Lark Paris

"You never forget the face of the person who was your last hope."

- Laura remembering [Name].

Backstory
I was born on November fifteenth. a cool November day. An average one for the District 2 citizen.

I guess that could describe my life. I used to be so sunny but now that my Mom has died, my sunny side has clouded up. I feel like I'm at the three o'clock mark. Still cloudy and no hope of clearing up. Back to my life story.

At an early age about six, my father developed a liking. A liking for alchol. At this time, my brother was about twelve. Often my father would party, leaving I and my brother at the house. Where was my mom, you ask? Well she works the late shift as a chef in my district. That would leave I and my brother home alone. He would often touch me and since I was so weak, I couldn't resist. He told me not to tell my Mom and if I did, I would be killed by Father. Father told him to do it!

When I was eight, I was sick of it. I told my Mom and you should have seen the look on her face. She was so infuriated! She literally beat up my brother. However my Father found out. He took a knife out and was about to slit my neck but my Mom stopped him. She told me to pack my stuff.

We were moving to a different part of the district Now zoom forward a few years. Now imagine this. A small girl with lilac eyes and blonde hair crying over a dead body. Well guess what. That was me. My mom had just died from a murder. Who was it? The peacekeepers wouldn't let me live on my own. I was only thirteen. Soon my life fell apart. I had to live with my Father.

Almost every day, my father would hurt me. Many days I would bleed. Some days I would go to bed covered in blood. That somewhat caused my depression.

Often people noticed my scars. I told them the truth. One day, a girl named Caitlynne tried to help me. But she ended up cut.

My brother would continously try to rape me, to do stuff. Every time he attempted to, I would cut him. My father would cut me even more for this. I used to have perfect skin. Now I have a bunch of cuts.

One day I found a rather large bottle on the ground. It was labled "Scar Ointment". It was like a gift from up above. I put it on one of my fresh scars and it felt good. I put it on my older scars and it made them disappear.

My father would still cut me and my brother well...

Anyways I would continue buying this ointment. Eventually I stopped cutting myself. But that didn't stop my Father. He would cut me still and I was tired of the blood. A bloodstained window to the blood on my sheets. I knew the thing that would stop my dad. That would be to volunteer. So at the age of fifteen, I volunteered.