Annabelle Barton

Annabelle Barton is a tribute belonging to Joey. Do not use, edit or take info without permission.

Basic Info
Quote: Where is he?

Token: None

Apperance: Like all the Barton's, I have red hair, green eyes and freckles. We're also all very pale. My hair's not a fiery red, but more of a brownish colour of red. It's naturally straight but I often have it curled. Like I said before, I have green eyes. They're not that pretty, but whatever. My freckles stand out against my pale skin. The freckles are only on my face and no where else. I'm not that pretty, but I'm fine with my looks.

Personality: Shy, Nervous

Strengths: Accuracy, Intellegence

Weaknesses: Not very well with teams

Fears: Failure

Backstory
"And that's a large coffee." I watch my hands as they place the steaming cup upon the counter. My lips form an empty smile as a man picks up the order and gives me a nod before turning toward the large glass doors heading the shop. There's a pleasant echo of bells as he opens the doors and walks into the polluted streets of Three while my eyes remain upon now empty palms. Only hours ago they were stained with blood. A dark blood that pooled black and left bright red in the creases of my skin. They were washed clean now, a pretty pale color replacing that of suffering.

Another approaches, wallet in hand as blue eyes scan the menu written in chalk above my head. The fortunate few who were many more than I'd ever though. District Three was not poor, but it was far too dirty for anyone to notice. A vacant smile remains upon my lips and my fingers create an invisible tune upon the counter top. "I'll have the one...with the...foam?" Her words end in an upward manner, as though asking instead of telling.

"Up to you ma'am." I bow my head, gesturing with my hands as though to say up to you. I have no patience for indecision. It'll get you killed one way or another.

"That one then, yes." She nods repeatedly, as though embarrassed. I bite the inside of my cheek, straining to keep calm as I head over to the large machine which was responsible for the living I made. There's still a fine brown powder left in it's ladle and so I place a cup underneath to catch the espresso that it would produce. My jaw is clenched tighter than it should be, I had no real reason to be upset at a woman who had ordered in the wrong tone. I can't escape anymore, it seems. Not even in the rich part of town where blissful ignorance was all that existed. No one knew who was pulling the strings behind the scenes.

I pull a toothpick across the white foam, allowing a creamy golden liquid to create a pattern that'd only be destroyed in seconds. It's a heart. A lazy, cliché pattern but the only thing I have the energy to create. The day's events had numbed me to a point beyond caring, even in a job I genuinely enjoyed.

She hands me the bills and I hand her the coffee; this time I can't bring myself to smile. It's a quiet kind of shop, one that's nestled soundly on the corner of a street and always smells of roasting coffee beans and roses. The owner is a kindly old couple that fostered my father when he was child. I'm still not convinced they know what he's become. ("You look just like him, oh deary I know you'll grow to be a great man like him!") I don't have the heart to tell them. It'll probably get them killed anyway.

The woman leaves and I pull my pastel pink apron over my head, hanging it upon a golden painted hook. My name is embroidered on the front in cheesy silver letters: Annabelle. There's a hat on my head in an instant (I'm never allowed to wear it on the job) and I leave the shop like a bat out of hell. Turning the sign to 'CLOSED' and locking the doors although I'm sure no one would care enough to steal a few bags of coffee beans and a hundred gallons of milk.

I watch the gold paved streets turn into that of depravity and regret. Kids lean upon their doors, smoking cigarettes and a few other choice items. Their eyes follow me, and I meet them. They're hardened and most definitely not afraid. There's no doubt in my mind they're wondering how much I've got on me and if it'd be worth it to mug me. I'm not scared, I don't feel much of anything as I raise an eyebrow at them, continuing along my way.

There's a screaming match a few houses later and I can hear glass breaking and violent thumping, a drug deal is only a few doors later. The man selling ― new blood by the name of Jay ― waves at me. Taking his eyes off the customer to promptly place his lips upon my ass. "Hey Annabelle! How're you? Beautiful night, eh?" I don't have the energy to tell him to fuck off, and so I shrug, gesturing towards his customer with an annoyed sigh. "Oh right, hey man sleep well!"

"Yeah." he wasn't gonna last long.

They all wanna impress the boss' daughter, wanna get in good with me 'cause they're convinced I'd put in a good word with father. Truth is Dad could give three fucks about my opinion and I'm not a people person anyway. He tells me I gotta get to know the people and that I can't hide away and sell coffee when I've got an entire army at my command. Yeah. No point arguing with a man who was always right. Dad's a powerful man and a terrible person. He's got connections that run deep into the Capitol's veins. He's the bastard of some political figure and got shipped to three 'cause no one would ever suspect him. His father gave him a fortune on his deathbed and the power connected to his name. Dad runs a business, one filled with sex and drugs. He sells woman, narcotics and just about anything his men can get their hands on.

He gets high off the power, I think.

The door isn't locked and I know it's my dad's personal challenge to the neighborhood. Just try me. He'd love to kill someone legally, one of these days. It only takes a few tentative steps upon carpeted floors to have my back against the wall. His forearm presses against my throat and my gun is against his stomach. Father looks at me with a sort of sick pride and it makes me want to spit in his face. But I don't. "Ain't lost your touch from sitting in that cushy job all day, eh Annabelle?"

I cock the gun and press my hand against his chest, forcing the man off of me. "No."

He pouts and I'm reminded just how sick of a man he is. "You're no fun Annabelle!"

"Nope."

His hand is hard against my head and my eyes swim before me. An anger barely contained escapes me. It escapes in my breath and in my fingers as they wrap around the wrist, recoiling to strike me once again. In his prime, this man could have caved my face in three times over, but he's withering in old age and he crashes against the wall with unsettling ease. He'd had his best men train me and it showed. My anger flows easily onto my father, every time my head throbbed I struck. Down the wall, under the knee, to his face in his gut. His nose bleeds as he smiles up at me. A madman's face. "You don't ever touch me again." and my voice shakes, out of fear and anger and a million other things I was not allowed to feel.

He'd hurt me too much. In the years which I was a mere child he took advantage. He beat everything out of me before it had a time to fester and to grow. He tried hard to make me like him, mad and disgusting and something inhumane. Once I learned to defend myself I was never hit again without him coming out worse. But I think a part of him enjoys it. "That's my girl!"

And I turn my back on the man, locking my door and screaming into the single pillow upon my bed.

The warehouse is filled with pounds of white powder. Men twice my size pace the length of the metal prison, shotguns in arm. I'm almost certain it's to keep me in as much as it's to keep others out. I walk among their ranks, black trench coat draped over my shoulders. I look at none of them, fists clenched within my pockets and my eyes upon black dress shoes. I was expected to control everything once father died and I had no choice. Without a leader chaos would ensue, and the first person to go would be the son of the man who'd ruined so many lives. If there's not already a bounty the size of Panem on my head, there will be then.

"Boss?" I cringe at the word, turning to the voice in exasperation. It's a twelve year old kid, one desperate for glory and to rebel against parents he though hated him. His name if Abe, if I'm not mistaken. He carries that fear about him, the fear I see in all the kids under eighteen just like me.

"Yeah, Abe?" the kid looks shocked, I knew father didn't bother to remember their names and I'm certain that his best men didn't. I'd taken it upon myself to learn each and every one, their stories, where they came from, the likes. Maybe I didn't care, and maybe I'm a cold hearted bitch who knew that most of them would end up dead, but I'll not treat them as though they're nobody. Life is to be cherished and so I'll cherish every single one.

"Uh, well, uh you know Jeremy he's...he's overdosed."

You mean he's been stealing from us ― from father? "Where is he?" My voice carries a sort of urgency that surprised even me. I wasn't concerned about his well being, or even concerned that he'd taken five dollars from my father's thousand, but letting a man die under my charge was unacceptable. The child takes me to a large man convulsing upon the floor. Foam drips from his mouth and his eyes flutter violently. I'd have no idea what to do, had I not come home to this every night my weekends with mother. "Get my water," it's the most I've talked in months, "It's in my quarters, tell the guard's I've sent you." He's gone very still by the time I've looked back to the man and I turn him on his side, allowing him to sputter and cough and vomit to clear his airways. I know that in this situation I should feel something. I should feel angry or scared or disgusted, but I just watch a blue face return to its normal hue. I don't smile or frown when he begins to breath again or when Abe comes back and I tell him to get him to drink the water and to clean up the mess. Father had assigned these men to me and therefore they were my responsibility. Just like mother.

And so I shake my shoe clear of contaminants and tell Abe to tell the man he's fired once he can walk again and I return quarters much too big and much too lonely for only me.

I'd like to think I'm some innocent bystander to my father's tyranny. Or that I'm some brainwashed victim who has no clue what he's doing. Neither is true. If it were I wouldn't keep a gun and a knife, I wouldn't know what it was like to pull a trigger and watch someone fall in front of me. I've thrust a knife through another just and seen the other end go through their hand and I've torn it from their skin only to sink it into their flesh again. If I was anything but a murderer, I'd have been dead for years now.

Dad has enemies, a man as evil as he is bound to have made a few in his lifetime. Father has made thousands, no only for himself but for the whole of his family. Mom divorced dad a few years after I was born, she started to sell her body when I was eight. I'd spend weekends at her house and weekdays at dad's, when I was legally bound to abide by their rules. I've not seen mom for months, but I imagine she hasn't changed. She gets high and has sex and convulses upon the floor for hours upon end. Humans become so predictable in old age.

I've killed many who tried to kill me. An eye for an eye. Peacekeepers chalked it up to gang violence, and no one suspects a wealthy capitolite's son and his granddaughter to be in the middle of gang violence. Maybe some other unlucky asshole got arrested in my place, it makes no difference to me. I've killed because they moved first. Because my life was in danger too.

He's twenty-three, blonde and married. That doesn't matter. What matters is he owes us ― my father, and he's not payed up for months now. Dad says we can't have people thinking we're soft and that we've got to make this a message to everyone: don't fuck with us. He didn't ask if I wanted to kill an innocent man or not, Because I have to. I'm not a soul that can be saved and I know that I won't feel anything the minute I pull the trigger because I'm not allowed.

His wife works long hours and he's home alone. Sources have scoped him out diligently, Father's men were dependable. Despicable and cruel, but dependable. The door is locked but I let myself in nonetheless. I should have been scared, my hands should have shook and m face should have been pale and gaunt. I was about to end a life and I felt nothing.

The man is in his bedroom, sitting with his head in his hands. I clear my throat and it's almost amusing to see the panic rise like wildfire throughout him. He begs and pleads, his voice sharp and rushed and desperate. I've never heard anything like it. "No! I can pay Annab ―"

His expression is that of shock as he crumples at my feet.

I leave through the back door, closing it quietly behind me.

It's reaping day, and I feel guilty, I know that my name is going to be in there, for killing so many capitol citizens. Of course, my name is called. I just sigh.