Buffalo Bison -- D5 [done]

Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Like you're the first person to notice my name is Buffalo. Pardon me while I cry over your genius insult.

There was a time when I cared about my stupid name. And yeah, given the chance, I'd kick my asshole uncle in the balls for suggesting it. But he overdosed when I was seven, so I guess it's a bit of a moot point now. Karma's a bitch, isn't it?

I still hate my name, but if there was a way to go back to when schoolyard taunts were my biggest worry, I'd do it in a heartbeat. Snot-nosed kids and low self-esteem are a lot easier to deal with than a junky mother, a flaky father, and a literal herd of half-siblings. One of whom was a tribute.

Shadow.

I never actually met my half-brother. My father was -- well, is -- something of a man-whore, to put it delicately. I mean, there's sleeping around, and then there's sleeping around. The amount of women he's managed to have sex with is nothing short of legendary, and it looks like he's impregnated each one, considering half of District Five seems to be related to me. I'm the product of one of his earlier affairs. Mom was sixteen when she had me, and seventeen when the pressures of being a single mother drove her to alcohol. Then weed. Then hardcore drugs.

I don't remember much from back then, but I must have been a nightmare if I single-handedly turned my mother into an addict.

I didn't see a trace of my real father for my entire childhood. My mom never told him about me, and never let me forget that having sex with him was the worst decision she ever made. Considering she's lost two fingers before while high, I guess that's saying a lot. We've always been slaves to her drugs, though, so there's very little that can surprise me when it comes to her getting high.

Life was actually a lot more tolerable when she managed to get her fix. Depending on which pill she popped, she would zone out peacefully for hours, or giggle and make jokes with me -- awful, stupid jokes, but I took what I could get. It was when she sobered up that the pain started. The depressed, self-pitying sobs. Her withdrawal-addled mind seeing me as a monster. Her normal mind seeing me as a punishment. It was a lot for a kid to bear, you know?

My uncle didn't make things any better. He was the one who started her on drugs in the first place, and he came by periodically when he needed a place to crash. Those times were the worst because he always brought by some new 'candy' for Mom to try, and he'd kick me out if I so much as breathed too close to him. He didn't like me, and I didn't like him. And because he didn't have the courtesy to die until I was seven, I got to project my daddy issues onto him. Asshole.

I didn't start acting out until I was a teenager. Before then, I was a meek little kid, always scurrying away at the first sign of trouble. Once I turned thirteen, though, I finally got fed up with my shitty life and grew a backbone. I didn't touch drugs, of course -- I'd seen what they could do. But I did take up smoking and drinking, and I threw any semblance of a curfew out the window. Even my oblivious mother eventually noticed, and through some absurd combination of concern and outrage, began to punish me for my misbehavior.

So I decided to punish hers.

In the dead of night, I snuck into her empty room and kicked open the toolbox she used as a not-so-subtle stash. I took every little plastic bag and ratty container, every tiny bottle and test tube, and I tossed them with loving care, one by one, into the river by our house.

I was out on the streets by the next day. I haven't spoken to my mother since. I don't even know if she's alive.

That was two years ago. The life of an urchin blends into one long blur of hunger and homelessness, so my fourteenth and fifteenth years don't stand out much in my memory. Everything was brought into much clearer focus, though, by the damn Quell. And my previously unknown half-sibling getting Reaped.

It was shortly after that that my father discovered me -- apparently the Capitol helped him track me down, since anyone related to a tribute suddenly becomes a VIP during the Games. He wanted me to move in with him, with the rest of his countless love children. I told him to go to hell. When the Peacekeepers came and dragged me from my porch the next day, though, I found that I had very little choice in the matter.

Since Shadow was reaching the top eight, various low-level Games-groupies made sure to clean me up for a possible interview. My grimy hair was thoroughly washed, and given a touch of color to bring out the blonde underneath. They gave me some pill to add a 'rosy glow' to my pale complexion, and my wardrobe was suddenly filled with loose, billowy tunics and skirts, probably to hide the fact that I was starving. I didn't look beautiful, but I looked presentable.

Then our little tribute died, and we went back to being nameless bums.

Life hasn't changed much for me, to be completely honest. I still spend most of my time on the streets, and most days I prefer not to go back home to that pig-sty. The rest of the Bison are complete strangers to me, and have spent more time laughing about my name than trying to be a big happy family. That's just fine. I've certainly never needed family to get by. I don't need it now, either.

I'm not a Bison. And I'm not a fucking Buffalo. I'm Buffy, and I don't need anyone else.