The Author Games: Literature

Female Entries

District 1 Female: Ruby Grace Faberson

He wouldn't even speak to me. I hate it when he does that. Shouting at me, hitting me, lecturing me- I can deal with any of it. But silence stings worse than a belt, and disappointment has more impact than bruises.

He hasn't been this angry with me since I was eleven years old. We were working on a gymnastics unit, which is always tricky. One needs to be flexible enough to move easily in a fight, but strength also needs to be maintained. Without strength, one will be thrown around. One's strikes become sloppy and ineffective.

The instructor was attempting to help me with my back handspring. Several of the older girls could already do it, but I just couldn't get it. I guess I was afraid of falling. I kept twisting to the side. I ended up landing on my ankle. It crumpled underneath me, and I felt a distinct pop. Pain shot up my leg in jolts; I had to bite my tongue to keep from crying out.

My father insisted I was fine, even when the instructor suggested I sit out. I could barely limp. Each step felt like a shard of glass stabbing into my joints. Tears welled up in my eyes as I took my place beside my classmates. I wanted to speak up, to tell him I was not in fact fine. But my voice failed me.

Sparring practice began. I was shoved into the ring with an older girl. She looked hesitant to hit me. Any fool could see that I was hurt. Not hesitant enough, apparently, as her fist connected with my jaw before I could even react. I threw a punch back, but when I stepped forward, my ankle buckled and I hit the floor. My father was there to tell me to stand back up. He told me this was a good experience. What would I do if I was injured in the games?

I was knocked off my feet again.

And again.

And again.

And then, when I finally cracked, when I finally began to cry from the pain, he humiliated me. He threw me out of the training center, amidst the eyes of the other students. Then, he told me not to come back until I was tough enough to actually compete. He told me that I clearly wasn't old enough to learn, that my weakness was hindering the others. My classmates smirked at me. A few giggled, and I was made fun of for months afterwards. No one ever stepped forward to defend me.

The experience was painful, for years, my blood boiled at the thought of it. But, it was useful. I learned that I could never show weakness. I learned that I couldn't depend on anyone to help me when I was down. I learned to count on myself, because I sure couldn't count on anyone else. I became my own hero and my own best friend.

That doesn't make it easy to ignore his presence as I watch my stylist in the mirror. She flits around gracefully; her soft brushes tickled against my cheeks and eyes as I struggled to stay still. She is silent in the presence of Quartz Faberson's steely gaze.

"Remember Ruby Grace. You need to be ruthless." He finally speaks, his voice is solid, but there is an edge to it. It cuts into me, even if the blood it draws is invisible.

I didn't know that there was an option to be anything but ruthless. Sexy, mysterious, playful... They're all interesting angles, but they don't show your ability to win. As my stylist finishes, I study my appearance. I realized for the first time just how hard it will be to convince the audience of my harshness.

My dress is made of gold threads, and it falls about my body provocatively. It is sheer, with rose patterns threaded into it. Though it falls to the floor, it doesn't adequately cover my breasts and seems to cling to my hips and legs. My hair is curled and my eyelids are covered in gold, the same shade as my dress. My lips have been painted dark red, the stylist's attempt to pay homage to my name.