click ⚓ district 12 ⚓ fin

Paper can only be folded eight times -- one, two, three, four, five, six, seven,
eight.
I guess my soul is nothin more than paper. 

One -- for district twelve itself, I guess. Goddamn, the first shot dedicated to the sin of being born in this district, that's pretty bad. Broke and hated by the universe just by daring to be born and it a' creased my soul just by my mother spitting the words Dwight Corduroy into dirty skin like red ink as she picked me up for the first time off the floor of that wooden shack. That must've sucked, huh. That house deserves a shot all on its own for how fuckin tragic that whole mess was. 

Two -- for being born by a Corduroy; my neck cracked as I took the second shot, throwing liquor down my throat in pistol rounds. My mother bore tha name since birth, with Corduroy pale skin and brown hair and that's all I fuckin got from her. And I never knew my father personally -- just that my mother loved to hate him; loved to hate in general and if that ain't mother like son there. Everything I ever heard is that that man was nothing more than a thief, and a cunt for forcing my asshole self into existence. Sometimes I swear I'd shoot him myself; apparently, I look just like him. A face my mom could never quite burn off and just like me, I'm still around hanging in shot glasses.

My mother couldn't look me in the eyes, couldn't bear my name any more than she had to. 

And I can't blame myself for it, but I can't blame her either. 

Three -- for every goddamn orphanage out there, am I right. The whole thing with poverty and district twelve and well, me, is that it never could really hold me in its hands kindly; street fights and public whippings. I think if Al didn't adopt my ass then I probably would've been executed by now; like father like son eh. My mother drew a knife on me, thirteen years old and scrawny and she sworn in my skin alone that if I ever came back she'd avox me -- and fuck if that ain't enough to have me on my feet-

"Take it easy, Click," the bartender and I make eye contact, "don't drink all my shit in one day."

I order another shot. 

Four -- for Al, I fuckin guess. For this bar, the regulars, the drug dealer around the corner I don't fuckin know. Al tried hiring me here at first -- working behind the register, a thirteen year old selling alcohol, not shady. There wasn't much of a plan besides that I'd work under him until money went dry, which it did, and then he'd cut my ass. Which he did. He sat me down and put his hand real tight like on my shoulder and said, "Dwight,"

"Now, Mr. Al, you know I don't like that name-"

"Well I don't like what I'm sayin'. I can't pay ya anymore," and it kinda just went like that. Said it broke that old disease-ridden heart, that letting me go was this, tough, decision, bunch of sappy filler text you know. Really tried to suck it up to me, but I saw that shit comin the entire time. But he still let me sleep at his house, which was chill, and got me started in the pit which was, something. So Al didn't really kill me off, which was kinda cool I guess. 

Five -- for the fight club, oh yeah. I take a shot from Al, the clicking of another busted glass hitting the wooden counter ringing in my ears -- "I'm a'serious, Click, take it easy." 

Nice. 

Folded and creased along ya soul makes the fight club sound easy, something pretty and calming and healing. Beat and blistered and burned as a profession, fuck I'd need more than a single shot for that, you never really grow into it. Getting your ass kicked for seven years -- can't that stunt growth? Maybe that's why I'm so fuckin short. Click got started in the pit though, something about when I told them about my father got shot -- it's chill. A short story: that man murdered somebody and got executed, I watched and didn't really feel anything. Not anything compared to what I feel in the fuckin pit -- I've been doing this shit for six damn years. Pretty sure I'm the oldest cunt still doing this, most of them die out, go into the mines or something by now.

But good ole Click, still drinking and dying and all those things. There's a bloodstain on the hall of fame with my motherfuckin name on it.

I'm kinda a big deal.

Six -- for the fight club boys. A shot for each and every goddamn one of them; I've kicked their asses so many times, it's hard not to hate them. Myself and them, we've never really been close, we're like office friends. The only one I was ever soft for was Nori, who I had to fuckin drag in there to begin with. Bad family, bad past -- he was my first real brother, y'know? Like, there's the people you're born with: a mother who hates you, a father who's a dead cunt. And then there's the one you choose and I've always come back to choosing him somehow; I mean, I saved his ass. 

He looked up to me and everything, and it was kinda cute I guess. We dyed our hair together with food coloring and fucked it up to hell, we mixed our blood together and kicked each other's asses in the pit. That fucking cunt could've given me some weird disease for all I know. 

Goddamn.  

Seven -- for whatever the fuck that was. This, is. For instability, for bad coping mechanisms and for wasting out on your fucking life. For killing your childhood. For watching your mother's rapist get shot in public and for getting whipped on that same platform. For fight clubs and strip clubs; for brown eyes and brown hair and Al's cathartic eyes. For his broken couch and vodka and hennessy and praying your liver will give out at twenty.

A crease, a fold, a shot -- for praying. 

Eight -- for fucking it up.

I slam the shot glass on the counter, "the fuck do you mean get out?"

"I said get the fuck out of my damn bar, Dwight -- I ain't kill no goddamn minors-"

Fire burns my throat, a night of shots and being fucking stupid. Nori's not a drunk, no matter how many times I tried, he always knew limits and it was kinda impressive. A little bitch like me never knew when to quit; I guess I still don't. I slam the bar stool to the ground as I get up, clutching and throwing the door to the bar shut as Al yells out something close to "and learn something fucking manners," but who cares about it.

My face is flushed, district twelve never really sleeps. There's no time to. Coal workers work late, sellers and gamblers stay up, I rub the whites of my eyes. Nori laughs at some bullshit I said - his hair color all fucked up. I laughed, two years ago and the echo still flickers in my head like starry nights and I hate it, I hate it, I hate it I don't know why I can't stop and Nori had a busted ass face. Bruised just like mine and a weird grin and Al's friends in the dining room laughed at something and drank it down and I stared at Nori.

I really fucking tried it huh.

Grabbed his shirt, kissed him like I paid for his time that night and grabbed between the thighs just the same -- I really tried it. He broke my nose fucking crooked and ran out, told me to shoot myself like my dad.

I think if I were paper, I'd be dead by now.

[ firestorm ]