Aeric Sylabowe // d1 // [fin]

aeric sylabowe | eighteen | male | district 1 | probably something else I could say but ???

"Aeric, you're going to grow up to be a Victor one day."

That was the second lie my mother ever told me. The first?

"I love you, Aeric."

Luckily for me, I've never needed her love, nor her reassurances of Victorship. If I had a choice I would completely write her out of my life. But my Dad says she comes with a dowry he couldn't and still cannot refuse. So I'm stuck with her and every one of her delusional dreams she has for me. ("Put a Victor's crown atop that flaming hair of your's and voilà!") And though I would indeed enjoy holding that title—Victor Aeric Sylabowe of District 1—I know that her wishes for me only exist because of her incessant need to be in the spotlight. And if she can't get it herself, who better than her son to get it for her?

I shouldn't complain too much though. My mother has her perks. For example, I can have most anything I want. Money, money, money is the only thing my family seems to have. That and a reputation for crafting and selling the most expensive cologne products in all of Panem. That is the only thing my father brings to the table: a business. That's why they were married in the first place. Each set of my grandparents had agreed to it a long time ago, striking a deal that would tie old money to new money. It was an arrangement that would eventually create a son—me.

That's part of why my mother is so eager to marry me off. ("Oh sweetheart it worked out so well for your father and I—don't you see?") A loveless marriage? A kid for a trophy? ("I don't want an arranged marriage.") But the protest fell on deaf ears every time. My Mom, my grandparents, aunts, uncles—not even Dad would hear my plea. And thus, yet another decision was made for me, without my consent, without my well-being in mind. It seemed the old-fashioned tradition would stand and I would be marrying a girl for her family's power and money. Only in District 1.

Ever since I was old enough to start training, that's what I was doing. Before that, I had been sitting on my Dad's lap, learning the ways of business. But in Panem it doesn't matter much how successful you are in the realm of business and economics. The only real fortune stems from victorship and the Hunger Games. So as soon as I was able my mother scooped me away from budgets and management and tossed me a knife and tar. ("You're lucky you inherited my strength and not your father's. You're already pretty unlucky getting that red hair and face full of freckles.") And perhaps she's right; Dad was never really coordinated. Even after 6 years of rigorous training, I've only managed to become a mediocre Career, much to my mother's dismay. I much prefer... other activities.

We let them call it what they like. I've heard some refer to it as, 'The Pit.' Others call it 'Syllabic,' to honor that I am the owner. But I simply call it as it is---Fun. I am the proud owner of an underground fight club, my own little slice of rebellion. Me and a couple of friends started it in the hopes that we could find sparring partners hardened by street fighting rather than Career training. ("Learning to play dirty will up our game.") But for me, it has turned into a business. I make money off the bets and reel in new fighters off the streets using the same lure as the Hunger Games—GLORY! It doesn't take much to convince the street rats to join in. A big, rich, powerful guy like me makes a pretty convincing argument to orphaned kids and homeless scum.

It's something I've made for myself, something my parents can't take or control, and something I can say I'm actually proud of. The money I've earned is proof that I can do anything I set my mind to, and the fighters that keep coming back remind me that I've got a real talent for addiction. The gambling, the limited amount of alcohol I can fit into my budget, the cage I invested in as a new platform for the fights, the scheduling, security system, and of course the fighters—all me. Of course keeping my parents off my back has been difficult, especially when I wake up with bags under my eyes and the smell of alcohol lingering in my hair, but I can manage. I'll always have the time to invest in my own freedom.

I'd like to be able to say that it wasn't always like this, but it would be a lie. My parents have never been good parents; their son has never been a good son. It's only what's expected. But I've never been any good at shaking free of my mother's ruby-red claws. The fight club has been my only real success. Other than that, I can't think of a single instance in which I got what I wanted. No matter how many times I pick a fight with my mother, no matter how hard I try to beat her, she always wins. Doesn't stop me from trying to ruin her day or her plans every chance I get though.

But I still leave the house with a tie when I'm told, walk the streets in a freshly pressed suit and shined shoes. Because I don't mind the luxury; I love it. What can you expect of a kid whose father creates cologne fragrances? Style is one thing I don't fight my mother on; fashion and appearances have always been right up her alley. And I've never agreed more. Because I do want to take over my Dad's business someday. Or become a Victor.

But I'll do it on my own terms, not their's.