Septimus [District 5]

THE BOY WHO STILL PEEKED IN THE WINDOW~

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(name) - (septimus)[/size]
(age) - (thirteen)
(genitalia) - (testicles)
(district) - (five)
(sexuality) - (straight)

I know what I've done, cause I know what I've seen.[/size][/center]


/ a p p e a r a n c e /

[/size] went out back and I got my gun,
I[/size] said, "You haven't met me, I am the only son."[/size][/right]

Another small pop echoes throughout Sycamore house, though nothing large, it’s just enough to disturb the eerie gloom of the orphanage. At the center of the small explosion is none other than the trouble-making orphan – Septimus. Face slightly covered in ashes from the slight boom, the boy’s dark brown eyes seemed to lighten up more than they ever did – it was a success, if only a small one. One, in passing, would think that the small boy had travelled from the mines of District 12, which would make sense when you brought in to consideration his slender and weak stature. Septimus’ fondness of explosives often leaves traces on his skin in the form of black soot which usually covers bits of his face and his hands, not that he minds. The ash sets itself in to his hollow cheek bones and dimples, accentuating them .

They forced him to fiddle with his explosives in the basement – not Miss Aggie, she didn’t mind. The woman had gone loopy ages ago. But the older kids didn’t like the noise of constant tinkering with little pieces of metal. The basement, in his opinion, is the darkest and the saddest place of the orphanage, which is no easy task. But it’s his little home. Septimus peaked in his dust covered mirror, endless working down there has resulted in unusually pale skin.

It was almost funny how his passion – explosives – had changed his looks in a way. He was light-skinned from the basement, but that wasn’t all. Septimus’ hair had become almost disgustingly greasy from all the oil he worked with. With his tendency to scratch his head when in a predicament, oil travelled from his hands to his dark brown hair leaving it greasy and untouchable. Though, really, it didn’t matter. His hair was weird enough. Septimus liked to give himself his own haircuts; Lilith wasn’t to be trusted anywhere near his head with scissors. His bad attempts at nice short hair resulted in completely uneven lengths of hair, some areas really short, some areas on the longer side. It looked as though something had exploded on his head, which wasn’t really a bad thing.

Septimus could never help but to notice his eyebrows which were slightly scorched off from a particular failed attempt at making fireworks. Half of his left eyebrow had singed off and still had yet to replace itself. It was his own little battle wound. The small explosive had made the basement really hot, though the dusty room was always humid which would explain his chapped lips, well that or his lack of really drinking anything – pranks took up way too much time to care for looks. What did it matter anyways? It wasn’t as if he was going to get adopted any time soon.

The mirror seemed to be teasing Septimus, it did every time that he stole a glance at the reflective surface. The villain liked to make his ears abnormally large, and shrink the rest of him as though he was one of those silly cartoon pictures. As the mirror teased him once more, Septimus couldn’t help but to raise his callus-filled hands to his awkwardly huge ears and covered them; they didn’t need to be seen.

It was only when he covered his ears that Septimus realized how truly small he was. He stood at only about five feet on the nose, but he weighed probably only ninety pounds, too much under what he should be – it wasn’t like he didn’t eat, it just never stayed in him. Septimus looked so scrawny, he’d never be one of those giant muscle boys. He’d never be as strong as Edgar, he’d never be in fights and win. It wasn’t fair.

The mirror just seemed to be teasing him, why was this thing in his workshop anyways? There was only one way to beat a devil, he had learned over time, smile. So that’s what he did, he smiled. A big toothy grin with a nice gap in the middle of his two front teeth, the monster was powerless.

If only all battles were so easy. But his job wasn’t to battle monsters, it was to give light to others. Big lights that they couldn’t ignore.

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\ p e r s o n a l i t y \

[/size] placed all my trust at the foot of this hill,
A[/size]nd now I am sure my heart can never be still.[/right]

How you were raised does not entirely map out who you are going to become.

Septimus had heard it time and time again as people in passing of the orphanage, talked of Sycamore house. Why would you adopt a child with problems who you might not be able to shape, when you could just produce a child on your own? The poor things never stood a chance anyhow. Orphans are just victims of circumstance. Septimus had heard it time and time before when couples had come to visit the house in order to adopt, though they didn’t come anymore, when they used to, each of them would say the same type of thing. They wanted younger children, ones they could mould to be their own. These couples would want to teach these babies their moral standards, how they walk, how they talk. Older kids had too many problems.

That was the problem. They always seemed to think that teenagers were already formed to be these destructive killing machines that could ultimately show no improvement – there was nothing he hated more. Ever since moving into Sycamore House, Septimus had always tried to remain on the positive side of things. Everyone had their problems in the past, and the sooner you can forget, the sooner you can move on. Sep’s natural ability to remain happy and energetic had always been one of his strong suits. Through the many trials life had thrown in his meager thirteen years of living, there had always been that small little spark that remained. The thing about sparks was that they could easily be turned in to an explosion.

Perhaps that’s why Septimus had a particular obsession with explosives, even though he still had yet to actually build a proper working one. It started with a small little flicker, and it would take a while but the flame would slowly keep moving until it reached the end. That was when the magic would happen, when the flame reached the end there would be a small little pause then the explosion. Everywhere, light and sound and it’s happy. That was the only way to describe the frenzy that an explosion created, happy. Septimus liked to think that maybe he was that flame, but he was still running down that line. Soon, he’d create happiness but they’d have to wait.

He was determined to be happy. Septimus was not going to be a victim of circumstance.

Though, he supposed, more often than not his eternal strive for happiness of not only himself, but the other orphans often turned a little bit sour. They lacked a sense of humour. The older kids were so high strung and Arwen and Silas are moody and Blaire is always trying to protect Ruth and Lalia just doesn’t like him. Septimus’ pranks just never seemed to turn out the right way. Small little explosives, seran wrap on the toilet seats, all of it was to make them happier in such a gloomy place – but it never worked out. Their reactions often frustrated him, why on earth wouldn’t they just be entertained by a certain joke?

It doesn’t bug him too much though. Often Sycamore House echoes the screams of the other orphans screaming his name, it was really funny. He knows that ultimately, they laugh about it. He’s still running down that line, but soon he’ll explode.

Not everything is fun and games for Septimus, though he doesn’t let the other orphans know this. After years of emotional torture from his mother, Sep often finds himself isolated to everyone and everything else. His mother had abandoned him for his little sister, which to a little kid really made no sense. Even now that he was older, the whole situation still confused him. His mother was a nasty woman he only sought out for what she wanted and Septimus wasn’t what she wanted. She is why, every week, Septimus returns home. He doesn’t go in to the house, but he peeks through the window. He worries that soon, his little sister, though he doesn’t even know her name, will soon become something his mother doesn’t want anymore. When – if – that happens, Septimus will be there to catch her, like nobody caught him.

None of the others know this about him, his past, his peeking. It’s none of their business really. Septimus has trust issues, he doesn’t confide in the others, and vice versa. Even if he wanted to, none of them would talk to him. Lilith probably would, her being their “almighty mother figure.” But Septimus dislikes her the most of the orphans, though he’d never tell her that. It’s best to keep the rest of the orphans mad, they don’t bother him if they don’t like them. Though to them, he’s just a little trouble maker, it’s easier that way.

Recently, his anger has become destructive. Sep locks himself in his workshop a lot and becomes destructive in any way possible, whether it is wrecking his tools, wrecking his inventions. Sometimes wrecking even himself. Self-destruction didn’t start until a few months ago. After his usual visit to see his sister, Septimus finally realized that they were happy, completely happy without him. There wasn’t a single picture of the boy in the household, even though he’d lived there for 8 years of his life. It was after that particular visit in with Septimus started to burn himself on purpose. The other kids would just think that his explosion expirements were going wrong – none of them dared to enter the basement.

Septimus realized that day he’d never be good enough for anyone. Maybe that’s why he was an explosion, one day when he’d explode and everyone would be happy. Everyone would be happy that he was gone. It was that simple. But he was still running down that line, running and running and running.
His mother leaving him caused deep emotional grief for Septimus, but he was good at hiding it. His mother wouldn’t bring him down enough not to make the other orphans happy – they would be happy if he died trying. He truly cared for the other kids. They would benefit from him.

They wouldn’t be victims of circumstance.

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[ h i s t o r y ]

[/size]he young man stands on the edge of his porch,
T[/size]he days were short and the father was gone.[/right]

Septimus never knew his father, but that wasn’t really unusual for most people in the Districts. It seemed that a lot of the time, most kids had at least one if not both parents dead. The amounts of orphanages made in the past twenty years had become almost ridiculous. He’d heard all the story of father’s dying in the games, mother’s becoming extremely sick. But, Septimus simply never knew his father and his mother hadn’t felt the need to tell him. His mother hadn’t felt the need to tell Septimus anything really. His father could be dead, could be alive. For all Septimus knew, he passed his father every single day without knowing. Not that it mattered. His father had been as much a part of his thirteen years of life as his mother should have been.

Septimus was born to a not so lovely lady in the middle of his living room, on the couch. His mother often retold the tale, at least while she still had him. I had waited nine months for you to show up, and finally the day came. His mother had a knack for storytelling, a certain enthusiasm that came with every syllable. Septimus only wished that he could tell a story as well as his mother had, only, she had spent her whole life telling stories. I was standing right here. Motioning to the dirty plaid carpet they had kept for decoration. It hurt so much, I screamed so much, but no one was here to save me. So I laid on the couch and I – Stopping to glare at the boy, she would spare him the details of the actual birth part.

I picked you up in my arms, and then I saw it, your thing. Septimus knew what she was indicating by ‘his thing.’ As mature as a seven-year old could be, he giggled. What else could he do? And from that moment on I realized what a disappointment you would grow up to be, and boy was I ever right?

Sep’s mother had never wanted a boy. Maybe it was because his father had hurt her in some way, or her father had hurt her. But, it wasn’t his job to psychoanalyze his mother, it was life. Burden. That’s how Septimus had always felt. As if his mother was Atlas and he was the sky, and he sat on her shoulders as she tried to lift him up. It was a constant struggle.

Of course, he’d never done anything wrong, but he’d always believed he had. Whenever the duo would walk about the district, Septimus would get to see the other little kids and their parents, even if it was one parent, they’d hold hands and skip down the street. They would sing sweet little melodies from no music. That sort of thing never actually happened for him. Septimus and his mother’s game was more like a round of cat and mouse. If you don’t keep up with me, you get to find your own way home.

That was always a fun little game they had played – try and keep up. If there was a single thing that his mother had taught him over the year it was that life doesn’t wait up for everyone. And if there was one single thing that Septimus could go back in time and change, it’s that he would just stop. He would have stopped in the middle of the street. Had he just let go so much sooner, he would have never had to experience any of the heart break that he had from his mother – but six-year olds don’t think like that.

His childhood was basically hell. It wasn’t that his mother had never fed him, or never gave him anything to drink. She just didn’t talk to him, she didn’t look after him when he was sick. He was basically an isolate child. The only time that his mother had actually sat him down to talk about anything was when he was eight-years old.

His mother had always been a good story-teller, but there were some stories that weren’t meant to ever be told. There were certain stories that Septimus had to listen to over and over until he got the full understanding of what the person was trying to say. But, on that nice summer’s day, Septimus only had needed to hear the story once. How would you feel if you moved? Free. Free to be new, free to escape. Free to explode. That’s what you’ll be doing, moving. Away? Away from the eternal cat and mouse. Will you be coming with me? By yourself. The shock flew through him bigger and badder than any explosion he’d ever seen on TV.

His mother was good at stories, and this was one he’d never forget. Septimus, sit down. How would you feel if you moved? That’s what you’ll be doing, moving. By yourself. You see, she rubbed her belly in a way more admirable than any sort of pat that she’d ever given to him. That rub was way more than her being hungry, they were never hungry. There was always food in the fridge. I’m pregnant. When did it happen? There were no guys, there were never any guys. There was too much bite to her bark. But see there was a guy, there had to be because there she was. Rubbing her belly. Moving, on your own. I found a place. Sycamore.

He had time, didn’t we all have time. We all had a series of detonators in our lives, each ticking away, waiting to light the fuse, waiting to run down the line, waiting to explode. He waited to explode. The detonator ticked. Septimus waited. One night, while watching television, he heard it. A scream. A single scream. It lit. His mother’s water broke and it was a fuse, she ran down the stairs and pushed him off the couch, the very one that brought him in to the world. Funny, almost, how it brought him out of his only known world. Fuse lit, it was running down the line. Screaming, too much screaming for his liking. Septimus watched as his fate was sealed.

Out came a little girl, so small. Smaller than him, so pretty. So beautiful. An explosion. She was an explosion. Septimus was kicked out of his world the second she came in to hers, out on the streets trying to find Sycamore. Sycamore House. Before he left, Septimus took one look at his sister with her bright blue eyes, one day her detonator would end, and he would be there for it.

Septimus found Sycamore. Miss Aggie had welcomed him with open arms, not knowing the detonator she’d released on the house. It would only be a time before he exploded. A few kids had arrived after him, the ragtag bunch of 8 children. The children of Sycamore House. He immediately went in an explosion. Miss Aggie was too big of a nutcase to really stop him, or realize what was going on, so the home was his for the taking. Pranks. An outlet. A way to start his detonation.

His relationships with the kids are simple, really. Septimus took an instant appreciation for Edgar. He fought and came out alive. He was way bigger and could do so many things that Sep couldn’t do. He aspired to be him, one day. Never did he ever like Lilith, he hated her. Prank after prank was directed at her. Arwen was too moody, and an easy target for any joke he had. Silas was alright, he never did anything wrong to Septimus, he probably received the least torture. He avoids Ruth, totally afraid of Blaire and Lalia doesn’t like him anyways.

Septimus started a thing, second year he was in the house. When he was ten, he went back to the house. Only to peek. And it quickly became a habit, visiting every week to see his little sister. He was waiting for her detonation to come up. Still, to this day, he checks every week. She’s 5 now and a pretty little thing. Septimus anxiously awaits her to fall in his arms.

He waits for her explosion.

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