Walter Blake | District 6 | FIN

It's just the boy and the shadows that surround him.

How to navigate through life, without a map: that is what he has had to done all of his life. Even when the person who was meant to guide him through the introduction of life was around, he still didn’t know where to go. His only choice is to ask directions, directions from the odd stranger. One day he’ll be taking one path, the other he’ll be sent down another. But strangers cannot be relied on, they’ll send him in a dangerous direction or worse, straight back to the beginning. If he could change it, he would but it is just Walter Blake versus the world.

A mirror of his father, which is what his mother always used to say. There were never any photos of him, so he just took her word for it. Brown eyes, nothing like the green of his mother’s and a hair colour to match. There was nothing he could see in himself that he could see in his mother, not a single feature was symmetrical to hers, and it was always something that outsiders commented on. Strangers to him but acquaintances of his late father.

”You do look a lot like your dad you know, same eyes, and that very distinctive nose.”

He is small, for a boy of his age; it helps him hide amongst the shadows though. Traveling without a guide can risky but when nobody notices you, that risk is weakened. Being underfed has contributed to his slim figure but as a part of Walter’s ideology ”You can’t get the best of both worlds.” His clothes are provided by those who he seeks directions from and due to his lack of growth, some of the garments he wears are what his mother created all those years ago. And mother created other things for him too, permanent things…

It was never her fault, That’s how he defeats the grief and reminiscence of the trauma she put him through. Scars from boiling pans and puncture wounds from a variety of sharp objects. It wasn’t her, it was the drugs. He doesn't blame anyone, not even the one who provided her with the substance.

Shit just happens.

Wise beyond his years, it’s not his fault he’s like that, a street smart trait had to be uploaded; otherwise he wouldn’t have survived as long as he has done. Even before his mother perished, ninety percent of the time, he had to take care of himself. Acquiring his own food and cooking his own meals, cleaning his clothes and tucking himself into bed. If it weren’t for the laws and his yearning for human contact, he’d be taking care of himself right now, under his own roof. A thirteen year old kid, like Walter Blake, as unlikely as it seems; could easily manage his own house.

Time spent alone, meant time spent in the company of books. Knowledge is the key to survival, which is how he has lasted so long. Other than tricking those who he asks directions for with a few clever facts, his knowledge has helped him bargain for things; drug dealers in particular. It is funny how someone who deals in items is unable to solve simple equations, regarding the weights and quantities of the products that they deal with. Knowledge has been the thing that he has shared for food, shelter, even more knowledge and of course, directions.

Walter has had to discipline himself; his mother could never be bothered to dress him so disciplining him was definitely out of the equation. His way of abiding by the rules does not really coincide with the laws of Panem, he has his own laws and he doesn’t break them. Laws of the drug trade that he has somehow managed to get involved in, despite promising himself never to use the substance. He has ten laws for himself, ten rules that he must always abide by.

1.Read at least two different books a week.
2.Never get addicted to something that could kill you.
3.Don’t run away from a fight.
4.Don’t harm anyone, if they haven’t harmed you.
5.Don’t cry in front of the enemy. (Or at all for that matter).
6.Listen to those who give you directions.
7.Make conversation with three different people every day.
8.Remember to put on pants in the morning.
9.Don’t let people be rude to you.
10.Never be alone, have someone near you, even if they’re not in the same room.

It was just him and his mother at the beginning, well, just him a part of his mother. The earliest memory that he can remember is playing out on the streets until the daylight vanished, returning home to a silent house; even though he knew his mother was present inside of it. Some days were good with her, some days were bad. She would blame him for it all, ”You made me like this, you were a mistake!” But he’d just tell himself that it wasn’t the truth, it was just the drugs talking.

Sometimes she’d take him, to the drug den where she got the supply; he’d be passed around dirty hands while she injected herself. Strangers with veins full of the poison, in charge of an infant that wasn’t there’s. It was like a second home, an unlikely second home for him. Friends with junkies, they were his only ones when he grew older. The friends he played with on the streets dwindled and he only had his mother’s acquaintances to rely on for conversations. That is why he has rule number seven; he needs new people to talk too, people who he can relate too. Because he really can’t relate to someone under the influence and likely to forget they even had a conversation with him.

He made conversation with the kids in his school but when they noticed the scars inflicted by his mother, they began to turn away and that is how he got addicted to books. Disclaimer to rule number two: books cannot kill you.

He can’t remember a single conversation he had with his mother.

Ten years old, returning home from school, to find her lifeless in the kitchen. Officially alone and not a single guardian to lead him in the journey of life; he grieved but he knew he had nobody to protect him and an orphanage was not a place for him.

The only other people that ever looked after him were the dealers. They took care of his mother, so why couldn’t they take care of him? He traded his knowledge for a bedroom. Appointed to the door of the drug den, letting those in with the password and turning those away without it; he worked to survive but he doesn’t complain. That is what everyone does, isn’t it?

How could he even complain?

He is not on the streets; he is not hungry, cold or dying from boredom. And most importantly, he is not alone.