Claire Noe Shim [D5] ~FIN

I used to hate my fucking name. When I was younger, I would wish upon a star that it would change.

Honestly, what the fuck kind of a name for a child who was clearly a boy is 'Claire?' Dad told me plain and simple that he was drunk at my birth and it was up to him to think up the name so here I am, a boy with the name fucking Claire. I don't know if he was so drunk and somehow managed to mistake my dick for a vagina or if he was so drunk and thought giving his only son a girl's name would be a nice bit of fun. Or maybe they just hadn't thought of names for me if I had been a boy, Mom did say that they really, really wanted a girl for their first born. Oh well.

Still, it's rather ironic that my name's Claire when my features tell a completely different story. Short, brown hair sits on my head and shoots in all different directions. It's a real killer trying to get that to have some semblance of uniform and looking nice, too much combing and washing. More often than not I come home reeking of petrol and oil due to my job, not much we can do about that. I swear, I have to spend a solid half hour trying to get out the smell with the stupid bar of soap.

Despite the name Claire, I've always been one of the more developed ones. I was the first one to start growing facial hair and now a brown beard has taken form along my jaw. I suppose that's me trying to overcompensate for my name - I have to prove I'm masculine despite my name or people won't take me seriously. I let it grow out and I never shave it, only men get beards so I suppose it's a good way to prove I'm manly. My Shim genes help in that respect because I shot up like a beanstalk. I stand at a decent six foot exactly, not quite the tallest but I'm up there, that's all I need.

Blue eyes sit in my sockets, surrounded by slightly tanned skin. I spend a lot of time outdoors so it's to be expected. We're not exactly rich but we do all right, I have clothes on my back and some food on my plate. I'm still slim, but I'm not stick thin; I suppose I should be grateful for that at least. Family says I reek of oil when I come back from work, it's an absolute problem - who the fuck wants to smell of oil and petrol all the time? I swear, sometimes I don't even got the whole smell out after a shower either, it's pretty hit and miss.

I need sleep and it's obvious. Bags now hang under my eyes and my movement have grown sluggish. Still, I plaster on my smile and keep working, I don't go to school anymore so that's all I do now - work. I barely have time for anything else anymore, when I'm not working I'm looking after my mother, I barely have time to even go anywhere that's not the oil rig or home, when I do I am lucky and I go to the bar. I need the drink.

Things are so different now.

I used to be so obsessed with trying to prove myself all the time. Had to prove I was a proper man because kids used to take the piss out of my name. 'Claire's a girly name.' I'd hear it far too much, like the repetitive beat of a drum sounding in the corner of my mind. I will never forget, it would follow me do the very last square inch of the classroom and to my bedroom back at home. It quickly went from an annoyance, to a fixation, to a full on obsession and before I knew it, I had to be the manliest man there was. Just to compensate for having a feminine name. My parents said I shouldn't let it get to me but it did.

Before long, I was bringing girl after girl after girl back home. Nights became slurred and lost in constant repetition. I have the repetition of a sleep around; I suppose when it comes to proving myself that's a pretty damn good way to do it. It's funny, all it takes is a confident smile, a pretty face and a couple of whispers and it's surprising how far I can get with a girl. I can't spend my waking hours out and about in the district like that anymore, I have responsibilities now, but when I get the oh so very rare chance I take it. I suppose it's melted from being a simple mask of my masculinity and seeped into my skin to become who I am.

It's funny how that happens, I'm constantly wearing a mask of masculinity and it's slowly and surely melted into my damn face. When my cousins, Luna and Sol, were reaped and killed I didn't cry, or show any kind of mourning at all. I wasn't allowed to. I couldn't even go to Sol's funeral when it happened, I had to work my long hours at the oil rig and no way in hell I could even work up the guts to ask if I could go. The Peacekeepers would never let me be unproductive like that. So, I worked all throughout the funeral day and didn't look back. At school I didn't cry, at work I didn't cry, at home I couldn't even shed a tear. I was always good at shielding myself from tears I suppose, especially when I'm constantly forced to wear this mask.

Besides, I have too much responsibility to show weakness. When I turned seventeen my mother got sick, and I mean sick. She's constantly bed-ridden and can't even think about working, the clinics here are too bad to even dream about helping her. Inadequacy, that's a good descriptor of District Five. I had to work and I mean work hard. I immediately doubled my hours after a month when I realised mine and dad's wages alone would be too inadequate to get by. It happened around the time Sol died, her health (already hanging by a brittle thread) snapped. She was always as fragile as glass - I think the death of another Shim was the final crack. Now I have to care for her, provide for the house and make sure all her needs are met, I owe her that much at least.

Things were different growing up, I didn't have a care in the damn world. When I was a kid I only had to worry about what my dinner would be and people taking the piss out of my girly name. Hell, I didn't even care about school; I was never very good at the numbers and the letters anyway. Despite not being the wealthiest, I indulged myself, drowned in zero responsibilities and girls. Girl after girl after girl, like a cycle. It was all about proving that I was the manliest guy in the school and part of that was picking up girls and boasting about it a day after. I had to don the mask of masculinity (even to this day) and I don't dare take it off. I miss it, I look to the sky and I tell myself that I miss it. Responsibility came in the form of a storm followed by a ton rested against my back.

I swear, my back threatens to break with the sudden weight of this responsibility.

Sometimes, I find myself staring outside of my bedroom window at the stars, silently making wishes that I know won't come true.

I wish she would get better.

I wish I could get more pay.

I wish things were different.

Everyday, I would star at the star studded sky and wish even though dreams are for the deluded and wishes are just false hopes. It used to be so different before, when I was young and dumb. Growing up, I would wish kids that called me girly would die and they my name wasn't Claire anymore. It turns out, when your mother is dying and your father hasn't looked you in the eye for almost a year, there are bigger things to worry about than my fucking name.

Work, show no fear, be a man, help my mother, be a man, don't cry, be a man.

I don't hate my name, I just don't have the energy anymore.