Blythe Godwin-Seavers - D5 - DONE

I look at myself in the mirror and see the pain in my eyes. They glisten with the dampness of tears that I can't shed; hot tears that show a weakness that I know I cannot let become visible. They are green. I know most people describe eyes with a color, but that seems so unimportant. Eyes only reveal emotions. And because mine are riddled with sorrow, I hide my eyes to the world so that they can't find the secrets hidden within.

I weigh myself every morning. It reminds me that I need to eat, that I still have a life to live. I generally try to keep myself weighing 180 pounds. Anything lower than that makes me look like a skinny prick. I hate skinny pricks. If you are a man, be a man. Or at least try to fake it. I'm built tough; broad shoulders, thick body, muscle mass. I think the last time I measured my height I was around 5'11", but that was some months ago. I might be 6'1" by now though. I have dark brown hair. I like to keep it short mostly because I don't like hair dangling on my neck and in my eyes. Shaggy hair also makes me look like a kid on the street. Uncivilized. I try to shave my whiskers, but I always end up cutting myself. I try to put it off as long as possible. Besides, every guy around here has a 5'o'clock shadow.

My clothes are stained. Working at an oil refinery that tends to happen. Black everywhere. Smoke, smudges, spills. Black, black, black. I guess it sorta captures everyone's mood though. I slip on the same baggy clothes everyday. Stained gray T-shirt, torn blue jeans, a dusty brown overcoat, black work boots, and when it gets cold, a add a hoodie sweatshirt to the equation. I don't really have time for style, but I do have a nice pair of clothes I wear for the Reaping and my remembrance day. Basically twice every year I dress up. Every other day equates to comfortable, loose-fitting work clothes.

I have a tattoo on my chest. I got it after she died. It's just black ink. I designed it myself. One of my proud moments, I guess. It's three cardinals. One alive. One dead. One laughing. Simple, but It reminds me everyday of what I hate. Hatred makes you stronger you know. I don't try to show it off, but sometimes it gets hot in the refinery so I have to take my shirt off. Some of the guys ask what it means, but I never answer. Only I need to know. My hands are stained black; permanently. My lips are chapped. I should probably try to fix that before they start to bleed. My back aches. I notice I tend to crack it alot, try to get relief. It's usually in vain though.

Overall, I look beaten down. Mugged by some foreboding force. I try to stand tall but it never seems to make me feel any better. I wear a shell for protection, but somehow I always feel it cracking.

Blythe used to be happy. Content with the world. As a young boy he seemed very promising, excited for the world to carry him off on the ride we call life. Then his mom died. He became angry and withdrawn. He found comfort in a gang, who he believed made him happy. He was always coming home at late hours drunk and smoking some new drug. He was violent and filled with rage, thought he had the world under control and in his hands. Acted like he owned every damn place in Panem and everyone in it. Then another death, the murder of his sister caused yet another fracture to be formed in him.

Blythe locked himself in a shell. He doesn't have any friends and doesn't show any emotion. No joy, no sorrow, no pain. He thinks that any form of emotion is a sign of weakness and chooses not to be the weak one. Ever. He has that sort of stubbornness that allows him to keep himself locked up. He chooses not to show anyone openly how compassionate and kind he is, fearing that they will find him soft. Little does he know that a little emotion every now and again might help him out. He really just believes he doesn't deserve any kindness or compassion back from anyone, so he refuses to give it. He looks very mature, not showing anything. To anyone who sees him he looks focused and under control even though their is a teenage boy inside him screaming to be let out.

Underneath the mask and shields he wears, he is very compassionate, kind, and subtly humorous. If you were ever so fortunate enough as to break him open, you would find him easy to befriend. He is kind-hearted and caring. Bold and courageous. Basically a trustworthy and simple guy. A friend. A husband. A father.

I remember Blythe perfectly. When he was born, I was there to help out. His mother, Catherine Godwin, hadn't been able to get to the doctor in time so I delivered him in his apartment. It wasn't ideal, but during the war I had worked as a medical officer for the rebels. I figured it out. But anyway, Blythe Iden Godwin-Seavers is what his mother sent in to the Capitol for a name. I found it disturbing adding the Seavers to name seeing as his father, Jeremy Seavers, was a known gangster around the Upper part of the District. Catherine had moved to the little apartment to escape from his life. Better for the baby. But he had remained behind. Just like the bastard he is ...

But she insisted one adding the name on the end, so I made sure I wrote it down on the birth certificate, no matter how badly I wanted to leave it out. The first few years of the boys life are a bit of a blur. I remember Catherine meeting someone new when he was around a year and a half old. He started to come by often, dropping off money and gifts and food. Then before I knew it I was helping Catherine deliver another child. This time the father was Julias Olivander. High-class guy, very well off. He was a really great guy, so ready to be a father. But he died when his baby girl, Blythe's half-sister, Emily Lynn Godwin-Olivander, was only 4 years old. Cancer took his life. Such a tragedy. It hurt the children equally and Catherine maybe even more. She never really recovered from his death. She took her own life 6 months later, leaving 5 year old Emily and 8 year old Blythe alone. They were taken to the children's home just down the street. I had wanted to take them but I wasn't allowed; Capitol had some issues with me. Old ladies always seem to piss them off.

Anyways, about five years later, I hear about some vandalism in the downtown neighborhood. I finally figured out a gang had been formed; Blythe included. He drank and smoked and got high regularly with older guys. Obviously Blythe didn't know where he had come from. Like father, like son. Poor Emily was only 10 and Blythe would always drag her along with. I watched them sometimes. She was such a smart girl. She always seemed to know what to scream and throw in Blythe's face. Don't get me wrong, Blythe, he certainly is a sweet boy, but he was getting into things he shouldn't meddle with. And Emily knew it, too. She never wanted to go with him, and stopped him many times from going out at night. But he still kept going. He insisted they were his friends. Like brothers to him. It took him too long to figure out how wrong he was. And when he finally did, his life was already over.

Emily grew older. She was so pretty. Just like her mother. Kind and sweet, never able to hurt a fly. Blythe grew older. Rebellious, rude, and dirty, always looking to punch some kid in the face. Opposites. Blythe's gang was ruled by a Harley Leifton, who goes by Big D. Blythe thought he had control, but he was just a pawn. Just Big D's little play thing. Big D knew Emily. At least he knew her when she was 10 when Blythe, also known as Lil' Blowstick, brought her out with him. Course she was a bit older than that when he saw her again, 13 that is. It only took one night for Big D to see her walking back into the children's home while he was waiting for Lil' Blowstick and realize he wanted something. He wanted Emily.

It was in the paper a few days later. Emily had been raped repeatedly raped and then murdered. Blythe hadn't seen it coming. Big D just told him. "Wanna help me out, Blow?" "Sure, anything." "Go tell your sister I wanna see her out here." He dragged her out to him. When he had figured out what Big D had wanted, Emily was already out of reach and he was already getting beat down. Mugged by who he thought were his fellow brothers. They were laughing at him. His tears. Big D was laughing at her. Her tears. Blythe had had to watch, unable to control anything. And only when they had all had their fair share had they stopped. Blythe had thought it was over, then a gun was pulled out, and two lives were changed forever.

The Peacekeepers were pleased to finally have some evidence on Harley Leifton and his gang. The murder of Emily Godwin-Olivander had given them something to charge him with. Blythe was taken in for questioning seeing as they found him holding her body when they arrived. Except the Peacekeeper made the mistake of suggesting Emily was 'part of the gang' so Blythe had had to stay in jail cell for assault, whipped by Peacekeepers, until I could bail him out the next morning. He had looked so surprised, underneath all the redness and bruises, trying to put the pieces together on who I was. Now he talks to me everyday after he comes home from work. He is 16 but I rent the apartment next to me for him. He pays for it like any kind young man would, I just register it in my name. On every paper anyone has on him I am his legal guardian.

Blythe took up a job almost immediately after Emily's death at an oil refinery. He is gone every day except Sunday, working long shifts of 5AM to 8PM. I think he pushes himself a little too hard, beats himself up too much for his sisters' death, but I guess I wasn't there. He doesn't like to talk about it much either. The only time he has ever mentioned it to me was the day he got a tattoo. It wasn't done professionally, I could tell, but obviously someone in District 5 knew how to use a needle. Three cardinals. One alive. One dead. One laughing. All he said was that he was the one that was alive, although he wished he was the dead one. Every night I can hear the sobs from his room. He is such a tough and kind boy, completely reformed, but I worry. Every day on the date he dresses up nice and goes out to Emily's gravestone. He sits there all day, never moving.

Blythe hadn't known any better as a 15 year old. He has cleaned up since the days he had been in a gang but he always walks around in a shell. He has never had any friends over, never talked much at all since the accident. Truly, Blythe is lost. Lost and stuck in some world where nothing can ever go right. Where everything is dark and gloomy and sad and painful. He tries to be a man, but he is only 16 years old. And I know that no man could be as tough as the boy named Blythe. None.

Face Claim - Arthur Sales