Reyes Calvo | District Eight | FIN

Long live the pioneers
Rebels and mutineers
Go forth and have no fear
Come close and lend an ear

”You’re the only one not smiling, Reyes.”

The line of faces, the odd one out as clear as the light of day. I have seen it knocked over before, maybe an accident or forgotten after a spring clean. Personally, I would lock up the picture in a drawer. Just as he would; I am the unwanted burden, like a pimple etched onto his cheek. No matter how hard he squeezes, I will never burst. A problem that is in full view of the world, I am going to make it impossible for him to ever hide me away. He chose to adopt this mess; he may as well have me displayed in his trophy cabinet.

I started life as thrown away trash; I don’t want it to continue that way.

Passed onto my aunt, a mother who lost her will and a father that didn’t even bother printing his name on my birth certificate, really…a great start. Just after one year of being with me, my mother gave me one look and that was her farewell. No visits, no letters, I have only the photographs stashed by my aunt, nothing of my father.

There were times where I would picture the three of us, a normal family. It didn’t have to be a happy one, just a functional one but of course I couldn’t even get that. It is all burnt away now. Throwing a life away, all because of a dream. They tell me to go searching for them, if they wanted to see my face again, they would have at least left clues. I have fought on for so long on my own, I am not letting anyone interfere from now. I am free to work my own agenda, even under the roof my uncle’s much loved abode. A time will come when my name will be on the deeds and the keys in my hand. This is my life to rule.

I am the only thing close to a son for my uncle, three daughters and me. As soon as I could hold a knife and fork, he had me in his workshop. Nice try Uncle Tom. So many days spent restrained, fixing shoes. A repetitive life that went on and on; there is never an exciting day for a cobbler, no wonder my uncle always carries a frown. Broken soles and scuffed toes, I equip the feet of District Eight but I see no prize in sight. A life cooped up in the same room, day after day. I’d rather spend the night in the detention centre.

So my days spent working with him has grown limited. His comeback is locking the door on a night when I have not arrived home yet. Too bad for him, sofa surfing has become a much loved pass time. A bag on my back, which is all I need to carry to get through life. Just there is a problem finding resources to fill it up. It is surprising how many underground criminal operations one finds while wandering District Eight in the night. Thieves and dealers, always occupying the corners of dark streets, one or two run ins with the type but their way of life is not for me.

Smuggling, the use for the bag on my back. It is surprising how many little items need to get across the District, out of sight of those in the white armour. Flung across the fence and far away from this dump, if only I could be one of those objects; smuggled out of view.

So many names are engraved into my mind, contacts that I can rely on but I will never call them a friend. It is not safe to get close to those that could easily stab a knife into my back. Endeavours have lead me into the beds of others. Even a Rasoio girl, I think her name was Dolores. Guided into the home of one of the most notorious families, warmth from their heaters and the comfort of one their daughter’s beds. I couldn’t leave without a souvenir. Valuables quietly swiped away as I crept down the stairs before the sun had even crawled across the sky. Really I call it one of my greatest achievements; they haven’t even gotten onto my back about it. I am still carrying goods across the District for the damned family.

I don’t tie myself to just one job, there is nobody I can call a boss, I am my own free agent.

One day of the year, my aunt always has me dress in the most ridiculously fancy outfit, just for one photograph. Seventeen of them, documents of my life so far. Little changes over the years but I always kept the grey eyes and dark hair. Food isn’t always stacked high on our plates, it is reflected onto my body. Just like everyone else, the hunger is projected onto my skinny legs and visible ribs. I don’t let it worry me.

Even the birthmark so kindly printed on my chin. Probably left behind by my father, his only contribution to my life, other than creating it. Despite living in the District Wardrobe, my attire is always the same. Grey shirts and dark trousers, my camouflage in the night.

It is all fun and games until all the doors are locked. Nights spent wandering, winters spent scavenging for warmth. So many nights spent on the doorstep, a bottle of whiskey and a cigarette as company. Keeping warm from the smoke and infecting my insides with its poison. So this is my other option then. To fix shoes or to explore the night?

”You are going to end up in the detention centre. Why can’t you just stay at home?”

A key to the world but I don’t know which lock it goes with. Everything is balancing on the edge; I wonder who will be the one to push it over.