eli darasim {d2} fin

My body was never made to be someone from District Two. My dark brown hair was never groomed or cared for as every day I wake up and leave it as is, sometimes acceptable, sometimes not. I have eyes are the lightest shade of brown I can think of, but still vibrant and bold. However, they're covered up by glasses that circle my eyes. My glasses are an aquamarine, my brother's favorite color, and they make seeing things so much easier. Before I had them, seeing far away was always a challenge. My father tells me if I didn't spend so much time staring at the sun, I wouldn't have this problem, and they wouldn't have to waste money. The sun felt like the one thing that made my day better, that made my life worth it. Even if I don't have to wear them all the time, the guy who I got them from said that the more I wear them the better.

I'm not even close to having a strong build. In fact, compared to many people, I have a rather weak one. My smile does not tell a story of an intimidating, strong, vicious, and bold career from District Two. It tells a story of innocence, someone who wants no part in anything close to fighting, weaponry, yet the majority of jobs here all involve something like that. I don't weigh as much as some of the other males, only weighing about one hundred and ten pounds. Apparently, being 5'7" with that weight is not healthy. I used to have more 'meat on my bones', but the past few years, I've been weighing less and less each time I checked, which wasn't very often. I have a scruffy beard growing, but if it gets to be a hassle to have, I'll make sure it's back to a better length, little enough so it is noticeable but isn't overwhelming.





District Two definitely isn't where I belong, I don't think I'm anything like the savage people I see roam in and out of the training center each day. Some have a mixture of a nice and vicious side, but others, they are just plain vicious people. That was not who I was meant to be, neither of those types. I'm just a nice kind of guy, nothing more or less it seems. It's never been a goal of mine to be nasty to people, or be sad all the time. It's been proven through the games that not everybody has the same length of time in life, and if you pity yourself for foolish reasons, you're just wasting time. Putting a smile on my face, even if I don't have to, makes me feel as if I'm living life better than others who struggle over silly things. I always pull off a half happy and half confused when someone bothers to do something nice for me. It makes me feel wanted, and feeling wanted is something that I have never taken for granted.

I'm definitely not outgoing, by any means. I keep to myself most of the time, only speaking if I'm asked to, and even then, it's quiet. People don't talk to me much, and I don't talk to them either. It's a good balance, if I can ignore them, they won't bother me. It's unsaid, but implied. A lot of times, I'm scared to talk to them, if there's something I say they don't understand, they ask what I meant. Explaining things is not my strong suit. When I say something, I just expect others to know what I mean and get on with it without questions. It goes the same for when they speak to me, they have conversations about things I've never heard of, which makes me feel so alienated from them. Chase, my eldest brother, tells me that I should "get with the program".

I'm also very gentle, careful. I watch what I say around everyone, afraid that if I say one thing, it may be perceived as something else and will offend them. I don't mean to, but it just comes out the wrong way, perhaps in the wrong tone of voice, or I jumble my words up and they come out in a wrong order. They still might make sense but not the way I wanted it to. I also have intelligence, much more than my brothers and even my father. They speak like the only thing they've learned through their life is to be bold, brave, and love the smell of blood. They do realize that spending six years waiting for when the time is right along with hundreds of other teens to volunteer is just wasting their life away. Chances are they're never going to kill someone with a sword, watching them without any defense, just laying there. That is what murder is in the games, true murder is watching someone die and enjoying it. Chase and Andy, they want it. Me, I want to avoid it as much as possible.




I hate District Two with a deep passion. I don't belong here. I think I'd feel more at place in District Six, a place where intelligence is put to good use. This place is full of strong and bold trained killers, and I don't want any part of that. Yet here I am, born into a District Two family. I was the final child of Deilia and Benjamin Darasim, with two older brothers. My mother left Benjamin, but the reason why, I have no idea. I was too little to remember, and whenever I ask my brothers what happened, they tell me it's none of my business. Chase is four years older than me, and Alex is nine years older, so there's a pretty big gap between Alex and Chase, and Chase and me. My father took pride in Alex and Chase as they grew up because they were strong boys, definitely better than many. I watched the Games with them every single year. Chase, Alex, and Father were always so excited to see bloodshed, but they were scary to me. My family actually enjoyed murder, watching blood pour out of bodies like fountains.

One day, when I was six or seven, my father asked me if I wanted to train to be a career and go into the games. I stared blankly at him, his red hair and green eyes were definitely intimidating. He wanted a completely honest answer, so I gave it to him. "No, I don't like them," I said to him, and it was safe to say that wasn't the answer he wanted. Alex was already almost done with Reapings, and Chase was eager to get into them. He was more angry then sad as a result of my answer. In fact, he screamed at me to go to my room, he'd talk to me later about it. He never did. I didn't want to talk about it. Just like my brothers, Father was a forceful man, he had to make sure things go his way, and if they don't, he gets angry.

He kept asking me, and I kept giving him the same answer, and each time he yelled at me. He'd tell me to go away, go and do a chore, go hang out with your friends. I'd tell him I'd go to talk with friends, but that's a complete lie. Like I have friends in a place where I can't fit in. It seems impossible. I never talk to people who are like me, people that don't belong in stupid District Two. I'd rather be in a District that isn't cold-blooded and is poor than this... this place full of cold-blooded rich snobs like my brothers.

I'm older now, reaping age, and my father asked me in a last ditch attempt to get me to go to the Training Centre and train to be a career. I screamed at him, "No, stop asking! I hate them!" He got angry, curling his hand into a fist. He punched at me like I'm some kind of toy meant to be broken. He did it again, and two more after that before he finished. He broke my red glasses when he punched, shattering the lenses, allowing cuts to form around my eyes. Father made my face throb that whole day and through the night. I sat in my room, curled up in a ball, trying to hold back tears. I didn't want Chase to listen and make fun of me. My monster of a father already broke me enough that day, and I didn't need anything else to ruin me that day. I lay quietly, humming to the aching pain.

My father made me scrape up enough money to get new glasses, and they're pretty expensive. He barely spoke to me, and if he did, it was to command me to leave the house or do a chore. I am afraid of him, so I do what he tells me to without question, without answer. Chase liked to mimic my sighing of boredom as I cleaned whatever had to be cleaned. He's just like Father, and I hate him just as much because of it. They're both so snobbish, whining when they don't get their way. I try my hardest not to complain. Sometimes you have to put on your fakest but happiest face you can and move on. I always tell myself to think of people who only get to live hours, seconds. Chase says that living is the best part of life, yet he tries to hard to get a chance to fight in Games that give you a 4.17 chance at survival to start.

Once, at fourteen, Father ordered me to go to the Training Centre to train, and I did as he asked because his eyes looked like he was ready to stab me if I said no. I walked outside and towards the Centre, but once my family's home was out of sight, I hid away for an hour. And when I came back, I was greeted by my brother telling me to wait up. I tried to get in quickly to ignore him, but he grabbed my shoulder and asked me where I was as he didn't see me in the Training Centre. I shrugged, opening the door. Father's angered eyes greeted me. Chase said I wasn't there, and Father pulled me in and kicked me straight in the stomach. Eli, you know I hate when you lie to me. His voice seemed dark, as always, but his evil laugh was what really got me scared. He gently put his hand to my cheek me, telling me never to lie to him again. He was vicious, and he wanted to carry the viciousness down to his children, and they keep it going. I hate him for that. He slapped me with strength, and a buzzing rang in my ears, allowing me to get through my father's lectures. He helped me walk to my room, pushing me along, slamming the door.

How dare you treat your own kid like that, Father. Harming your own flesh and blood.
I guess I know why Mom left.
Damnit Mother why didn't you take me with you.

I let all my weight flop onto my bed, and cried. I never wanted to see Father's red hair again unless it was in a coffin. I don't want to see the constant reminder that my father's abusiveness has been passed down. I don't want to see my brothers training their kids to be like them. They're monsters, and monsters hate to have their victims run away in fear, they want to keep scaring their victim.

My Father never let me officially leave home without knowing where I was going. He'd always ask me what I was doing, and why I was doing it. He was acting like I was a prisoner of war, worse than they are. Now, unless I'm doing chores, I stay in my room, curling up in a half ball, trying to avoid life as much as possible. They're crazy, just... wait until you're nineteen, you can stay out of their lives forever. Like Father will let me leave. You can find your mother. She'll think I'm just as crazy as them.

Do you see what District Two has done to my family? Has done to me?

It has the rest of my family thinking the Games are the best thing in Panem.

It turned my Father into an abuser.

It ran my mother away before I could say Mom.

It made my brothers vicious, and ready to hate me.

It made me a punching bag. They can not fully break me, but they leave cuts from claws, bruises from knuckles, and a whole lot of pain.