grimsby. capitol (avox). fin.

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TW: Abuse

 I don't remember much of my parents, they died when I was three years old. My uncle never told me how or why they died, and he forbade any newspapers from around the time of their death to be in the house. I didn't understand it, but even as a kid I knew better than to push him on it. I knew better than to push him on anything. Any sign of defiance, and he was ready to beat it out of me. Just like the Capitol would spend the last eight years doing - trying to beat the defiance out of me. It didn't work when he tried it and it won't work for them either.

I was born in District Eight. My parents were Marie and Victor Lewis. My name is Edward Lewis. It has always been Edward Lewis, and it will be Edward Lewis for the rest of my life. I'm not suddenly "Grimsby Wilde" because some rich man says I am. I don't remember if my parents had the same condition as me, vitiligo. I know my uncle didn't, but he didn't allow any pictures of them. And I was far too young to remember what they looked like. I'd like to think that they had my white hair too.

I'd also like to think they celebrated my hair and skin rather than tried to hide it. My uncle would rub black powder into my hair and eyebrow, trying to make it somewhat match. He said I looked like a freak show. Whenever he had guests over I had to be locked in my room, sometimes he forgot about me in there and I had to survive off of whatever water I had in there. Food? We had enough food for the both of us, but the old man hated sharing. And sometimes he'd just plain forget about me. And if I ate food without his permission? It would be another beating.

S0metimes I think he liked beating me, he acted like it was some sort of fun game to him. It got to the point where I wished he would have locked me in my room for a couple of days, I'd be suffering but I'd be safe. I think the worst part were the cigarette burns. I'm not sure what I hated more, him using my skin to put out his cigarettes or when he'd ash his cigarettes on me. Sure, the first was a more intense pain. But I had time to suspect it and the burns were easier to treat. On the other hand, the ashes would scatters against my skin like a million tiny bullets. And he'd do it out of nowhere, no warning.

I tried to handle it the right way. One day when he was sleeping in I got up at sunrise and snuck out of the house. I ran until I found the first Peacekeeper I could. I was fourteen at the time, I was so young and foolish. I thought they were there to protect us, I thought they would listen, I thought they were the good guys. I was dead fucking wrong. All they did was bring me back and tell my uncle that I've been "telling lies" and that I wasn't much better than my parents. I wasn't sure how this Peacekeeper knew my parents, but hearing that pissed me off nonetheless. That was the day I lost hope in things ever getting better unless I did something drastic.

Of course, there were good times. There were times when I could go outside and on walks. Even now, the feeling of sun on my skin and the smell of the fresh breeze is like heaven to me. It'll probably be the closest to heaven someone like me will ever get. And there were the cats. I used to leave food for the strays on the front porch. They got used to me, and I took care of them. I'd brush them, pet them, play with them. And the best part? That bastard never found out. He died not being able to know about the one thing that brought me joy. He failed in his mission to make life for me complete Hell.

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[ 703 words ]
[ table by rave ]

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Some would say I'm lucky considering who owns me. He doesn't make me do hard labor, he doesn't use me for his own sick pleasure like some do, and he doesn't treat me like my uncle. I disagree. There are no good people who own other human beings. But the way he speaks of me? He doesn't speak to me like I'm human. He talks to me like I'm some pet, or some toy on display. He'll tell guests he likes the look of me, that it compliments his style and furniture nicely. That's why he picked that horrible name to call me, Grimsby. For Mortimer, it's all about the damn aesthetics.

It was a few weeks after I had killed my uncle when I first met Mortimer. My wounds were still healing and I barely knew sign. Some of the other avoxes had started teaching me, but it was hard. He said he was "adopting me" as though I was some stray puppy he found at the pound. I spat on him, and he said he'd train the attitude out of me. He hasn't, I've just gotten better at hiding the eye rolls and the glares.

He has two kids at the house, one a few years younger than me and a son much younger than me - Omen and Amelia, more horrid names. Amelia wouldn't leave me alone when I first showed up. She kept following me around and trying to get me to do stuff with her. I didn't listen to any of her orders, she wasn't Mortimer, I had no reason to fear her. She tried bringing me treats and insist I eat them. Eventually, I caved. I ate the tasteless mush and felt humiliated. Here I was, caving to the wants of a child because I had no other choice.

After less than a year of living there, I made my first escape. The kids had left for school, but they didn't shut the door all the way. I went outside and I bolted it. But I didn't know the Capitol at all, and I got lost. I hid in back allies and in dumpsters for three days until Mort found me, huddled in an alley way and freezing. After that, he was extra careful about locking the door. About making sure it was shut all of the way. After all, he doesn't want to "lose his things". That's all I am to him, a thing.

Eventually, I got used to Amelia and actually grew quite fond of her. I got used to eating the mush on queue to make her happy. She didn't realise I couldn't taste. She didn't realise I had to chew everything to essentially a paste or get severe pain when I tried to swallow. She was just trying to make my life a little better. She thought we were friends. So I hoped she'd understand when I tried to escape a second time.

I waited a few years between escapes to try again, hoping Mortimer would forget. This time, I jumped out a second floor window. But, I didn't land right and I broke my ankle. Instead of a scream all that came out was a grotesque mix of a choke and a gurgle. But, the fall was loud enough for Mortimer to hear. He looked outside and saw me with a bag and knew instantly what had happened. And he made it clear, that he was done dealing with me. That my next escape attempt would be handled by the Peacekeepers.

I haven't tried since, but I'm not giving up. I just need more time to plan. I'm going to try my plan with my uncle again and succeed this time. I'm going to kill Mortimer and escape Panem. I can't stand him anymore. Everytime I hear that damn name it's like nails on a chalkboard. I want to scream that that's not my fucking name, that my name is Edward. But I can't. One day though, I'll never have to hear that name again. I'll never have to obey anyone elses commands again. One day, I'll be free.

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[ 684 words ]
[ table by rave ]