dakota "mastermind" hazeltine // d6 // [fin]

Their feeble attempts at insults do not offend me. Antisocial. An adjective. It is defined as, "Contrary to the laws and customs of society; devoid of or antagonistic to sociable instincts or practices." The fact is, I cannot disagree. By definition, I am antisocial. And thus, the intended insult simply passes over my ears and through my heart without even a beat of pause. I continue to read as their small, barbaric minds attempt to find another word that might phase me. Unfortunately, I am usually disappointed with small words such as, "Nerd!" or "Freak!" The least they could do is entertain me with new vocabulary.

I see you think me a cruel person now; I live inside my own mind and insult natural human behavior to crush the unassuming and defenseless with words such as dimwitted and barbaric. It is the natural order of the world after all. Only the strong survive. And I have never been strong. It is only nature that the strong prey on me - the weak. So I cannot blame them for their piss poor attempts at quips in regards to my behavior. They simply have not evolved as I have.

I had to earn the name Mastermind. It is not a fluke, nor is it some joke used to pick on me. I truly am frighteningly cunning. Nor am I all that modest. It is never been my goal in life to make friends. In all honesty most of the people I encounter would rather bully me than be my friend. It has only been recently that I have been able to find anyone who I believe I can call 'friend.' (Definition: a person whom one knows and with whom one has a bond of mutual affection, typically exclusive of sexual or family relations.) Or at the least someone who does not tease me or hit me until I burst into tears.

I may be methodical and calculating, but even my mind is not strong to overcome simple biological functions such as emotion. Even masterminds weeps. Often I will be sitting up in bed light at night, reading by candle light, and remember my Mom. I will think about my siblings and their strange ways of coping with what we have lost. Where I sit quietly in my room and cry, they are loud and rebellious. I often wonder if I am grieving incorrectly. I hate being incorrect.

Nearly as much as I despise betrayal - of any sort.

Betrayal: to deliver or expose to an enemy by treachery or disloyalty.

I am an orphan and it is because my father is a betrayer.

Once upon a time their was a happy family. Mom and Dad had their secrets, a rebellion kept under wraps, but they were honorable people. Citizens that recognized the cruelty of our government and decided to act on it. Rebels. Everything was normal, especially for mere children whose minds could not fully comprehend the seriousness of the situation. It was not until years later that even the most perceptive of their 3 children would truly understand. One day, Dad did not return home. And then the next, Mom was not there either. And then there were just 3 children, the youngest no more than 4 years of age. And they were alone. And their parents were dead.

I know things now that I did not know then. I know how to tie shoe laces. I know that when someone smiles it does not always mean they are happy. I know that wearing mismatching socks will get you bullied. I know that our government runs under totalitarian guidelines and that what my parents were doing clearly was the correct path, if poorly planned out. And I know my father gave up my mother when he was captured. I know he was a coward; I did not even get to tell them goodbye.

Or that I loved them.

But that is no matter, not anymore. I was only 4 years old when they died. I have grown up without them. I have never needed them. And still I cry for them in the late hours of the night? Why? Ten years later an I am more mature than my elder siblings. Ten years later and I am smarter than nearly everyone in Panem. Ten years later and nearly every memory of my past life has been forgotten. Ten years later and I am still an orphan. And now that I am older, stronger, and wiser, there is no one to stop me from using my mind to exact revenge for those too weak or scared to do so.

---

"I would rather my enemy's sword pierce my heart than my friend's dagger stab me in the back."

---

I hear him stumble, fall. He gets back up, stumbles. One heavy step after the other, crawling up until he is fumbling at the door and letting himself in. My candle flickers as a draft rolls through the room. He says nothing; I say nothing. He falls into bed, the bed springs creak and groan beneath his weight. I shift my weight and my own bed frame mimics the creaking, squeaking. I ignore. My roommate is nothing more than a harmless drunk; no need to disturb him as he blacks out.

I turn the page of my book, the page silent as it falls against what I have already read. My head aches but my eyes keep scanning the words, sentences, paragraphs, page after page. I read until it seems the letters are crawling off the pages. Sleep, sleep, sleep, but the sun is rising. I blink the sleep from my eyes only to find the photo sitting in my lap, clasped between my fingers. I push my reading glasses up on my nose. We are all smiling, so big, so fake. A family photo, something to fend off suspicion as guests entered the house.

I do not know how this photo got in my hands, nor do I remember the day this photo was taken or the sound of Mom's voice. Her last words to me were, "Go to sleep, darling." And that was all. Go to sleep and she would return. Go to sleep and never wake up from your dreams because there is nothing left for me in the waking world. My blonde hair looks blonder in the photo. My blues eyes bluer, my teeth brighter, my dress ironed, my shoes shinier, my face cleaner. I look nothing like myself sitting in Dad's lap and holding Mom's hand. It is not me. Not now.

It is now as I hear Astley's soft, steady breathing and the sun crawls across my lap that I let tears slip down my face. I do not try to stop them or hinder them. There is no point in trying; I will cry until I have no tears left. And then I will brush my hair with my fingers, pull out the knots. Change into new clothes, something cleaner than what I went to bed in. I will glance at my reflection in the mirror, rub my eyes until the bags and redness disappear. Grab a book. Walk downstairs. I will read until dawn. I will let the tears fall, fall, fall.

Repeat.