[82nd] The Reaping - District 10

Every day now, probably for the last week, the same dark grey razor appeared on his bedside table next to a glass of water. And every day, Royce Benstaloe would pick it up and return it to his father’s desk, letting it trim at the walls with each step he took. It was Reaping Day, after all, and his father urged him to look as presentable as possible. Any other time of year, his father surely wouldn’t have cared. Every swipe made the utensil another swipe duller, which made them one step closer to having to buy a new one. His father liked to pinch pennies, and truth be told so did Royce, only when it meant pissing his father off.

He had no thoughts other than defiance for his father. Royce is forgotten until he needs something, despised until he’s being flattered in an attempt to coerce him to do something. Pops described him to his mother behind closed doors as ‘a dog that would not listen for shit.’ They’d never compare Ranger, his brother, to any sort of animal, save maybe a gazelle prancing through the fields with effortless grace.

Truly, he did not know who he hated more: those who treated him like the runt of a litter or the ones who make him appear so. His family and his brother, respectively.

Ranger was everything he wanted to be and more. When a girl called Royce cute, another would call his twin seductive in a way that left them on the edge of their seat. He had the voice of a siren, attracting others to him while Royce had no voice at all. Not like that one, anyway. Royce never gave someone a bad impression, but he never gave a lasting one, either. Every time someone hollered ‘Benstaloe’ from down the hall, Royce would turn his head only to realize they weren’t talking to him, like he hoped they might but instead they walked past him and right to his brother.

Sidekick to the superhero.

Supporting role to the main character.

Mediocre at best to the best.

—

He scratched at his beard in the mirror, he realized one thing about himself that he did better than Ranger.

Defy.

—and grow a better, fuller beard.

Neither of which gained him any respect from his father, who threw a hissy fit toward his youngest son as Royce lightly buttered his bread.

“and you can’t just do one thing, one damn thing that I ask you to? You look like a dumbass. It’s just a beard, it’ll fuckin’ grow back!”

He settled his knife down and began picking apart the slice of bread.

“You’re really starting to remind of your cousin. Take it one step further and you’re gonna be sittin’ on the side of the road with two bottles: one full’a whiskey and another filled to the brim with regrets.”

Pops continued to ramble on about how little acts like these would soon lead Royce down a path of destruction, how good he has it today, and he’d never be able to take it back if he walked away from it all.

Still, Royce remained silent.

He found now that his father failed to realize one thing: Royce Benstaloe would not choose to walk away.

If he had the courage and if a safe opportunity presented itself, he would not walk.

He would run, light on his feet, in endless twists and turns so he could never find his way back.

Don’t walk, Royce. Run.

—

Guilt allowed Royce to make some compromise, though. Instead of being clean-shaven, he took up the outfit his favor laid out on him and his brother’s dresser. A blue and white checkered button-down shirt, khaki pants, brown dress shoes. Surely these were his old clothes, Royce had no reason not to assume it. It was doubtful that his father would make an investment like this for something Royce would only wear one day in his life.

It made him uncomfortable to walk in his father’s old shoes, quite literally. It was his worst nightmare to become his father, and the fact that everything fit in new perfection made him even more uneasy.

Without knocking, his father crept through the doorway to examine him. His father’s eyebrows were waiting down as his eyes squinted, nitpicking for something to disapprove of or correct. Royce’s eyes did everything they could to not look at Pops directly.

His father, now looking away, went back to the dresser and through the tie, which Royce prayed he may have forgotten about, into Royce’s hands.

“Put that on,” he said, now back to his son and pulling Royce’s shirt sleeves down so they didn’t crunch up at his elbow.

“I can’t tie it,” Royce mumbled, hoping that his father would just let it be.

“What?” His father replied, although he was sure that his father heard him.

“I can’t tie it,” he said it again this time a bit louder, “can you tie it for me?”

His father chuckled before complying. Their faces were inches apart as his father played around with the tie around his neck, tightening, loosening over and over. But his father tied it just right, not too loose and not too tight as if he knew that Royce didn’t like it one bit and bothered to care for once.

“You’re a lot more reliant on us than you think,” he said with a sigh. His father’s breath, which had the slightest traces of whiskey on it, brushed up against his face. “You look great, son.”

With two pats on the front of his shoulder, Royce struggled to accept the compliment (one of the first he’d heard in weeks, probably.)

“Just wish you’d shave that scruff off.”

Royce was tempted to, just to prove to his father that it did not take endless praise to earn his son’s obsequiousness but instead just a moment of common decency or two.

He kept it on, however, perhaps as a bargaining chip for when his father dragged him to an event that Royce needed good decorum for a first-impression.

—

With his sleeves rolled back up, he walked alone to the Town Square. He past dried up grass and little scraps or detached leaves blowing through the wind. It was his final Reaping, and after doing this walk for six years, he realized that the stroll had negated its shame for Royce. He no longer felt bad walking there and back once a year. Accepting fate was demanded upon people from the districts since birth, and Royce was no exception.

Still, he was fearful. Those jars and that stage have sweet spots for “R. Benstaloe,” as two of his cousins: one was reaped and the other was so inspired by rage that he needed to take another boy’s place. It could be Ranger or Royce, or one of his many other relatives.

His mind fell elsewhere as the female tribute’s name was being called. It still bugged him that his father gave him a compliment if you could really call it that. Maybe it was a reward for finally following directions. Maybe it was his way of acknowledging Royce’s growing pains and accepting them. Maybe Royce was wrong, and his Pops didn’t hate him after all.

He began to wonder if the bottle of regrets his father was talking about had already begun to overflow.

Maybe-

{“- Benstaloe!”}

He looked upon instinct, hearing his last name but not the first.

The boy to his left nudged his arm, and Royce realized people were looking at him.

For once, Benstaloe caught his ear.

The one time he didn’t hope that they meant him, it was him.

He was reaped.

Walking up to the stage, he looked at the people below. Everyone stared at Royce and the girl beside him. His body shivered from head to toe, and he couldn’t help but let out a scoff filled to the rim with disbelief and displeasure. His laugh attempted to mask a midlife crisis, or perhaps a three-weeks-until-you-die-life crisis. He was nervous, but he would sell his soul to ensure that he didn’t show it. For one hour, he felt as though it would be possible to write the wrongs made over the past eighteen years, yet it took one second for his chances of making things right to crumble.

In the back of the crowd, he saw the one villain he may never be able to defeat. His father, smugly chuckling. He knew what his father was thinking.

{You look like a dumbass with that beard.}

It’s as though he knew.

Maybe— maybe he did know. Maybe this was what he wanted.

Royce Benstaloe fell used and abused once again.

[royce benstaloe accepts his spot as d10m]
trib wall pics: 1 2
Or just about any picture with a beard.