Season: Month: Weather: 72nd Hunger Games Champion: Atticus Manor, District Three 73rd Hunger Games Day 6: Sunday, July 31st @ 1 PM EST
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“DON'T TELL ME NOT TO LIVE, JUST SIT AND PUTTER” Life's candy and the sun's a ball of butter.
AGE . I am eighteen years of age. GENDER . I am a young woman, coming into her own. DISTRICT . District One (sadly). OCCUPATION . Prim and Proper China Doll. SEXUALITY . I like men. TALKING . Yellow Spot DOING . Peachorange2 DEEP THOUGHT .西藏 HEARING .Red Pepper OTHER .Red 101
“DON'T TELL ME NOT TO FLY, I SIMPLY GOT TO” If someone takes a spill it's me and not you.
Are you blind? No? Then why must I describe myself? Well fine, I suppose that is a plausible reason. Here I go then, documenting myself for future generations.
We'll start with my face. It is longish, and oval shaped. Nothing like the other high society girls of District One, what with their petite little faces. I have a large mouth, and I can probably fit about ten marshmallows inside it. Before you ask, I have tested it before. My lips are full, but not too full, so I guess average. They always have at least some colouring on them, but I like to just leave them pale and pink. I like my nose, I think it's nice for my face, but my mother complains that it is far too big and If I was blessed enough to live in the Capitol, I could get a nose job. My eyes are an unremarkable brown. I am happy to say that I do not have small eyes, and they compliment my face nicely. My ears are small and have the good grace to not stick out.
My hair is a bright auburn color, and although my mom thinks it is ridiculous, I love it. It's rather unique in this society, and I take after my father. The problem with it, is it refuses to be tamed. It seems to go wild no matter how long I brush it. If I try and place it up in a bun or braid, a few strands will always be hanging loose, to my mother's chagrin. When my hair is loose, it falls to rest halfway down my chest. It's a wild and wavy mess when it is left uncared for. I get ringlets closer to my face when my hair is drying from being wet. I don't have bangs, instead they have just grown out to be as long as my hair. Sometimes I like to shake it all in front of my face and pretend to be a hair monster.
Because I am a 'lady of high society,' I don't get to be a hair monster very often. Instead, I am painted and puffed with make-ups and intricate hair styles, anything to keep me beautiful. It's a real challenge with me, or so my mother says. My skin is pale because I never get to leave the house except to go on visits. And when I do, I must wear a wide brimmed hat, and keep my face down so as not to welcome in the sunlight. One time, I escaped out into the back garden to smile at the sun, and I received a smattering of freckles across my nose. Needless to say, that never was allowed to happen again. Mother says it is ugly to have such spots, and they make me look foolish. I think that they make me look charming, and are much more preferable to a girl with pale as winter skin.
I am a tall young lady, standing at the height of five foot eight. I believe it is due to my long legs. I weigh one hundred and twenty pounds, which is most likely underweight. If I could I would eat everything in sight, but my mother forbids it. I own long arms to match my long legs, and am extremely clumsy. I am liable to trip over everything. My hands are soft, and have never really done much in their life. The only thing they have been allowed to do is play the harp, and flipping pages. Luckily for me, my torso evens out my body, and I don't look completely ridiculous. I am a B-cup in the breast department, and I have come to terms with it. I do not have a giraffe-like neck, but it is not toad-like either. It's pretty evened out.
I am dressed in, well, dresses, always of a respectable length, and never showing too much skin. I swear, it is as if my mother has gone back to the dark ages. I long to wear pants. Maybe some shorts, anything but these skirts and dresses all the time. I feel like a painted china doll on display, to go to the man with the highest bid. I always wear heels, which makes me look even taller than I already appear to be. I wear a long, golden chain around my neck, and at the end of it is an empty, oval locket. I'll place someone inside once they become worthy of it. I keep the locket tucked inside my dress, and it rests between my breasts. my mother insists upon my wearing corsets instead of just a regular bra, and because of this, I have some very pronounced curves. When she's not looking, I secretly loosen it. I've gotten the hang of reaching behind and letting the strings loose.
I guess you wonder why my mother keeps me on such a tight string. It would probably be because I suffer from a rare disease known as situs inversus totalis. It means all of my organs are on the wrong side of my body. My heart is on my right, and all my organs are flipped to the other side. My left lung is my right lung, and vice versa. I'm lucky enough that it doesn't actually affect me too badly. The only reason we found out is because when I was little, I got sick with the Chicken Pox, and a Doctor was called. You would think it would make it easier for my mom to let me out, protect me from fatalities, but no, it only makes her more protective.
“BUT WHETHER I'M THE ROSE OF SHEER PERFECTION” A freckle on the nose of life's complexion.
First thing to know about me is that I am not some damsel in distress. I have the ability to stand up for myself, and I will, no matter what it takes. I'm lucky to have a quick tongue, but unlucky to also have quick wit. Many things I say jab very evilly at people's confidence, and then I am prone to regret it afterwards for quite some time. There is so much chivalry and men being men around me all the time that it makes me sick. I long for someone to let me be their knight in shining armour, like I know I can be. At the same time, I won't disagree to a guy holding me in his strong arms, like in those romance novels I sometimes read. I hate how my mother cowers and purrs about like a kitten under the paw of her master, my father, and I have vowed to never become like that. It's pretty easy to keep that vow, as i haven't yet come across a man who wanted to snatch me under his claws.
It doesn't bother me that they all go for the small, petite and pretty ones. It bothers me that they go for the flat, gossip girls. All they have to offer is a smile and the ability to lie down on the backs and show their submissiveness. The thought of it makes me want to shudder and shake off all the dull sounds of their incessant chatter. I suppose I sound a little bit rude, but I am. I am extremely brash, and I get into trouble because of it. Sometimes I wish I had the ability to just keep my mouth shut, but then I remind myself that I'm not just some china doll to be placed on a shelf, and I feel all better about it. I guess the fact that I just don't give a damn about what people think about me kind of helps.
If I had the choice, I probably would never wear clothes again. It's amazing how much they can restrict you from doing anything. I want to feel the sun kiss my eyelids, and grass under my bare feet. I would like to try swimming in a cold river as well. I want to eat greasy foods, and feel the way it hits my stomach. And I want to have the pleasure of seeing someone's face light up at seeing mine. I hate sitting inside my dark rooms with the curtains drawn just because my mother fears the sun and my health. It doesn't matter how much I try and convince her that I am completely fine, because she never believes me. I cannot wait for the day that I announce to her my plans of becoming a nudist.
My mother often tries to insult me by calling me stubborn as a mule. I do not take it as an insult, but instead am rather proud that I cannot be moved when I make a decision. At least I'm not a flimsy little bamboo stick of a girl who waves wherever the wind is going. Apparently I received my aptitude for stubbornness from my father, who is also a man who will stand his ground. Sometimes I wish I was born a boy, because in this household, they have so much more freedom. My brother is allowed to go out and frolic about in the sunlight as much as he pleases. He has more freckles than there are stars in the sky, but he never gets in trouble for it. I want to be a boy.
I have a problem with pranks though. I love pulling the wool over people's eyes, it's really the only way I can keep myself entertained in this prison of a house. The best part is that when I pull my pranks, no one ever suspects me because I am a prim and proper lady, setting an example, and paving the way. My brother loses a pair of pants every so often, and cotton shirts too. I will admit that it is me doing so. I'm creating a stock pile for when I finally do run away. I want to be able to prove to people that I'm not just a woman with a delicate smile, but a fierce warrior as well. I've been secretly signing myself up for tesserae ever since I was eligible for it. I give the grains and things to my maid, Emma, and she gives it to people who need it for me. If I could, I would go and volunteer myself, anything to get out of this house.
In this house, we are all dancers. We know our practiced moves off by heart, and we simply skip around anything serious. The only person I can talk to is my maid, and I'm lucky she can talk back. We don't have avoxes because we don't live in the capitol, which I am glad for. My relationship with my brother is strained at best, although he is only one year younger than me. we grew up apart, and so I don't really know him. I was raised out in the outskirts of District One, while he was raised in the city house. Sad to say, we don't click at all. nothing is ever discussed between us, and we treat each other like strangers, although we have been living together now for five years. I hold pillows to my face often, just so I can scream without being heard and set upon by the dogs of the household.
I like to think, because it's one of the only things I can do. I am particularly good at making plans, and am working my way through one as I write this down. Because I've never really had the chance to rush into anything, I guess I'm kind of careful. Sure, I have dreams and things I want to do, but I also have steps to get to them. On the other hand, I am willing to take big risks, and make spur of the moment decisions to see my plans come about perfectly. It's a two sided road here, and I think I have the unique ability to be able to walk right down the middle of it without falling once.
I think my problem is that I really have no idea of who the hell I am. It's probably because I haven't received the chance to know myself yet because I'm too busy training to be a lady. I feel like a bird that has never seen the sky because she has been so sheltered. There are a few things that I do enjoy as hobbies however. I am no good at instruments, but I can sing. I have a soprano voice, and like to dabble in arias. I'm just lucky that my mother deems it alright for a lady to sing. I also love to read and write. But since I am a terrible writer, I stick to reading. I love to read novels about girls who adventure past their limits but still come out on top, because one day I will be that girl. I guess I'm just a sentimental sweetheart, because I also love ballads and other bits of poetry. I just wish I had the ability to write them.
I suffer from a rather severe case of Somniphobia, which is the fear of sleeping. It's not that I have nightmares, or that I am afraid of the dark. It's the fact that I am afraid if I fall asleep, I'll never wake up again. I don't know where it stemmed from, or why I'm so afraid. It may be because when I was younger I never had my mother to tell me everything was alright when I sat alone in the dark. I know it's childish, but sometimes my mind likes to tell me about things that aren't really there either. Because of this phobia, I tend to not go to sleep if I don't have to. I have the ability to stay up a full two nights, and a full two days before collapsing in exhaustion. But the problem is, the longer I go without sleep, the more hysterical I get.
“I GOTTA FLY ONCE, I GOTTA TRY ONCE” Only can die once, right sir.
I was born to Lillian and Daniel Fletcher, and my brother dear followed me a year later. Because of my organ problem, I was banished to the country home at the age of three, while my brother was raised apart from me in the city. Although I was fine to return to the city after it was decided my disease was a dormant one, my mother and father chose to keep me out of harm, and away from pollution in the District One outskirts. Throughout my childhood, my brother would come to visit the estate, and we would write letters to each other when we were younger. By the time I turned nine however, my brother stopped writing me, and no longer responded to anything I wrote. So I gave up on writing him.
Mother and Father lived in the city as well, and I was left with the strict, and ever proper Nanny Bradshaw. I could tell you my terrible memories of her locking me in my room all day, or sticking me in the closet as punishment. I could tell you about the way she used to make me sit all day with a board down my back and a book on my head, but it's pretty boring. Whenever my father came to visit, things were always better. Because he used to love my red hair, and the way that it shined just like his. Of course that was before he discovered the delicacy of Opium.
By the time I turned thirteen I was aware of my Father's opium addiction. It seemed that he had been using it ever since I was eight. Around the time my brother stopped writing me. My mother had been able to keep it under wraps, under the pretence that my father was an unhealthy man, and was ill a lot of the time. But his addiction was costing us, and my parents had to sell the only home I ever really knew. And with that, my relationship with my father was rather strained, now that I knew the real reason as to why he was always so distant with me. Not because he was sick, but because he was always off in Never land, or busy flying back. It made me hate him, and I felt disgusted just to look at him, which also made me feel incredibly guilty. A girl isn't supposed to hate her father.
I figured out why my brother had become so distant with me when I moved back to the city and accidentally saw him without a shirt on once. An angry mar of bruises covered his torso, as if someone had been punching and kicking him. I didn't say anything, because in this house, noting anything can receive punishment. Instead, I simply remembered it, and waited for him to do something about it. But he never did, even once. At this point, my brother began to mean more to me than my father did, especially since my father was the one to ruin our relationship in the first place. So I did what any sane girl my age would do with limited resources. I stole my father's opium, and buried it in the back garden when I was fifteen. When my brother's moans of pain filled the night air the next day, I knew to never do that again.
By the time I was sixteen, my father's health was getting worse and worse. My mother I hated almost more than my father because she would only sit there and watch him kill himself ever so slowly. I could have happily watched him die. I didn't want him on my concise however, so I discreetly wrote to a Doctor, questioning what to do. He sent me a medicine to clean out my father's system, and told me to lock him in his room, with only water for two days. I did as he asked, guarding the door as well as I could against his shouts of rage, subsiding into moans of animal need and pain. He sounded so wounded with me that I wished to open the door right then and hold him. I am a Fletcher, and I must be strong. I only listened as my Father's screams began to subside.
When I opened the door after the time was up, my father lay on the floor, and an overdose of opium left him dead and cold. After that, my mother quickly remarried, saying she had to keep us kids in good standing, but I believe it was only because she was too dimwitted to function on her own. My brother began to re-cooperate as well, at least I hope he did. As for me, I can't decide whether I should feel wracked with guilt for the death of my father, or if I should be waving a hanky, yelling, "Good riddance!" Whatever thoughts I had, they were overcome with love for my new father.
He took care of my in the way that my father forgot to. better still, he had a thing for my red hair as well. I was surprised when he asked for my mother's hand, as she was so much older than him. Really, he was a lot closer to me in age than he was to her. The best thing about him though is he didn't try and hit anyone. And he appears to be actually rather fond of my mother. All I know is, now I am eighteen, and things are going to change. I'm getting out of this place as soon as I can. Because nice new father or no, his looks are starting to get really damn creepy, and I don't know how many crazy fathers I can deal with. My mother is already planning a match for me in some rich District boy, but I don't want him. I want the man I choose, when I choose him. It's time for me to get out.
I, ELEGANT . am seventeen. I have been rping for two years, but I love doing it. I am very into acting, and singing, and I love to read and write. I enjoy meating other people in the c-box. I am also a female, and a Canadian! I really like chocolate look, I wrote something new! Just in case you're interested, 'Elegant' comes from the name of my blog title. In no way am I elegant. hur hur hur.
Post by Δ hypotenuse on Oct 2, 2011 21:23:05 GMT -5
The best apps are that ones that make me stop and go - whoosh, that was a beautiful turn of phrase - or the ones that make me go, well I'd never thought about it that way. This one does both. A perfect Maid Marian ^^