s judgment of my desire to draw. And then there are all the times dad abused me, and when Blaire went to the greatest lengths just to protect me. Even when I didn’t need protecting. But what frustrates me the most isn’t the bad memories that I can remember. It’s the good memories that I can’t remember. My birth, for instance.

I can’t remember it, of course. But I knew from stories told by other villagers – never my father, who would envy anyone who would even bother wasting breath on mother – that it was a perfect day. A day that mother would have loved to live out with her newborn children and husband. But she didn’t get to fulfil that dream, nor any other memories that she hoped would come in the future. Never would she see her children’s first birthdays, their first and final reapings, their becoming adults. I had been born first, and even though I can’t blame Blaire for anything, the thought that mother might still be alive if he didn’t exist had crossed my mind numerous times before.

I knew it had crossed my father’s as well. Is that why he hates us so much?

I had never liked father. Though there was nothing I could do to change who he was, or change the fact that he was indeed my only father, the only person now who could care for me, apart from Blaire. I’d always felt that he liked me a little more than Blaire, but it is truly impossible to pick a favourite child. But maybe not so for someone as ruthless and cruel as father. Just as I thought I was making progress with my father, making him proud of me, convincing him I wasn’t actually a failure, he would shoot down all the false hope that I had mustered up. But still I kept going back to him. How could I not? I was only young, younger than I am now. I would never have been able to make it on my own.

Blaire, however, had some false hope that he could.

After we turned 8, he gradually began drifting away, so much so that he would go for days without returning home. I knew that father was much harsher to Blaire than he was to me, but I didn’t think it would ever get so bad that he felt like running away. I’ll admit, at times I had dreamt of doing the very same thing, allowing the beautiful picture of the field of flowers to resurface yet again, but I knew it would never happen. We were destined to grow up miserable. I was just glad when Blaire came home. I wasn’t afraid of father, even though there was probably very good reason to be, but even then I’d felt connected with Blaire, and not having him by my side was like somebody had switched the lights off in a room, causing me to feel blind and lost, confused and hopeless.

By the time we had turned 12, even I had had enough. I can remember one day when Blaire had snuck into my room. He was away so often that I thought father must have forgotten all about him. Not like he would have cared. After a long argument, I gave in to Blaire’s suggestion. He was determined to take me away from this living hell, and he hoped that we would find a better place. He wanted to find a Peacekeeper and get them to take us away to an orphanage. I was torn, but I realised it was for the best. Two days later the Peacekeepers came, and I grabbed up my few possessions – a notepad, coloured crayons, a few of my favourite dresses and a small children’s book – and we were whisked away to a new life.

Father didn’t say a single word. He didn’t care. Good riddance to you, too.

Blaire thinks I’m so stupid, and weak. And in a way I am. I haven’t been tainted by father’s cruelness. I still look for the best in people, even if it does seem fruitless to Blaire. He went into denial after we were put into the Sycamore House. Don’t get me wrong, he’s the friendliest person I know, but he claims to forget most things that happened in the past. They’re really just trapped away in an inaccessible part of him, a part not even he can reach himself. I might have resorted to that feeling of retreating, if I didn’t have drawing to help me. I just wish I had a picture of mother, even a reminder. But there isn’t a single trace in the house. I’m certain that father burned all her possessions or something. Wouldn’t surprise me either. But I keep clinging to another loose thread, hoping that I will someday find something belonging to her when I’m older and successful, taken seriously by those around me.

Then again, maybe it’s best not to have a picture of her. I’d go crazy drawing it over and over, until it was perfection. And I’ve never been crazy. Best not to start now.

"I / T H O U G H T / O F / M E / I / W A N T / T O / S E E"
"I / W A N T / T O / F E E L / M Y / H E A R T B E A T"

other.

C O D E – O D A I R

S O N G – P A I N T I N G / P I C T U R E S b y A D E L E

F A C E / C L A I M – L E / H O A N G / B A O / T R A N


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"S O / W I T H / T H E / W O R L D / T H A T / Y O U / F E E L"
"L E A V E"

*you're welcome, you mean^^

Looks great, though — Accepted^^