I APOLOGIZE FOR TAKING SO LONG! I FEEL SO BAD! Stupid algebra homework is clogging up all my afternoons! STUPID. ALGEBRA. HOMEWORK. *Slams head repeatedly into desk* Ngh. Anyway…Thanks to zoei11 (your tribute's day has come at last!) and orTherefore for submitting Desdemona and Adri. May a squadron of fluffy purple bumblebees make their way into your fridge by days end.
P.S. I apologize to WhatMusicIs for not being able to use your character! All my spots are filled! :(
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Hunger Games. Sad face :(
ADRI CEREN'S POV
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. I see a clock. Mounted on my bathroom wall. Making harmonic sounds that sound like memorized garden gnomes. I love my life.
If you are guessing while I'm in the bathroom, I spilled one of my poisons last night, the one with the chartreuse flecks and ginger base, and was scrambling to clean it up before me or my pet snakes could breathe it in. Actually, make that just me. I don't mind if they die. I'll just catch some more in my basement cellar. Well, the ruins of my basement cellar. It was destroyed some time ago from an experiment I made on Scabs. Scabs the corn snake should still be down there, well, his corpse at least. I don't clean that much.
Do I say "well" too much?
Ah, what am I kidding? I'm talking to myself in the tattered ruins of my old house, not knowing who will hear me. Possibly the ghosts of my family? My expression contorted. Eugh.
I lift myself up from the dirty white tiled floor and smooth down my long, unkempt onyx hair with my palm. I won't worry much about my appearance; I'm already fine as is. Or to myself at least. I will say nothing about the words and looks of other people. They make me feel self-conscious.
I squeeze out of the tiny bathroom, being careful not to rupture open any of my beloved deadly concoctions, and into my "bedroom". It's still a good square shape: ceiling, walls, some floor, etc.? I stride over to my dresser drawers, ignoring Melissa the rattlesnake's hisses, and wrangle out an all white tux. Lovely. It suits my wonderful personality best than any of the other things I have. Which are all either bleached, stained, ripped, torn, tattered, worn-out, dreary, or singed. Not to mention my old boxers, which are burned to a nasty crisp. Now that I actually think about it, I think my suit used to be blue, but it got bleached in the strawberry-pine poison a couple years back. Eh. Whatever.
After putting it on, I straighten my tie and slip out of my room and down the dull painted hallways towards the kitchen. I open the cabinet, having only the door fall off its rusty hinges, and pull myself out a breakfast bar. I gnaw on it and brush a thin layer of dust off my cracked kitchen counter. Of course, it get's all over my nice, clean finger. But I promptly wiped it back on the counter. Not gonna get my suit dirty no siree!
Soon I'm finished my breakfast, so I head out the half-gone-half-broken door and start down the pathway. Back in the days, it was clean cut out of black flagstone and quartz. Now, it's broken, shattered, and dotted with weeds, dandelions, and many types of dried grass. Not to mention various pieces of rubble and wood. Plus screws and nails.
Instead of continuing down the walkway, I turn to my right and stride down a winding path made of dirt and open the doors to the cellar. Well, it's not really a door. Just a large slab of wood and several roof shingles and chair legs. Once it's cleared, I jump down into the dim hole of black. My feet hit the concrete floor with a thud, which echoes off the walls, as if they were communicating to each other through some foreign language. Bouncing words and phrases back through one another. I reach my hand around above me for the chain that turns the lights on. Once my fingers slide around the base, I grasp it and give it a yank. The room illuminates with light immediately. Or, at least, more than it used to. The electricity in my house is very scarce.
I walk across the room until I come to a crumbling, eroding pile of concrete blocks and wine colored bricks. My hands start to scavenge around in the rubble when I hear a hiss. To my left, shimmering in the dull light, is Gertrude the cobra.
"Gertrude!" I say. "Don't you hiss at your master!" I lifted one of the bricks off the pile and dropped it about halfway down her long, skinny back. She fell to the ground in defeat, sputtering out a noise that sounded like a hiss, screech, and some guy choking on a date nut. I pat her head and she flicks out her ruby tongue in response before I turn back to the pile of ruin. I let myself investigate the pile some more before my fingertips brush a surface that feels like a cornhusk that's been roasting in the sun for years.
"Scabs!" I lift up a crispy, mangled figure from the pile. "I knew I'd find you!" I give his head a kiss and shove him in my pants pocket. Why? The world may never know.
I pull the light cord, turning the room black again, and clear away a large clump of brass roof shingles and emerge back into the crisp cold air of fall. My eyes hurting from the bright sunshine, I stumble to my feet and down my dead yard to the cracked sidewalk. I manage to gain back my seeing soon enough to proudly walk down the street.
About halfway down the needing-to-be-repaired street, I see a duo of girls. Both around my age, tall, and with pale skin and curly hair. One auburn, one blonde. I give them a little nod, but they exchange glances and hurry away in a quick, rushed fashion. I roll my eyes.
Stupid girls. They don't know what they're missing.
DESDEMONA ALETHEA'S POV
I wake up to the normal, gray, senseless house that is my home. No vibrant colors. No comfy Sherpa blankets. No cheerful laughter. No hot meals awaiting my fork. Just…gray. And wood. And silence. And the smell of dust and dirt. Do I even dare myself to get out of bed? Face another lifeless day being watched by the hollowed, sunken in eyes of my fellow District folks. It's unbearable. Especially for a freak like me.
I let out what was supposed to be a sigh, but only came out as a warm gust of hot air. My limbs slip out from under the thin, white linen sheets, one by one, toe by toe, finger by finger. And then my face. As pale and unnatural as it's always been. I lift myself up slowly, being careful not to trigger a migraine from my lack of vitamin C, and place my feet on the rough, unfinished wood of my bedroom. Lucky I go to sleep wearing socks, or I'd be stuck with a nasty splinter. Just another problem to add to my growing list. And better enough? Today's reaping day. The one we all dread year round. Especially for low lives like my family and me.
Just two more years Desdemona, just two more years… I repeat to myself as I throw on my mother's old robe over my underclothes and exit the room. Just this year and next, until I'm free. Free from this unending pain and misery and suffering. Sigh.
When I enter the kitchen, I see only my mother there, waiting with a plastic bowl of some sort of liquid. My father was nowhere to be seen.
"Hi mom," I say and rub my eyes before taking a seat at the small dining table. "What's for breakfast? And where's dad?"
"Your father had to leave for his early morning shift. We're not going to see him until after the reaping." If I see after the reaping. "And breakfast this morning is oatmeal. Eat up."
I look down at the bowl she pushed gently towards me with a china spoon. The spoon was a gift from her friend in the Capitol. Made from only the finest porcelain and painted with tiny roses and tulip flowers. It's too pretty for a place like this. I draw my attention away from the utensil and into my bowl, which was swimming with grayish water and clumps of grainy-oat material. Knowing my mother, we probably don't have enough dough to afford real quality oatmeal. So it's probably just tap water mixed with oats and grain from our tesserae. I dip my spoon in it and lift up a glob. I suddenly lost my appetite.
My mom could see the contorted expression on my face, so she dug around under the sink for something. "Here," She said and held up a slice of Swiss cheese. "I was going to save these for tonight so that I could melt them on slices of toasted bread over the fireplace, but you look like you need a pick-me-up right now. Plus, I don't know if I'll even be able to do that. I used the last of our tesserae for the oatmeal and I don't think I'll have anytime today to go out and buy a loaf. So eat."
I smile a meek grin. "Thanks." She smiles a similar smile back, but it's still filled with sorrow and guilt. After all, she was one of the unwitting factors that aided in corrupting my life. I nibble on the piece of cheese as I get changed into my reaping clothes. Slowly, being careful not to waste anytime that I have left in my home. Just in case I get reaped. Which I'm most certain I will. Once I'm fully clothed, I look at myself in my mirror.
My mother had chosen to give me a black, knee-length dress with no sleeves and no frill. It's loose fitting from the waist down and shimmers navy in the sunlight that creeps through my blinds. The dress makes me look like a goddess of the dead, not to mention the fact of how it emphasizes my face. My horribly altered face.
My long, silky silver-white hair draped down my shoulders and tickles the base of my chest. It nearly blends in with my pale skin, making me look like somewhat of a ghost. But the good thing is it really brings out my icy blue eyes. Even the black spots in them look good for once. Plus the fact that my pale pink-blue lips are proudly shown off. For once, I'm actually liking the way I look.
You must have so many questions right now. Why I look so weird, why I'm not trying to kill my freak self, and why my mother always looks so guilty? Well, it all happened seventeen years ago.
My mother was a poor young woman who needed money. When she saw the ad for test subjects at the laboratory, she didn't second-guess it one bit. They always get paid for that. And when you're on the brink of starvation, you change. Little did she know that she was pregnant with her first daughter: me. Nine months later I was born, with my white hair and black-spotted eyes. Pale skin and the black birthmark on my left bicep that's shaped like a songbird. She tells me that she's okay, but on the inside she's never forgiving herself for what she did. I don't really care, since mutation is a common thing in District Five, but I still have never liked it very much.
I exit my house, seeing that my mother had already left – she must have gone while I was in the bathroom – and walk down the crooked pathway to the street. Luckily, my house is just around the corner from The Square. With out large black quartz Justice Building. Where the two glass balls cradling children's fates sit happily. I swiftly take my spot in the seventeen-year-old section and wait for the reapings to begin. Inching her way forward was a young girl, no older than 21, with wavy sunshine-y blonde hair and silvery gray eyes. She grasped the microphone with her French manicured fingers and spoke with the mesh top near her lips. I could tell the town officials were afraid she would get her rose-y lipstick on the mic.
"Hello District five," She murmured into the mic. Luckily the sound was on full blast so we could hear her. "My name is Liddonn, and I'm the District five escort for this year. Um…yay." Her speech so far was awarded with a couple meek cheers and some applause. She scooted over towards the boy's orb. "The boy tribute…" She dug around, mixing it up as if it was a salad. "For this year…is…" She lifted a tiny slip up to her face. "Is Borg Hendriscopy."
A big, bulky eighteen-year-old stomped up to the stage. I couldn't tell if he was angry or just weighed a lot from all that muscle. Before Liddonn gave him the slip, she asked more loudly into the mic, "Any volunteers?"
"I volunteer!" A voice exclaimed from the back of the sections. Emerging from the thirteen-year-old section was a lanky boy with pale skin and oily black hair. He strode up to the stage proudly and spoke his name into the microphone before Liddonn could even ask his name. "Adri Ceren!"
"Well Adri thank you for volunteering," She said and handed him the slip. While he walked into the Justice Building, she dug around in the girl's ball. "And the girl tribute for this year will be Desdemona Alethea!"
My blood went cold in my veins. My pupils reduced to tiny little spheres. My face turned to stone. I had been reaped.
ADRI CEREN'S POV
The seconds tick by one bye one. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. But there is no clock in sight. Just white. I blend in like a baby seal on a snow dune. I like baby seals. They're soft. Like this couch.
So fuzzy.
No one's come to visit me yet. I could have sworn I saw two girls, the ones on the street, wander past the door. Are they here to see me? No, Desdemona's friends probably. What about poor Adri? Maybe he has feelings too.
DESDEMONA ALETHEA'S POV
The room was a lot colder than it should have been. The dark, looming exterior of the Justice building was hiding away this clean, porcelain white jail cell. The fluffy polar bear fur – or I think it's polar bear fur – couches didn't make up for it. Chill after chill navigated down my spine. Is this cruel torture? Have I finally reached the brink of insanity? The walls feel like they're closing in on me. My claustrophobia's growing larger and larger. I crumble to the floor and pound my fist on the crisp eggshell floors. "WHY!" I shout. I was about to keep screaming, but three figures burst in through the doors before I could.
Chemistra Katarinash. Motora Katarinash. Charphrin Jermaine. My three bestest friends in the whole wide world.
Chem and Motora are twins, both my age, with fair skin, brown eyes, and curly hair. Only Chemistra's is auburn, while Motora's is golden blonde. Chem is the more sweet and charming of the two, while Motora is more fierce and sarcastic, with her several piercings: two in her left lobe, three in her right lobe. Don't think she's a Goth freak, 'cause she's not. Motora's just very expressive and vibrant. Plus, she almost never wears any earrings. She pretty much only wears a small glass sphere in her third piercing. Charphrin is the shy genius in our posse. He doesn't say much behind his small rectangular glasses.
"Hey Chem, Motora, Charph," I say, my eyes half-shut, as they lift me back up onto the couch. "Why are you here?"
"To visit you of course," Chemistra says and seats herself next to me.
"Why wouldn't we? Girl, you need to connect to your senses!" Motora says and seats herself to my right. Charphrin squats on the floor.
"Motor's right," Charph muses. "Us not coming is nonsense."
"Right…" I drawl. "So, what are you going to say? I can already see it in your eyes Chem that you're really sorry and want to cry right now because you're so upset. I can see in you're eyes Motora that you wish that you could take my spot so I won't die and that you really want some white corn soup right now like you always do. And Charph, I can always tell that you're thinking of clever schemes to show those Career people who's boss. Am I right?"
I could immediately tell I was spot on. Chemistra threw herself into my arms, bawling, Motora patted my shoulder reassuringly, and Charphrin just pursed his lips. Only a couple people filtered in after I bid my farewells to the trio. A couple people from school I've only even briefly known came and apologized, followed by my mother and father.
My father only gave me the longest hug in human history, while my mom fingered around in her purse for something. When she clasped her fingers around it, she quickly strung it around my neck. It was a silver necklace that reached halfway between my dress's neckline and my throat. The necklace was made out of tiny silver pearls, each only about a half a centimeter long, strung onto a tightly woven brass cord. Probably another gift from mom's Capitol friend. She tells me to take it with me to the Capitol, take a piece of her with me. I smile and thank her.
As other random strangers filter in, I just blur out their words. Strange murmurs to me now. I just let my fingers trace circles around my birthmark. My beautiful, lovely, unique, birthmark.
Circle after circle, circle after circle.
And there you have it. District Five. My weeks waited chapter! I HOPE I PLEASED YOUR GUIDELINES! Meh. I wrote this all in one day. My hands cramping like it's having a heart attack or stroke or something. It hurts. Anyway, please tell me if I did something wrong with your character, I'm open to criticism! CONSTRUSTIVE CRITICISM! Don't sugar-coat it too much though. Then you sound as if you're have a heart attack or stroke or something. But anyway, this will probably be the time period between chappies, and I'm also not going to POV bloodbaths. I run out of ideas quickly. I don't know how people with 48 tributes do it.
R&R&R!
Keep on roasting little weenies!
~EnnixiaMaeLin