Aeron Calixtus Bonher | District Seven | FIN

"What the fuck are ya lookin' at?" Your voice plays like a ping pong ball through the lightened alleyway of the night. Behind a trashcan sits a dirtied kid and despite the fact that you're engulfing a loaf of bread bigger than your arm, you don't offer any; you figure that natural selection will take its place in him sooner or later. 

However, when you shout, you don't shout softly; you roar  r o a r  r o a r  like a lion into dark oblivion. The boy jumps and you make a sound resembling a chuckle as you saunter off into some shadow around the corner. How pathetic of that boy to have lost the game of life so early.  

Pathetic. P-a-t-h-e-t-i-c. Pathetic.

P  a  t  h  e  t  i  c  . 


You walk away from his issues, from his world, and try not to relate him to yourself. However, when the shattering of a bottle and the tink tink t i n k of fallen trash abruptly enter your ears you can only hope that it wasn't him trying to make a comeback, that it wasn't him trying to get himself killed. 

You pretend not to know. 

Those fuckin' kids betta leave me th' hell alone or I'll givem a pieca my mind. They oughtta know betta by now.

But despite your cruel words and hopes of it simply being a stray cat, when you turn around, the child you had mistaken for gruel not even a minute ago now stands a mere six feet away. This time. you don't think twice before tearing off a sweet, sweet portion of your bread and throwing it at the damned kid like slop. 

That oughtta hold 'im over.

It doesn't. Instead, he charges at you, a face full of rabid intent and fingernails sharpened like the claws of a bear. He's making such a big mistake right now and you hope that he know's this. You dearly, dearly hope that he knows this. All the while, you don't hesitate to pull out your axe from the dingy backpack you carry around like a burden. After all, he's just a lousy homeless boy, isn't he? Who would be there to mourn him in the morning once he's been gone far too long to matter? You strike him once in the shoulder and he falls falls f a l l s .

Seeing him there, helpless like the baby he is was, fuels something inside of you. As you give him the killing blow, leaving no witnesses to your crime, the only thought that crosses your mind is that this kid could have been you. You reckon that you were smarter than him, that you had to be smarter than him. But deep inside, you know. Every inch of you, every last  c e n t e m e t e r  of your rough and smooth and round exterior seethes as you walk away because that kid could have been you and you  k n o w.

A child is  n  o  t  h  i  n  g  without someone to care for them.

---

Your name is Aeron Calixtus Bonher and you don't know where your mother and father are. All you can remember is falling asleep in your bed, the fresh kiss of your mother still imprinted upon plump pink flesh, and wishing upon the last star of night that you would survive another day. On your legs rest a tan blanket. It's rough like your knees but warm like the arms of your brother on a cold winter's night. 

You try to stand, but your efforts are in vain as you immediately fall and tilt tilt tilt  c r a s h  to the ground like one of the towering trees outside of your house. Tears brim your eyelids like warriors and you're fighting to hold them back because if you lose, you lose  e v e r y t h i n g . So you breathe in and out, in and out.

Why did they leave me? Why don't they love me? Why am I not enough? 

But you weren't strong enough because you were a child and people wonder why children don't fight the wars. You let a single tear slide down your face and you sat in the dirt like a pig because that's what you are. 

A lousy homeless boy who nobody will mourn. 

Now you're wishing on the last star of the night to survive for a different reason. 

---

Your pillow doesn't deserve this kind of torture. Your fists, small in comparison to your large stature restlessly beat beat  b e a t into the fluff that you merely desired for the large majourity of your life. Fingertips roughly wipe your face when you pause, catching stubble like fish in a stream. You resume just as quickly, wishing that the force of your blows could send you into another place, another world, another universe.

You count the throws like dead bodies.

One punch for the girl in District One who everybody will remember simply because her daddy was rich.

Two punches for that boy in District Four who mercilessly killed his sister just so he could attempt to take the honour for his own.

Three punches for that child in District Nine who nobody will remember because he wasn't strong enough to make it past the bloodbath; god bless his soul because you've felt his pain, his blood, his despair. 

You could do this forever but your knuckles are splitting, splitting, splitting down the seams just like your pillow is. Shouldn't the softness have protected you? You shake your head at your own stupidity. Of course, you should be the one to ask about protection. After all, you were  the one who taught yourself the ins and outs of it. You had three simple rules to keep you in your place.

Rule Number One : Always put yourself first.

Rule Number Two : Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer

Rule Number Three : Never be stupid enough to get yourself into that position anyway

If only you weren't such a hypocrite about that third one.

You blame it on human error, the idea that your race, as a whole, is full of flawed thinking and action. While this is true, it does not give excuse for your own stupidity and imperfection. No matter how much you pull at your crisp chocolate hair, or tear at your roughly pale skin, or scratch at your sickly beefed body, you will never be able to punish yourself enough as to make your personality entirely change. 

Frankly, it nauseates you. 

The essence of being able to pretend like you're tough simply because your manly exterior resembles something tough is a concept that always found its way into your mind growing up.

"Aer, go outside with the boys and catch some tadpoles."

"Aer, quit crying; everyone will tease you."

"Aer, get out my face, you're acting like a little bitch."

Every memory you have left of your parents is of them critiquing your personality despite the fact that it had yet to form. Even them abandoning you was a testament to what your appearance gave way to; a stereotype that even the manliest of  f i v e  y e a r  o l d s  didn't need pity.

But of course, you would be over-reacting if you told the truth.

Same brown eyes, same brown hair, same brown jacket, same brown scarf. After all, the world was practically the same brown everything to you. You were like a tree, almost, and if the colour wasn't enough proof, then your elongated legs and spidery fingers certainly were. 

A piece of nature, you had thought to yourself; a piece of nature, you had cried to yourself, because just the mere thought of  b e l o n g i n g  somewhere was enough to reconcile your thoughts into the idea that you were beautiful.

As if beauty ever mattered to you.

1355 WORDS

FIN

Odair