Cornix Sicarius - District 2 [DONE]

CORNIX SICARIUS



You hear whispers whenever you walk by, but it’s nothing new to you. It seems people know you are only nineteen, though they have also heard you are dangerous. Your home of District two isn’t safe when you’re about. You’re a murderer after all.

The secret side of me I never let you see
I keep it caged but I can't control it
So stay away from me
The beast is ugly
I feel the rage and I just can't hold it

UNDER THE PARABOLA OF A BALL,

Never the best looking guy out there, you took somewhat of a backseat in the looks department. It didn't really matter anyway, you were never looking for a girlfriend. No girl would go with you after what you did. So, even though your short, black hair, with its little bit of a flip up at the front, made you look 'cool'; and your dark green eyes, with their hint of gray and sometimes blue, made you look mysterious, you were certain no girl would ever go for you. It was not a low self-esteem that made you think that way, it was your previous experience with women, albeit a poor one. However, you undermine the understanding that the less people know about you, the more they want to know you.

Your eyebrows, slightly bushy with varying shades between a rich brown and black like your hair. Some people don't know what is your natural colour, though you never bother to dye it, you wouldn't have the money or the care to anyway. Your nose is well-shaped, though it was a bit sharp compared to the rest of your face. Your lips, which were about the same shade as your face, only pinker, are somewhat thin, giving you the ability to show people a razor blade smile. Overall, your face is mostly soft angles, sharp enough to stand out but rounded enough to look smooth.

You neck is a decent length, long enough to show, but short enough to look sturdy. It flowed into your broad shoulders, though they were only wide enough to give you strength and not hinder your ability to go through openings. Your arms are long and muscular, the fingers of your hands reaching a spot just below your waist. Your palms are of medium size, and your long fingers give you the appearance of someone who could play the piano, 'pianist hands' you had heard them called, though your parents just told you they were good for gripping weapons.

It's scratching on the walls
In the closet, in the halls
It comes awake and I can't control it
Hiding under the bed
In my body, in my head
Why won't somebody come and save me from this?
Make it end!

A CHILD TURNING INTO A MAN,

Your torso is also muscled, and your abs are flat with only the slightest hint of a six pack. You had heard other careers talking about the many guys who actually had one, but you didn't care. The only time you took your shirt off was when it had blood on it. Your legs, long like your arms, bring you to a total height of six feet exactly. You're not the tallest guy out there, but it didn't bother you, vanity wasn't a strong point. Muscled as well as your arms and torso, if not a little more, your legs allow you to run, jump, and climb with speed. It makes your life easier as you leave the scene of your crime.

For the most part, in fact for all but the most special of occasions, you dress plainly. A black hoodie serves as your normal jackets, and a few different t-shorts also cover your torso. Your jeans are dark wash, and fit you comfortably enough not to restrict your movement. In the summer or during a warmer day, you may wear shorts. Your shoes are black skater shoes, finishing your darkly coloured dress.

I feel it deep within; it's just beneath the skin
I must confess that I feel like a monster
I hate what I've become
The nightmare's just begun
I must confess that I feel like a monster
I feel like a monster

I LOOKED INTO THE AIR TOO LONG.

You are quiet, your steps, your voice, your heart, are quiet. When you want to, you can disappear. It's not something you're particularly proud of, because of what it means when you do, but it might have been nicer if you had more choice of when you could just leave life behind and reside as a shadow for a while. Escaping the demanding life you lead as the youngest son in a family of criminals is tough, and when you can slip out of it's grasp to take control of your actions for once you take the opportunity. Freedom, something you don't really understand but long for anyway.

Even though you had been trained from a young age to hold and show no mercy, to not doubt your orders or the fact that your target must die, you do sometimes have second thoughts. When this happens, though, you just fall into that place in yourself that leaves your body to it's own self, freeing it to follow orders without thought or regret. It's so much easier there than when you're in control. No decisions to make, no conflicting emotions to beat down. The mask you wear, not a physical barrier between yourself and the world, for all you may wish for one, but a mental wall put up, keeps your true self from being seen. Despite popular knowledge, you're not as cruel as you're said to be.

The thought of what your father and sister do for their 'jobs' makes you uncomfortable, though your father more-so because of the lack of will of the other participant. You know that it was his tendencies that had brought him and your mother together, but you still prefer to be out of the house when your mom 'has someone over'. For all she helps your father, and taught your sister how to do her 'job', you aren't as hesitant with your mother. She's so kind to you, and to your siblings, and she always tries to warn you before 'inviting a guest' so you can clear out with your brother for a few hours. You know your sister is more comfortable with it than you are, and your brother doesn't complain about you dragging him around with you during your father's 'playtime'.

My secret side I keep hid under lock and key
I keep it caged but I can't control it
Cause if I let him out
He'll tear me up and break me down
Why won't somebody come and save me from this?
Make it end!

THE BALL FELL IN MY HAND, IT SANG

Your relationship with your grandparents is better than with your father, and you learned from your great uncle about how to kill. Though it was he who made you into the monster you are, you hold a deep respect for the man. After all, any back talk would earn you a slap of a smack with a cane. Your grandmother is so kind to you, and when you were little she would "happen to come across" presents for you and your siblings. Sometimes you wish that they were your parents, but even then you still can't say as much for the knowledge of hurting your parents' feelings.

You had always looked up to your older brother, he was the coolest boy and you were proud to say he was a member of your family. When you were old enough, the two of you would go spend time by yourselves just talking, enjoying each other's company. It was a welcome relief from the harsh demands of home life. Sometimes you just want to escape it, but it always finds you in the end. You know that the only way to be free of your parents, and to be free of your 'job' would be to escape Panem. But you aren't ready to be on your own, you'd rather live the life you do in the relative safety of District two.

And you have to admit, sometimes you enjoy your assignments.

I feel it deep within; it's just beneath the skin
I must confess that I feel like a monster
I hate what I've become
The nightmare's just begun
I must confess that I feel like a monster
I feel like a monster

IN THE CLOSED FIST: OPEN OPEN

From birth it was as though you were labelled. And when you asked your parents, you were. As the third child of the family, you were the one raised with deadly intent. Your slut sister and thief brother were children of petty crimes, but you, you were meant for more serious stuff. You were born and bred to kill.

At the age of three, only a toddler with barely the ability to stand steady and walk straight, you were taught how to hold a knife. Your mother started you with toy knives so they would pose little damage to you or anyone else. By the time you were five she had trusted you enough to let you hold a real knife, the metal of the blade glinting at you as you stabbed into the orange that was your target. "People are like oranges," your mother had said, "thick skin of the outside, but soft in the middle." When the juice had squirted from the fruit and dribbled down the edge of the knife you had asked, "Are people filled with juice too?" This had brought a chuckle from you mother and she had replied, with a hint of glee in her voice, "Yes, my son."

On your sixth birthday, your great uncle announced he would take over your training. You were excited, as all six-year-olds are about almost anything, and you wanted to everything to please Great Uncle Catillatio. From then on, he put you to a strict schedule of training; endurance and strength with your brother, and weapons with him. With the extra training, you were quickly the strongest of your siblings, and the fiercest. Your sister only had enough training with weapons to help her in the case of being Reaped, or attacked when she was out 'working'. A year after you had started training with you Great Uncle, and shortly after turning seven, you were brought to the Career gym to start the more formal training.

However, because you had already trained for years with the smaller weapons, you were moved onto the larger weapons sooner than the other children your age. You were treated like a miracle child, and your parents were told many times that you might have a good shot in the Games. You grew to like being in the Career gym, it was the place where you were truly appreciated and it was where you could show off your skills. Everyone thought you were a child protege, but little did they know that you had help. Everything about your life was fun, exciting, enticing. You enjoyed every moment of learning about weapons and self-defence, until that day came.

When you turned nine, and after having become incredibly adept with knives, your Great Uncle called you outside. When you found him, standing in the backyard waiting for you, he held a struggling kitten in his hands. Unsure what the kitten meant, but having a suspicion that it wasn't going to be your new pet, you waited for Catillatio to explain. The words that reached your ears brought a coldness to your veins, the thought of what you were being told to do chilled, but didn't surprise, you. You were to kill the kitten in any way you wanted. As long as it died, it would be a job well done. The ice in your veins flowed into your heart, creating a layer of frost encasing the entire thing.

Nodding with grim determination, you took the scrap of fur in hand. While you were taught to show no mercy, and to defeat your opponent in whatever way possible, as well as to follow orders, you couldn't help but want to make death as painless for this poor creature as you could. Your eyes set on the shaking creature in your hand, you drew your knife. With one swift movement, you sliced through it's tiny neck, stepping back to dodge the head as it fell. Your heart squeezed, but the small thrill in your soul took you aback as much as it released the painful tension inside of you. You had killed for the first time, and you had enjoyed it.

You were told to promise your silence. No one could know about you killing the kitten. At that young of an age, and with the training that you had had, you knew better than to go against your word. Your training fell back into it's old pattern, leaving you to all but forget about the kitten you had killed. That was, until you were eleven. As he had two years prior, your Great Uncle called you out to the backyard. This time, he held a tiny puppy. The little thing squirmed in his grip, but he held it firmly. When you came over, he placed it in your outstretched hand. About to kill the puppy in the same way as the kitten, by decapitating it, you were stopped. Catillatio explained that you couldn't use the same killing blow twice. You had to find another way to kill the creature you held. The layer of frost around your heart grew thicker, but it didn't stop you from wanting to cause as little pain as possible. Drawing your knife, you thought of the quickest way to kill the pup.

A blur of motion, and your hand jabbed forward, the blade of your weapon driving into one of the puppy's eyes. Without even a whimper, the pup was dead in your hand. You removed the knife silently, doing your best to keep from being bled on. Once more, you were sworn to silence. Once more you had passed a test, and once more your heart hardened. As it had before, your life didn't reflect the kill you had made. You were secure in the fact that you could kill and get away with it. Again, two years passed as you banished the memory of the puppy to the farthest corner of your mind. Until your next test.

It's hiding in the dark
It's teeth are razor sharp
There's no escape for me
It wants my soul, it wants my heart
No one can hear me scream
Maybe it's just a dream, or maybe it's inside of me
Stop this monster!

BEHOLD A GIFT DESIGNED TO KILL.

Every two years, up to the time of your seventeenth year, you were told to kill something. At thirteen you slit a cat's neck, managing to not get any blood on your clothes though your hands and blade came away red. Then, at fifteen you stabbed a dog in the heart. Each time you were forced to kill, more ice claimed your heart. When you were not about to commit murder, you appeared to be normal. Normal reactions, normal thoughts, a normal life. however, the moment your victim was to die you changed. You were no longer the innocent boy that you had been before your first kill. Now you were a killing machine, fast, silent, deadly; and so, your Great Uncle brought you something special on your seventeenth birthday. It was your final test.

Like each time before then, you were summoned to the backyard. However, this time you were taken to your parents' 'guest house'. It was a decently large shed in the far corner of the backyard, locked with a padlock and containing a bed, a built on toilet room and a few other pieces of furniture. Catillatio unlocked the padlock and let the both of you in. Inside was a woman, the current 'guest' of your parents. Your father had already 'tended to her' and so he had no further need for her. Your Uncle told you to kill her, closing and blocking the door after dragging a metal tub into the middle of the room. He then picked up the woman, though she screamed and fought, and placed her in it.

As you had used up the quickest methods of murder with a knife on the animals, you wondered how you would kill the woman. Your hardened heart shut off all feeling as you went in for the kill. You turned your knife in your hand so as to use the butt of the knife as your weapon. Raising your arm, you swung, bringing the wooden hilt down hard to collide with the woman's temple. She fell limp in front of you, but you weren't sure if it had been enough. Checking her neck, you found she still had a pulse and flipped your knife around. Knowing that she couldn't feel pain, you placed both her arms in the tub and sliced deep into her wrists. The spirt of blood stained her clothes red, and the dark liquid pooled thickly at the bottom of the tub. You felt for a pulse again, satisfied when there was none.

A hand on your shoulder was your congratulations before you were forced to promise, for the final time, not to speak of your training. Having completed all of the tests, your family knew it was time you could be sent on assignment. So, they taught you how to find someone, to track them down to their place of residence and be able to follow them inconspicuously. Next came tricks on how to lead your target into a place where you wouldn't be seen, and it would take a while for them to be found. With that knowledge, you were now considered fully capable to perform what they said to be your destiny.

Over the past two years you have killed nearly ten people. A combination of outside targets and women that you parents had taken but knew would talk about them. You were the one who tied up loose ends, sometimes before they were even created. At times, you were proud of your work. The night that you were sent to kill a seventeen year old girl was not one of those times. She had been a victim of your mother, but your father had had no interest in her. Your brother, however, had and he had at first stolen from her. When he had begun to hang about her too much, your mother had released her after Catillatio had threatened her to stay silent about the family.

She had, as far as was known, but your brother hadn't given up on his affections after she had left the household. The adults had decided that your brother would be better off without her, and that she was an asset anyway. So, you were sent out the next night. You had made it as painless as possible, like always, but even that hadn't felt like enough. You hated that her life had been wasted for the sake of your brother. Angry with him, you had returned home with that seed of rage in your frozen heart. When you saw your brother, you couldn't keep from striking him. For all of your training to show no mercy, you had enough control not to kill him. Instead, you struck him a hard blow to the jaw, bruising it and causing it to swell up for a few days. It had been the first time you had felt anything but cold indifference, and you enjoyed the warmth that your rage brought.

Now you live, conflicted by what you are set to do and what you would rather do. For the most part the choice was simple. You didn't know the people you were to kill, and they could expose your family. The numbness took over, and then it was done. But those times when it wasn't easy, well you just didn't want to think or speak about them. There were too many consequences surrounding your entire life, and it was best you avoid them when you can. Even now, you never know when you will be asked to kill again. The small thrill that runs through you is as wonderful as it is horrifying. You still get a rush from death.

I feel it deep within; it's just beneath the skin
I must confess that I feel like a monster
I hate what I've become
The nightmare's just begun
I must confess that I feel like a monster
I feel like a monster

OTHER

FC: Florian Van Bael

Lyrics: Monster by Skillet

Words
44 - Introduction
523 - Appearance
613 - Personality
1934 - History
3114 - Total

I feel it deep within; it's just beneath the skin
I must confess that I feel like a monster
I'm gonna lose control
Here's something radical
I must confess that I feel like a monster

I feel like a monster.

odair