Spencer Henley ♔ District 2 {fin}

In pitch dark
I go walking in your landscape
Broken branches
Trip me as a I speak

NAME: Spencer Alaric Henley
AGE: Seventeen
GENDER: Male
DISTRICT/AREA: Two

Just 'cause you feel it,
Doesn't mean it's there
Just 'cause you feel it,
Doesn't mean it's there

APPEARANCE:

I became lost in a sea of aimless pedestrians, finding myself following in suit of their encumbering world-weariness. I bolstered my long, slender legs into cement blocks, resisting the compulsion to fall back into the monotonous current. A gentle ebb in the crowd permitted a quick, roundabout escape around a corner, and so I scurried into the dim alleyway.  

Silhouettes danced along with the passers-by, mere extensions of the few street lamps scattered along the stretch. I wandered by the emaciated figure of a stranger, the gossamer curls of his hair entangling about my esophagus, restraining my breath. His eyes held a swampy glow, his bronze tan accentuating the blue-green irises gleaming in the evening light. He was attractive, no doubt, but of the more rugged sort of handsome. Towering over him at 6'2", I searched to meet his gaze, but the boy diffidently withdrew into his raspberry windbreaker to evade my piercing stare. He diligently continued on his path, effectively cutting off the would-be interweaving of our destinies. 

A burgeoning embryo of regret—the what-could-have-beens—somersaulted deep in the pit of my stomach. Imitating the boy, I pulled my ragged cardigan further over my svelte figure. “What could the boy have seen that he didn't like?” I muttered under my breath, “I waste away hours in front of the mirror primping to perfection, and for what? Call me vain or self-absorbed, but is it wrong for me to believe that potential suitors typically like people who take care of themselves?”  

Furious at the impudence of the discourteous simpleton, my thoughts transitioned to refocus my sweltering temper unto myself. Perhaps my sculpted cheekbones are falling out of fashion, or I overlooked an unblended patch of foundation. Did the wind tousle my feathery, ash-brown hair? Was my nude lipstick smeared, or did I carelessly miss a stray eyebrow hair with my tweezers? Maybe I need to shed some more weight off my lissome 145 lbs. “Everything is about appearance these days; even these senseless provincials must read the latest Capitol maga-,” I stumbled in my words, genuinely flabbergasted at how just truly empty I have become. It’s no wonder I have noticed an alarming pattern in my interactions with others as of late—“They don’t appreciate me, for well...me.” 

There's always a siren
Singing you to shipwreck
Don't reach out, don't reach out
Don't reach out, don't reach out

PERSONALITY:

His sugared words lured me into a lonely corridor, “Spencer...I-we need to talk.” I shadowed his motions as he cornered me against the training room lockers, my eyes locked on the first boy I have ever loved.

“Of course, darling, what is it?” I masked the extent of my uneasiness with a film of composed concern. Something...different was about him. I ran my hand down his chest, struggling to retain a firm grasp on what was about to be snatched away from me. “Tell me what’s bothering you. I’d do absolutely anything for you to see you smile, you know,” I gingerly assured.

He brushed my caress away dolefully. “Some things have changed, no—I may have changed. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this act up. You're attractive and you get me, but I feel like I really don't know you as well as you know me.” Suppressing the oncoming tears with a sequence of deep breaths, I turned my head away for good measure. “If you feel like keeping your promise, would you be so kind as to break up with me?”

I looked at him one last time, “Don’t you remember the wind in our hair by the lake that one summer evening, when we—” that’s when I realized that no amount of reminiscence would ever be enough, no desperate effort to salvage the relationship would make up for my shortcomings. As I sauntered out of the corridor in tears, the sardonically flamboyant boy all my associates knew was nowhere to be found. A raging maelstrom of deep emotions percolated the soil of my public façade, for the whole world to see. I was overwrought and histrionic; there was simply not much more I could bear. No longer was there a chance to save face—the eroding rivers had already cut down my thin veil. 

---

He was my first attempt at love, and my last to this day. I was fourteen at the time. Predictably, none of my so-called "acquaintances" came to my aid. I suppose I could have made more of an effort in my interpersonal relations to have garnered some amount of empathy from them, but why should I have to try so hard when everyone else gets away just by the virtue of being themselves? Makes hardly any sense.

And yes, I have been gay for as long as I can remember. Broad shoulders, rippling muscles, coarse body hair—the entirety of the male form is simply intoxicating. Initially, I wasn't so keen on the fact, and to be fully honest, I'm still quite a bit terrified of the idea. Lately, however, I have almost grown proud to be a sexual minority. It adds a dash of glamour to my individuality that most other people don't possess.

Steer away from these rocks
We'd be a walking disaster
Don't reach out, don't reach out
Don't reach out, don't reach out

HISTORY:

“You have the eyes of a jackdaw, son. The world’s going to swallow you up and spit you right out if you take what you were never meant to enjoy.” 

Despite having now degenerated into a piteous alcoholic, Uncle Alex was one of my most beloved relatives growing up. My parents' marriage was nothing more than a superfluous power partnership between two wealthy families, and they spent the majority of my childhood bickering. I would always beam a wide-grin smile out of elation when Uncle would come over because he served as a temporary method of escape for me as a withdrawn little boy. In my younger years, my uncle was a smooth-talking entrepreneur, and I vividly remember being allowed to play with the eccentric trinkets he sold. Uncle was the person who coaxed my mother and father into getting career training for their only son—me. 

You see, I was quite the passive child. I possessed no will, no backbone—I felt subdued under the strong personalities of my belligerent mother and father. I believe Uncle made the right move when he manipulated my parents into having me trained for the Games because I surely would not have become the cynical individualist I am today without the merciless training sessions. Slashes from other careers scar the sides of my torso from my early years at the center, and their attacks carved their way even further into my soul. In my seven year-old mind, the sliding entrance doors of the Career Training Center became synonymous with the gates of Hell. 

Since then, however, I have become accustomed to the stench of bleach and perspiration in the Center. After all these years, the building has come to serve as a sort of haven for me; I have grown to cherish the prison-like cinder block walls for their security. I've come to be able to hold my own in a fight because of the training, employing my limber figure to hide in the shadows. I do confess that I have some sort of proclivity to go straight for the kill, impaling my enemy with a thrown dagger or two. I hold poetic justice in high esteem, and nothing gives me more a thrill than hearing that spine-tingling scream from my deserving victim.

Just 'cause you feel it,
Doesn't mean it's there
There's someone on your shoulder
There's someone on your shoulders

FACECLAIM: Peter Bruder
CODEWORD: odair
COMMENTS/OTHER: this template is heavily inspired by one of lalia's && please excuse the half-assed history, k thanks

There, There by Radiohead.