Officer Theo Kozlovsky ~ PK ~ DONE :D

Nothing is set in stone.

And I've had to learn that the hard way.

You're tip-toeing to your room. The candle-light flickers as you set down the paint supplies. Perhaps it isn't the best time do be doing this, but it's Grandpa's birthday tomorrow. He's given you so much, and you know just what to give him back.

Even at the tender age of eight, you have remarkable talent. The paintbrush between your fingers fawns over the stained paper in fine, fluent strokes. There's an image in your head, a passion seared into your soul. You don't need much else.

This is one of the few things that come easy to you. Your face is relaxed and there is a hint of tranquillity in the air around you. No furrowed brows or a pencil being chipped away between your teeth as you try to sort out numbers. 

"Done." you murmur, a boyish grin plastered over your face. You hold the paper up, proud of what you've made. Grandpa will love it.

I stand in front of the mirror and frown deeply at my reflection. My eyes -as Captain had pointed out- are sunken with dark bags underneath. My hair is a tousled birds nest on my head, slightly duller than it's original ash colour. I try to smooth it out, but it's no use. I'll have to cut it, later

A yawn escapes me and my forehead crinkles. I look into the tired brown eyes of the man in the mirror, sleep deprived. His nose is slightly crooked at the end, the result of an accident during training. A subtle five o'clock shadow resides on his jaw which, without question, would be completely unacceptable if he weren't so stubborn about it.

But this man, I know, is nothing but the fading shadow of a boy who had a dream.

"I want to be an artist." you tell Ma, eyes gleaming. She bites her lip, looking rather unsure. "I don't know, Theo. Crayons and colour-pencils may be cheap, but the rest of those professional art supplies, well, I don't think we can afford them." 

Your face falls. Of course you can't afford such a hobby, let alone make a full-blown career out of it. Not much can be done with a salary as measly as your father's. Ma sees your disappointment and is quick to comfort you. "But if you work hard and find a decent job, you can buy all the artsy things that you need!"

A smile etches it's way across your face again. "Really?"

"Really."

I thought, like every other excited cadet dressed in navy blues and white, that this would be the point where everything would change. No more poverty, no more worrying, no more struggles. Little did I know that this is where all the struggling would begin.

And so I entered the building with a smile, with hope.

They. Killed. Me.

"Tell me, Officer. To whom do you belong?"

"The Capitol, Sir."

"And what is your duty?"

"To follow each and every order without question, Sir."

By the time I was out, I couldn't recognize myself. Communication between me and my family in District Two remain minimal, until we finally lost all touch. 

I remained a shell, unable to show any emotion. I was taught that showing emotion made you vulnerable, and that you must never be weak. They cut off my shoulder-length hair and had me buffed up. They turned me into someone II never wanted to be.

And now I earn. A lot.

But I haven't bought one paintbrush, and I haven't been able to form a single stroke of paint. The whole reason I opted to become a peace-keeper, the one thing I was certain I could never lose.

But then I realise that they've taken away this part of me, too.

Theo.