Crowley Fowler / D12 / done

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age: 18
gender: male
district: 12

It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Just the thought of it. It is just like the sun in the darkest moments of life. It is just like that rare strawberry you might find at the edges of the electric fence. It was just so beautiful, all of it was so beautiful. I coudn't contain my excitement, it bounced through me, making my whole body feel light, fluffy even. It was just my day, wasn’t it? The sun was shining and the thought of death was in the air. Ahhh delicious. I could just eat it all up. I take in a deep breath, my ink covered chest rising as my whole body was filled with the delicious death scented oxygen.

Life couldn’t get much better, right?

Ahh but I am wrong, life could get so much better. The reaping was near, and did you know the kind of- I don’t even know how to explain it- the kind of rush that flows through me? Every year, at this time of the year I have felt the same. Every year I would watch in the town centre as the tributes on scream cut each other’s throats and break, and cry like little wimps when they take some ones poor life. If it were me on that screen, I would be salivating, almost, with all that delicious death around me. The thought of killing sent thrills through me- thrills of excitement and anticipation. Ahh sometimes I just couldn’t handle it, handle the thought of killing, the thought of everything that came along with killing, killing and its beauty. It was just amazing.

Sweeping my longish curly fringe away from my eyes I stare at the mirror in front of me. A face, giddy with happiness was reflected back at me, the smile that my eyes search was a smile that looked like it could belong to a child who had just got their favourite candy bar. A longish fringe was swept over its forehead, chocolate brown hair blanketed the rest of the skin that makes up his scalp. Eyes as blue as the ocean stare back at me, eyes that were alight with the thought of death- but something deep inside them flickered on and off, something that I couldn’t distinguish.

Blinking, my eyes disconnect from the gaze of the reflection, traveling down the slender, lean body. Muscles hugged the arms and legs and torso of the reflection. But that was not all. Pictures over the arms, swirling ink dotted over the pale skin, forming pictures, forming symbols, forming meanings. The pictures flowed overs his delicate long fingers, all different images. But that was not all, the tattoos flowered on his chest, swirling up around his neck, trailing down the thick pale skin. Every one of them, every single one of them pulsed with meaning, pulsed with history, with stories with life.

Ripping my eyes away from the reflection I wander lazily over to the old rotting wood that constructed the table, that lonely, rotting table. It was empty of course, living in district twelve left a boy hungry, hungry in so many different way. For sex, for food, for killing, for life, for family, for death. I was just so hungry, so hungry all the time. But that didn’t really matter, hunger could always be satisfied, hunger could always be put at bay. Pulling back the only chair at the table I fall into it, a sigh on the tip of my lips. You know how I told you earlier, about how I fantasied about being in the games, that little hidden dirt pleasure of mine. Well once, when I was like 16, I rounded up 23 other children from around the district. 11 guys, and 12 girls. Not they didn’t come on their own accord, oh boy I had to force them to come, to come play with me. But after a few days, I had them all rounded.

They had no idea why they were there; they fought me to let them go, they begged me to let them free. But I didn’t let them go, no I kept them tucked away, for a whole two weeks. You see, I had wanted to so bad to get into the games that year, so bad that I thought it would be fun to construct my own games. Not like the capitols one, of course. Each day after two weeks, two weeks, I brought two of them out of their cages, one male one female. Where I made them fight to the death, the one on top, the one that survived, would then be able to go into the next stage. Then, when only one was left, I fought him. I fought him and ripped his throat out with my bare hands. I had then licked his blood off my fingers, and walked away.

Killing had only seemed more exciting. I was addicted to it. So you know what I did next? I found my parents, the people who had thrown me out of the house when I was young because they were scared of the joy I shoed when the reapings came around. When I was younger I used to cheer for the tributes of our district I sued to hoot and shout as they wandered, shock stricken off the stage to where they would say there final good byes. People used to stare, stare with disgust and reproach. I hadn’t understood why, but know I realised. You weren’t meant to cheer for those who were being sent off to their death, you were meant to mourn. I tried you know, tried to be that kid that mommy and daddy wanted… but I couldn’t, I could never contain the excitement that washed over me when the reapings came.

They couldn’t stand it, they couldn’t stand looking at a child, their child, who loved the games, who idolised them. So they threw me out of the house, not man enough to kill me then and there. I survive, god knows how, but I did. And after those little games I constructed, after I got a good state of killing. I went for them, I searched for them and ripped their throats out. I made sure they knew who I was. I made sure they knew that I was there son, and that they would be sorry for what they did. They were my parents, and I did love them… but they didn’t deserve to live, so they died. Just like that. They didn’t even fight. They just threw up their hands has I threw my body at them. They were weak.

But they made me who I was, really. Think about. If they had just killed me when they had the chance, none of this would have happened. They would still be alive. I would be dead, not smelling the roses.



Template credits to the wonderful Zoe <3[/font]

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