verne perch | district four | fin

Human beings in a mob
What's a mob to a king?
What's a king to a god?
What's a god to a non-believer?
Who don't believe in anything?

They say the opposite of fragility is strength. And it's not. Whoever said that is a fucking idiot. I would know. The opposite of fragility is anti-fragility – the ability to never break. Hell, even muscles have to be broken down, atom by atom, bit by bit, to grow back stronger. That is what my parents did to me. They broke us down and trained us – severed every atom, every tendon, every fiber of us – only to build us back stronger than we would have been had we stayed whole. And they made us perfect.

You’re not the only one who’s killed a forest full of trees in a vain attempt to get the words just right. You think you are. You think you’re the only one who has trouble finding the words when all you’ve learned to do fight. You think you are the only one who is special. But you aren’t. That’s the harsh truth. The black and white of it all. The grey areas don’t exist here.

You wake up, train, eat, train, study, train, sleep. And do it all again. For years and years until you are eligible. The highest gift of all. Our father is a swimmer, our mother a warrior. My older sister Perle is a bitch, but she is also the strongest person I know (well, save for our mother). She can really throw some good punches if you aren’t focusing. Her twin, my older brother Cutter, he’s a fucking piece of work. That whole thing I said earlier about being broken down and crafted into gods? Yeah, Cutter takes that as some sort of religious duty. Its fucking scripture to him.

Me? I’m the baby – but you should never, ever discount a Perch. We grew up with the beach, the waves, the endless crashing of water. If the arena for the next games is an island, you know that someone from our family is going to volunteer the moment even one syllable leaves the mouths of whomever the Capitol has thrown at us this year. Water. Check. We're there and we will be victorious. Or else. Because what do you do if you aren't Reaped and you wash up (pun intended) in the District Square with no skills to your name other than fighting? That's not a fucking future. You might as well put yourself out of your misery right there, lest the Perch family have to explain you away as a failure.

If you could choose your family, I'm not quite sure I would have chosen mine. They aren't bad people, you know? They're just different. I look like the perfect blend of my mother and father. I am tall, lean, and muscular. My hair is as dark as the night sky and my eyes are pools of onyx.

I smoke, which my mother would beat me for. But its relaxing. My friends and I walk down to the water's edge and the salt and the nicotine just feel right. We smoke cigarettes and then we race each other in the waves crashing on the shore. I'm fast on land, but faster in water. I was bred for it, you see. I'm usually second or third in these races, but I'm gaining on everyone. I'm getting stronger. Maybe the cigarettes aren't working and maybe I should watch out for an addiction forming - are there any cigarettes in the games? Can you get a care package sent to you? How badass would that be. Lighting up on screen for all of Panem to see. But that's dumb - forget I said anything. The light from the ember would attract enemies.


I'm just like any normal teenage - except totally different. We are gods. We were born from gods and we were made into gods. We're better.

Tears on the mausoleum floor
Blood stains the Coliseum doors
Lies on the lips of a priest