pluto rosenthal // district 12 // {fin}

Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Feb 5, 2017 12:00:16 GMT -5

PLUTO ROSENTHAL
DISTRICT 12

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{Trigger warnings: mentions of abortion} 

He never had it oppressive.

His family was stationed in this district ever since the dawning of it. They were aloof individuals, keeping their family as small as possible. Most blurry faces ridicule them as ‘selfish, icy and excessively cruel of heart’ and to be frank, sometimes, he stands with their statements of mockeries. Most of their first names were not acknowledged—their surnames are the most elaborated ones. District 12 resided in the outskirts of civilization. The night air, although cool, is painfully dry and parched. The entirety of the district is veiled with a blanket of silence the moment stars begin their twinkling; there are no sources of light in the midnight hours for electricity is a luxury the district could afford for barely a few hours. Most structures have grimes and soot, dilapidated by time and the harsh climate. Pedestrians walk on strained asphalt roads to head their scheduled works. The stench of mine chemicals and dust hangs thick in the surroundings.

The Seam has it the worst. Doors of the broken-down huts and cottages hang by a few threads and windows hang in an attempt to cover the eyes of each and every abandoned home. The residents there are perishing from poverty—a torment happening in the speed of a glacier. Even within such poor living conditions, the name ‘Rosenthal’ is treated as a popular subject. It is the name passed down from his ancestors—there were numerous Rosenthals in all decades. Rosenthals existed in their family mansion, built on rich grounds of District 12—rich as in “not horrendously poor.” It was in the merchant section of the district where most trades between districts and the Capital takes place. Rosenthals were—fairly—known to be a family of skills too. They had thrived thanks to their knowledge of the earth and the natural materials found in the rocky landscape of District 12. A precious, rare rock being sold could last them a mere month. He had never known that his parents occasionally redecorated regular coals and auditioned them as precious rocks in times of urgency and need. Merchants always trusted the words from a family of rock specialists.

Pluto Rosenthal, his name is to represent the Lord of The Underworld and all precious metals. During starry nights, as his mother combs his golden locks, she would always murmur of his name and the details of it. She would weave stories of the god Pluto and sculpture him into this model of strength, wealth and power in his mind. A mother’s words are excessively persuasive, the idea was nailed in his head after mere weeks of folklores, fictional battles, rich feasts and mentions of rocks which scintillated rays of gold. His clear, pastel blue optics would be still each and every time she blended the stories with her melodious, warm voice. A mother’s voice is always welcoming and comforting. He would fall asleep afterwards and wake up into his bed the morning after.

These late night stories had engineered some portions of his life-route. The daily combing to his blonde head had smoothened the locks of it and made its feeling similar to a woolen textile when touched. The two orbs of blue learnt to adjust to the darkness of District 12—his mother’s favorite place for storytelling was under the luminosity of the moon. He would peak out of the dark abyss as she cooed syllables, ears receiving the words but eyes searching in the shadows in hopes of catching something out from the stories. A child’s mind is as adolescent as the spring—the dawning of new flora and fauna life, the return of solace through the sun’s rays and the most pleasant of all seasons. It had become more youthful and imaginative through the nocturnal storytelling sessions. His pastel digits would reach out into the shadows as he had trailed movements out of the corners of his eyes. He was the Lord of The Underworld, he was told to be the ruler of the branching shadows.

Other children isolated themselves from him for he was known to be a spoiled little infant, drowning in wealth compared to the residents at the Seam. Words would weigh down the air around every time he strolled along the district 12. (“Their family could donate money to the poor people but they donated it on clothes for themselves. Look at him wearing shoes.”. “Spoiled rascal”. “Is he shopping for a gold shirt now? Or a humidifier—if that exists.”) No kid wouldn’t shatter underneath the constant whisperings of others, the indirect comments of mockery and detestation, etc. They would fragmentize. But, whenever he is in a state of dismay and melancholy, he enters the shadows and locks his eyes. The darkness grasps his hands with its delicate yet obsidian digits and settles in another universe where he could raise spikes of sapphires and conjure literal shows of rubies—the universe which his mother manufactured. He doesn’t need other children when he has precious metals who ask about his day, play with him and brings cheer to his world.

Sixteen came and his father anchored him to the same job as his—he addresses it as a geologist. He would work part-time, he says. Talent in this field of occupation was planted in his innards ever since he was received. It was work around their residence mainly and in a few cases, they would take strolls into the wilderness. Fatigue did not come very briskly to his average frame after precisely 6 months of work, which involved collecting rocks after a detailed inspection. And to his advantage, arm muscles protruded and four faint abs layered his torso. The strolls and the journey back home aided his stamina levels. The job was more of an exercise to him. Pluto’s structure was an aid in the job, some rocks were stationed on cliffs and such. In even rarer cases, they would be lined upon rigid stone walls and he had to climb—the reason for the calloused digits. Instant stretching of muscles spiked his height also, he had grown from five feet nine inches to five feet thirteen inches.

However, as brisk as ink tear through a porcelain sheet of paper, fissures began to open up in his world. Father had requested him to go in solitude on a certain day and he had finished for the day, a bucket full of massive pebbles and a variety of rocks—igneous topping the majority of it. Swift, light tread advance towards his home. The grooves were his pick today, populated portions of the District were now lessened with precious rocks and all things related to it. A landscape of normal, worthless pebbles exist now, they had plucked each and every stone of bizarre shape, grotesque color and peculiar touch from the earth of it. An idle trail of smoke came into sight and he accelerated his speed for his house was within his presence. The front door hung open and a slab of fire light stood in the middle of the ajar space. He waddled in, his feet figuratively hovering above the floor for he drew no attention. He had been regarded for his feline and stealthy features—even addressed as ‘ninja’ by his father for quite a moderate amount of time. Only a rattling came from his bucket of rocks as he set them down on the nearest flat, containable surface.

“Mother, Father—I am back—.”

Brain short-circulating can be a symptom of excessive shock which acted as a large impact on the face—a cruel, aching slap or a punch packed with force. For Pluto was not familiar with such happening, he was still for an average amount of seconds with the element of surprise beaming on his tired visage. He was gleeful for arriving at home, he was not prepared to be greeted by their parents doing something which seemed atrocious and logically wrong in sight. Mr. Rosenthal had his dread-struck gaze fixated on Pluto, his digits wrapped around a knife. Mrs. Rosenthal had her back on an armchair, arms on her belly.

He had shouted at his father, voice thunderous and booming, while tackling him to the ground at the same time—floorboards creaking due to the impact. Clenched, steel fist was about to taste the cheeks of his father when the figurine of his mother appeared next to him, quiet sobs and pleads telling him to halt his actions. The remaining day dissolved into a conversation involving a secretive subject. Mother told him it was a tradition—a Rosenthal tradition and a strict rule to be followed. The Rosenthals began with three people. A mother, a father and a daughter. Then, as they perished, precisely three Rosenthals remained. A mother, a father and a son. It appears that three is the maximum of Rosenthals to exist at a certain period. There were no four Rosenthals thriving at the same time. No Rosenthal couple could have two children or more, the rule says. If there were… the consistent bloodline would be broken and the entirety of their family would perish.

Then, mother divulged the vomiting began weeks ago, accompanied by sudden drowsiness. Days later, she began to notice a little bump growing. Now, she carries his sibling inside. An error, a wrong to the family. Days had become harsher and colder; he spends his time musing about the entire subject. If the baby was received, the chain of the Rosenthals will be broken. In the distant, the sound of the Capitol anthem caught his attention.
In his mind, in the deepest chambers of it, a part of him wished that his name would be called in the following games. He can’t be the one to break the Rosenthal tradition, the guilt was already planted in him.

He never had it oppressive. (Not.)
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{x}

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