[Sullen Darcy | District 7]

My eyes open to nothing, an empty blackness void of the world. It's alright though, that's all my life has every been - empty and void of the world. I'm used to the darkness because that's all I ever see anymore, ever since I lost my sight. I tell people I was blind from birth, that I don't remember what the world looked like because I never saw it. That's not true though, but it's a whole lot more pleasant than what actually happened. It's why I constantly wear glasses, dark tinted lenses that block the sight of others from my ruined eyes. I protect others from my appearance because I know, I know that no one could ever think I was anything but a monster. And maybe I am.

I was born with sight, perfect vision that I used to observe, to learn, to have fun. As any child did, I experimented with every part of my senses and that included my sight. Often my parents would have to stop me from touching my eye with my finger, telling me it could damage it. Disbelieving, I continued the practice when they weren't looking. The feel of the tissue under my finger delighted me with its odd properties, I wanted to learn more. I had blue eyes, pretty according to everyone, average according to myself.

Now they'll never be pretty again, or really anything for that matter.

Does this darkness have a name?
This cruelty, this hatred.

It's been a long time since I've seen myself, been a long time since I've seen anything really, so I only have faint memories of I looked like. I know my hair is cut short, long enough to run my fingers through but not to the point where it begins to creep down my neck and my forehead. My hands are scarred, I remember that from before. That story comes with the one about my eyes. I don't have much of a judge for my height, but I don't have to duck through doors and I can reach most things with relative ease - try doing anything without seeing, I still haven't gotten use to it. I wear whatever I grab first, which is why I always ask for plain coloured clothes because then there's a hope that they won't look horrible together.

Around my neck sits a small pouch on a leather string. Inside the pouch is a piece of amber, when I was younger I found it and marvelled when I realized there were two ants inside of it. The larger ant had its pincers around the head of the others ant, ready to crush it. I never forgot what it looked like, and I never left it anywhere except around my neck. As well, there is also a piece of paper with bumps formed into it. Braille for those who know it, and I spent time learning it just because of this note. The thing was, I got this note before I lost my sight, but it wasn't until after that I learned how to read it. It says; "sight is undeserving of you".

And I know what it is, and I know what it means. It's my father's excuse for what he did, because, you see, my father and I were too much alike. Between us, our curiosity grew and mutated into something horrible, continuing to shift and change until one of us had to pay the price. Of course he chose me.

How did it find us?
Did it steal into our lives or did we seek it out and embrace it?

It wasn't fun, it wasn't pleasant, and in the end it wasn't what I wanted, but my father did it anyway. He built the idea in my head that I would be some sort of hero, and what ten year old didn't want to be a hero. The smart ones. I wasn't smart and so I was pulled in by my father's lies until I was so tied up that I literally could not move from the chair. Strapped to the makeshift operating table he had set up I then realized this was not what I had been told it would be. I panicked, but my father only continued his pretending. It was then, and only then, that I noticed the horrible gleam in his eyes. My father and I were too much alike, in the beginning I felt the same excitement. Then it all began to happen and I realized what he was, what I was, what this all really was.

My father was a monster creating a monstrosity.

What happened to us?
That we now send our children out into the world like we send young men to war,

He used a scalpel, nothing but a scalpel, and I understood now the reason why he had made his little workshop in the middle of the woods - easy enough in this District - and why he had put so much foam into the walls. I cried and screamed, a ten year old having his first real scare. He started with my hands, testing my sense of feeling with slashes and stabs, leaving my fingers crimson and numb. As he worked I saw his excitement grow, his need for more and more continuing to build until he wanted to see something new. Blood was blood, a cut was a cut, it was a minor mutilation and not one anyone cared much about. A difference in appearance though, a physical change, that was so much more interesting.

I got to watch my father gouge out part of my little finger, watch as blood rushed out into the world. Still, I knew it wasn't enough for him. I was at his mercy, and I knew then he had none. I didn't dare fight, otherwise I may end up even more injured than I was. It didn't matter though because my father kept moving forward. The slice in my stomach was precise, with just enough knowledge to keep from killing me but not enough to avoid me losing large amounts of blood. My father was no surgeon, though I should have known better of a monster.

hoping for their safe return but knowing that some will be lost along the way.

He cut me in other places, using his fingers to prod around and explore. Somehow, despite all of the blood I was losing, I managed to cling to consciousness. I had to know everything he was going to do to me. If he was going to kill me I had to know. He stopped almost like he had run out of batteries, frozen for a time - a considerable amount of my own blood sprayed over his front, and just about everything else in here. Then he met my gaze, and I saw a mixture of surprise, devilish joy, and pride mixed in his eyes. One more revelation came to me then, as my father came to stand by my head with his bloody scalpel. He loved me. I was his little monster son, his protege, his toy, and he loved me.

That never stopped him though, and I watched the scalpel approach my right eye. I can't remember much of the actual process, but I do know I passed out some time during the removal of my eyes. It didn't matter anymore, staying conscious, I wouldn't have been able to see anything more anyway.

When did we lose our way?
Consumed by the shadows, swallowed whole by the darkness.

I woke up two days later, still strapped down. My father's words were blurry, but I heard the amazement in his voice. He stuffed the note into my hands and I traced my finger over the letters before putting the note away. I cried, but the tears only burned. In my head I saw the blank red sockets, still oozing blood, staring out from the front of my face. I ached like nothing I had ever experienced before and when I tried to move the pain overwhelmed me within a moment. I passed out again.

It took three weeks for me to recover enough to walk, and then I had to contend with my blindness. Over the years since then I never heard of my father taking another person into his workshop, but then again I'm a blind kid and I know my father too well to think that he's given up. He fancies himself Frankenstein now, and after one successful operation - me - I believe he will continue.

I lost my sight to him, my dignity, my touch with the world. Everyone despises me when they learn what I am. I am too like my father, but only because I look like his soul. I am dark, I am horrible, I am evil.

I am a monster.

Does this darkness have a name?
Is it your name?