lamon malee | district eight | done.

L A M O N.

Lamon Malee.

Names are a funny thing. I’ve always been told that my name is supposed to give me a sense of who I am and where I belong in the world. The one thing in my life that is truly mine. But to me, my name is just another thing in my life forced upon me. An empty canvas filled in slowly over time, pieced together every time it is uttered by those I let close enough to have a turn with the brush. How is my name supposed to define me when I don’t get to choose it? When I am never the one to say it? These syllables, which carry both the weight of expectations and the burden of unrequited emotions, are no longer just a label. They are a mirror reflecting back at me the stark reality of my fruitless desires, my unachievable dreams, and my unspoken wishes. Everyone around me had already decided what my name meant before I even had the chance to open my mouth.

Lamon Malee.

The tinge of disappointment in my mother’s voice stings the back of my throat every time my name falls from her lips. My mother's aspirations for me hang heavy, a suffocating presence that surpasses any sense of individuality I have left. To her, my existence is woven into the fabric of our family business, a continuation of our lineage that she wishes me to honor and keep running. Her longing for the perfect child lingers in every corner of our home, causing the chasm between my yearnings of self-discovery and her expectations to grow wider with each passing day. My heart aches with the knowledge that pursuing the life I desire may cause fractures in the foundation of our family. But the yearning to break free from the mold she has cast me in is relentless, an ever-present pull toward authenticity that I can't ignore. As much as I long to honor her wishes, I also yearn to honor myself—to step out of the shadows of her aspirations and into the light of becoming who I want to be.

Lamon Malee.

Hope spills out of my sister’s mouth like my name is a superhero that will come swooping in and save us from this hell we call a home. An expected perfection lies underneath the two words but in a different form than our mother. In the eyes of my sister, I'm cast as the protagonist of a narrative I never asked to be a part of. She clings to me with a fervent hope, as if my existence alone can rewrite the script of our lives. Her gaze holds a mixture of unwavering faith and desperate longing, a testament to the depth of her trust in my ability to manifest her dreams into a reality. I yearn to fulfill her fantasies, to be the brother she envisions—the one who sweeps her away from the destituion that sours every corner of our existence. Yet, as much as I strive to be her savior, the reality of our world stands in stark opposition to her innocent dreams. The knowledge that I can never truly live up to her expectations gnaws at my conscience, a reminder of the inevitable disappointment that awaits her.

Lamon Malee.

When my best friend’s lips utter my name, a symphony of bittersweet melodies resonates in my chest – each note a reminder of a prize out of my reach. Though his affections will never mirror my own, I find myself drawn into the chasm of emotions I can't escape. As my heart yearns for a connection that transcends friendship, I grapple with the awareness that my feelings may never find reciprocation. The unrequited affection an addiction I can’t break free from, mirroring my struggle to measure up to the expectations weighing down on me—to be the son my mother desires, the sibling my sister envisions, and the person I dare to dream of becoming.

Lamon Malee.

The words echo out of her lips like an unfamiliar melody, cascading across the square as the ringing in my ears distorts the world around me. The sound of my own name like a bomb, destroying the delicate sanctuary I had so carefully pieced together. It travels through the air once more and I know what has been said, though the sound of my own name never reaches my ears. A Peacemaker's assertive push propels me out of my own thoughts and to the forefront of the crowd. An entire district's collective gaze closes in on me, peering into my very core for the first time -- as if they were discovering secrets about me I didn’t even know I held. I could tell I was no longer being looked at through the lens of my mother's disappointment, my sister's hope, or my best friend's unrequited affection. Instead, they see the genuine me: a scared child, desperate for his place in a world that no longer belonged to him.

Lamon Malee.

Soon, my name would be all that’s left of me. A strange amalgamation of nuances pieced together by the people who thought they knew me. The question that nags at my mind is whether this legacy is a blessing in disguise. Could it be that in being remembered, I'm destined to be celebrated for the possibilities I carried with me? My aspirations suspended in the realm of "what could have been"? Perhaps this is a fate more merciful than the weight of unfulfilled desires. But even still, my name would fade with time. Becoming a memory only lasts as long as the people holding onto your name continue to breathe life it.

Lamon Malee.

Like the rest of the tributes before me, I would fade away into history as another failure. Another reminder that dreaming is never enough in Panem. I look back at my district for the last time as I’m ushered away towards the train. I feel myself separating from my name with each step, walking further from the person I had been so carefully trying to put together. I grapple with the duality of my name. An anchor tethering me to a history I yearn to break free from, while also propelling me toward an uncertain future. And as the train starts to move, I watch out the window as I leave that name behind me on the platform. I’m not that person anymore, though I’m not sure I ever was. The train's rhythmic motion echoes the dull thrum of my internal struggle, a rhythm that accompanies me through the enigma of who I was, who I am, and who I would become. My name no longer belongs to me. It never really did. My new name is forced upon me from the Capitol, until even that is taken away from me.

District 8’s Male Tribute.