Liberosis - The Hunger Games

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Where I'm from the waves seem to sing to us as the sand scrubs beneath our feet, ever so slowly pulling us under until all we can hear is the sound of the ocean rolling above our heads. Where I'm from, the streets smell of sea spray and tropical fruits. The markets are lined with fish and other seafood, the bad stuff we don't have to send away to the Capitol.

Where I'm from the pearls shine when they hit the perfect angle in the sun, we learn to see the beauty in the imperfect pearls, they're the only ones we get to keep. We always walk on the edge of the water, the waves dampening the ends of our linen dresses that are light enough to feel the sea breeze pass through. We dance in the water, feeling it splash around our feet like tides of peace.

Where I'm from the children wear white on reaping day. A whopping middle finger to the ones who watch us slaughter each other for fun. A symbol of a child's purity and innocence, most of them never return.

If they do, their white has been stripped from them, ripped away in the cursed arena. The blood-soaked on their clothes is not only their own but if the ones they had to kill to stay alive.

While the history of our districts rebellious fashion choices is the least interesting subject that my school offers to its students, it's often the most sought out. It doesn't involve violence; it doesn't involve learning to kill for the entertainment of the upper-class citizens of Panem. District Four is a Career district after all; our tributes must only be the best. All children must participate in learning how to mercilessly hunt and survive- the weak ones that can't stomach it are better off dead.

I'm not a weak one, I'm a fighter. My mother used to tell me that my stubborn nature would get me killed one day, but it seems to be the only thing that's keeping me going as of late. It's used to just be the stubbornness that would get me in trouble but soon enough with my refusal to back down and ability to find myself in trouble I began to spiral into fits of anger. My eyes opened to the toxicity of the world around me and my hands closed into fists.

After losing my mind for the umpteenth time my mother had enough of me nearly getting our family killed, "Our reputation falls to you." She would constantly chastise me and after yet another fight at school she roped me into a class she believed would 'clear my mind'.

Art.

I was reluctant at first, claiming that my mother was trying to hide the world from the fact that I was slowly drilling myself further into insanity but I came around eventually. While at first, my pieces were humiliatingly sloppy, they soon progressed from crappy piles of eight-year-old scribbles to slightly fewer crappy piles of fourteen-year-old paintings. I fell in love with the feeling of the paint gliding over a canvas, of remodelling the waves I could see from my school window. Where I sat now.

Sometimes, when I'm in the right state of mind and my emotions are spiking enough, I find the inspiration to create something next level. When I was in the painting mood with the right inspiration, I could stay holed up for hours. My painting moods hit me in inconvenient times for the most part, but today I was lucky enough to have sparked an idea during a free period.

My paintbrush glided meticulously over the canvas, mixing the different shades of blue as I painter yet another wave on my most recent painting. Most of my inspiration came from the places I saw around me. My artworks were blue or grey, one colour showing the beauty of district four and the other revealing its darker, miserable streets.

I went on for a long time, painting waves, trees and clouds, eventually my finger began to cramp from holding the brush for too long, but I didn't care. I was determined not to let this painting collect dust on my 'to be finished pile'. I was so focused on completing the artwork that I didn't realise when a mop of sandy blonde curls popped up from behind the easel.