[Ready] James Howard, District Two

[Ready] James Howard, District Two Nov 22, 2014 22:08:47 GMT -5

Post by Anatra on Nov 22, 2014 22:08:47 GMT -5

James Michael Howard

District Two

James Howard

18 / M / Odair

Why this sudden restlessness, this confusion?
(How serious people’s faces have become.)
Why are the streets and squares emptying so rapidly,
everyone going home so lost in thought?

Because night has fallen and the barbarians haven’t come.
And some of our men just in from the border say
there are no barbarians any longer.

Now what’s going to happen to us without barbarians?
Those people were a kind of solution.

That is my favourite poem. It's the only one I know. My father taught me it, and I remember each word so that I can never be caught with it. It's propaganda. It tarnishes everything the Capitol stands for. Their system; their justice. I wouldn't ever declare myself a rebel, I am nothing of the sort. I just like to think I have the fortitude to know better than the sheep that surround me sometimes. I've learned the hard way what it means to be a District-dweller, the rest of us just endure. I have seen.

Appearance

I am around six foot one and I can safely assure myself that I am a little larger than the common man. Of course I discount the careers that excell ahead of me in training, but I would be wearily modest to believe I am not strong looking. I have a short haircut, almost military in appearance, and the blackness of it is often something I like because it can make me seem a little tougher than others. I'm quite a hygiene freak. I am clean, and I keep it that way with a reluctant system. I wash my hands twice, even after a shower. My face is smooth despite quite a youthful stubble, and I shave a little slit into my right brow's far edge.

I dress athletically. I'm a career. I train with weapons, so I have to wear practical clothing. There's nothing in my wardrobe that I can't run in, or anything that would particularly slow me down if I needed to be fast. Not that you need to be fast here. My father paid for a tattoo that now sits on my left bicep. It's a tribal looking thing and I admire it greatly; it's my only memory of the man besides an old photograph that is barely representative of him. Because of the training he helped me with, I have become quite a tough young man. I usually get called a giant because of my height, but that's only by people who actually like me.

Personality

The name 'James' may not be the most noble, most heroic or insanely violent name in the world, but I can assure anybody who questions it that I have lived up to those titles before. Insane violence; I managed to throw myself at another guy on the street because he was going to attack somebody else. Obviously I didn't get away with that kind of behaviour, but it just shows how quickly my temper can flick, and my fists can fly. I don't even like that part of me, I wish it would keep at bay.
It never does.

The one thing people have called me is loyal, that's the best thing I could ever say about myself. I know that it is true, deep down. I don't ever voice it because that makes people question it. It is up to them to believe it. I am though, and I know because of my father. He was a great man, and I didn't notice until he was gone how much I actually stayed by his side. Every waking hour of every blinking day, and I never once questioned that. It was my job, after all. Be trained, be strong; win the games if I could.

Finally though, I would have to comment on my emotions. I can control them quite well, but once I get wrapped up in drama, or a situation... It gets bad. My head can't ever seem to concentrate when there's more than one or two people arguing, I know this from my parents, when they were around. I think half of it is because of my youth, and the other half is because of my situation. I am eighteen and without parents, trying to live off this district like I even have a chance. Maybe I do, but I don't believe it until I see it.
Like all things.

History

I would go into detail about my life, and glorify every footnote, but that wouldn't ever be truthful. I am truthful, and that trait began with my mother. She was so sweet, but never innocent. That was her choice, because she always took responsibility of what happened in the family. If my dad was aggressive; it was her fault, even according to her. If the food wasn't coming in quick enough from the supply depot, she blamed herself. But the most righteous thing about it was that she never gave up. She was determined among everything else.
I strive every day to be like her. Not only out of comfort for my loss, but also to hopefully be the same kind of person one day; to take responsibility for my actions and to deal with the consequences.

She's gone now. She died when I was fifteen. I didn't have time to say goodbye to her, because she wasn't struck by illness or by a slow injury; she died in a mining accident. 'Unfound' was the cause of death. I don't ever rattle my head with the thought that she would have survived, I've never known anybody to survive a fatal cave in like that. It is also times like that which make me thankful that I took my father's advice and not hers, to be a career.

I didn't have much money, but I did it nonetheless. I wasn't going to be overcame by the fear of the Games. Instead I wanted to embrace them, and to revel in their entertainment. Fighting is my art, and surprisingly, it gives me great pleasure to strike at foes, even if it is only in the training centre. This came from my father. He was a tough man, and one of conviction. He believed that if I was strong, I would survive no matter what. I take this on board every night before I sleep despite his lack of presence. I cherish his memory.

He died horribly. The slowest way, but he demanded it to be so. He knew that I would be taken into some kind of Peacekeeper program, or even a mining program if I was to be left parentless at seventeen. They wouldn't give me a home at that age. He held on for me. He endured, for me. And for that I can't thank him enough. But he said to me on his last day; "Happy birthday, son." His old face, worn by combat and stress, "I am... You are safe." Relieved was what he was.

Now I am on my own. I have a small house, as much as I could pay for with what little my parents left behind. I don't have much, but at least I have myself. My father left me enough items to trade for food until I turn nineteen in a years time. Until then, I train.
And I win.

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