Kai Fenton District 4

Name: Fen (Kai Fenton)
Age: 18
Gender: Male
District/Area: District 4
Appearance:

If I looked into a mirror, I would see myself standing there with a fixed expression, perhaps. But my eyes wouldn’t stay focused long, the blue intensity behind them would stare off at something far away. Maybe they’d be looking at some land not visible to anyone else, where the people were happy and I could truly smile. I’m not so sure I’ve ever had a genuine grin, just a crooked one when I’m pleased, and a goofy one when I’m nervous. At least that’s what I’ve been told. I look just like my dad when he was a kid growing up, but with my mom’s dark hair. I’m sure it would look nicer if I just combed it, but that was a wrestling match fit for someone else. That’s the funny thing about it, it always pokes up in different directions as though it’s trying to escape. Yes, I am guilty of having a terrible case of the bedhead. But does it matter? I live right by the water, and with the wind constantly pushing me around there was never any hope to have a good hair day. Who am I kidding?

If it’s any consolation, I’ve always had those dark eyebrows and nose just like my mom. But unlike her I’m just plain looking in my opinion. I supposed you could argue that I’m bias, but she’s beautiful in every way. And the funny thing about her, is that she never seems to age. Like someone took a snapshot of her on her best day and she’s forever remained that way. But unlike her, I grew taller, and thin. Kids used to joke that I was like a wooden post, and if I ended up as a tribute I’d be used as a throwing spear. At least I’m partially muscular, but that’s only from working on my dad’s boat. That doesn’t mean I’m all that strong. I was always the tallest in my class, but since then several have caught up. That’s what happens when you’re 5’6’’ and weighing 142 lbs. Definitely not a shoe in to survive in the games. I’m not able to hide, and I certainly could never survive a physical battle. But I’ve always been quick thanks to my legs. And it helps that I’ve always had that ability to pay attention to detail, just enough to help me survive. Though I would never be a victor, others have better odds.

Just like my father, I’ve developed the same tough hands. The kind that makes girls cringe, they’re used to soft and delicate hands. Mine have always been rough with signs of a hard working individual. I suppose the only ones who are impressed would be the workers themselves, a way to bond and share a laugh. Mine perhaps aren’t the greatest though, I also developed this habit of chewing at the skin around my nails. A nervous behavior and side effect of the reaping’s. On top of that, I’ve been told I smell like the sea. I’m not so sure if they meant that as a compliment or not, but I’m not surprised. Besides school, I’ve always spent my time out by the water. The salt sticking not only to my skin, but my clothes as well. Unlike other guys my age, I never got around to wearing what seemed all that “cool”. I picked a style that was simple, and me. Old jeans forever tearing, and with sand clinging to the ends. But they’ve always suited me fine with older plaid shirts, soft compared to my own skin but damp at the cuffs.

Personality:

I’ve never been any good at staring at my own reflection, I have this fear it will suddenly talk back. A doppelganger just waltzing into my life telling me I have it all wrong. Maybe I don’t know what kind of person I am, and is that so bad? As a boy, I could tell you that I wasn’t shy but just soft spoken. I would watch things with intelligent eyes (my dad’s words not mine). I would point out flaws and errors, replaces ideas with some of my own. Sure, it would appear that I could be verbal. Often in school teachers I assumed I was shy or troubled. Even when I had studied I could never think of the right words in which I needed to answer a simple question. Others would laugh at me and I would feel myself closing up. As years went on, I shed these simple boyish ways. I was never stupid, school just never could interest me enough to care. There were far more important things that mattered, at least in my world. I stopped wanting to please everyone else and became distant from social norms.

I had friends, several in fact. Please don’t assume me to be vain, but girls liked hanging around me. They held onto these fantasies that I was poetic and mysterious. Everything I was not. And they didn’t interest me either. The giggling and flirting just wasn’t my forte. If I was to be with someone, I’d want them to be equally as challenging, blunt, and knowing just what they wanted. Because that’s how I am as a person, although with a few differences. I may be forward in certain aspects, my input only comes in waves. This hasn’t always had the desired effect. Not everyone likes the truth, when they prefer to hide. While my mother liked this forward side of me, it bred a new fear. Because the truth wasn’t always so desired, and she became a afraid that I would speak out against the capitol. She knew just how much I hated them. But I’m still here, so I haven’t yet. I’m not some loose cannon, those are dangerous.

Now here’s the thing, I’ve always been reserved, though this has changed to match my age. Before I kept mostly to myself, but by the time I was fifteen I adapted. Reserved held a new meaning for me, this was the side of me that ventured away from my district. This was the more controlled side; I knew how to bite my tongue. However, I also used it around my friends as a way to show my disinterest. Like I mentioned in my back history, at sixteen I found a way to blend in. And yes, maybe I’ve adopted a few traits out of necessity, I can be sarcastic and at times cocky. But that’s not truly me at my core. I’ve always held that in. I suppose it has worked in my favor, bringing in a new wave of friends. The ones who can’t really see you for who you are. I’m forced to be a stronger individual, one they can rely on. Because god forbid I fall apart. But I’ve always felt empty, and I still do now. I’m far too curious. The real me wants to fight, I’m damn stubborn. Something my father wouldn’t approve of.

History:

Have you ever just watched the sea on a quiet morning? A type of fog rolls in that threatens to take you with it, and there’s a chill in the air. But no matter how cold it gets, you want to stay there in that moment, trapped by mist. There’s a type of freedom the water offers, that if you stare out long enough you too can be free. That’s what I see every morning when I get up, and that’s how it’s always been. My parents had met here in this time, hopeless but strong, vain and yet timid of those who stood before them. It didn’t matter that we were often looked upon as superiors by other districts, everyone could revel in it but we were just as powerless. I always thought that was funny, the breeding grounds for possible careers. As though it made the situation any better. So what made them decide to have a child, a fisherman and a homemaker of various sorts? Fishing baskets and nets, all of them cluttering the house. But somebody had to make them. Truthfully, I couldn’t begin to tell you just what they were thinking, and what kind of chance they were hoping to give me.

Maybe, just like the Hunger Games, they picked my future out. I could always imagine it during the colder nights when I couldn’t sleep. The sound of the waves rocking the shore. “Okay…if we draw a yes, then we can try for a child.” That’s the best reason I could think of, and the only one I wanted to. In my mind, it was selfish to have a kid. What was the point? Just so I could run and play, watching as my classmates disappeared one by one? I remembered how seats next to me became vacant over the passing years. And every time I would wonder if I was next. If I would be another vacant chair at school. Everyone seemed so proud, like we had a chance at winning, and sometimes we did. It’s hard for me to describe life growing up. I feel like I should have a concrete story, memories to be shared. But life just drifted on as it always had. And with each year, a new tension that I can’t even begin to explain. Thirteen, then fourteen, and so on. My name doubling, tripling, until I lost count, I’d close my eyes and just wait for it to happen. I could imagine it, unless of course there were volunteers. We were trained after all. But did I really try?

The answer is no. I liked fishing with my father. Most of the other’s I practiced with were vain and had a spring in their step. I felt like I belonged in another district, a lower one at that. I wasn’t proud of my district, I was proud to be part of the wealthy, and I just wanted to be left alone. I’ve always been good at fishing. My dad taught me how to fashion hooks when I was only five years old, he said I had a way of retaining information that could one day save my life. Who knows if that’s true, I have yet to find out. But it was in my younger days in which I tried to absorb everything I could from him, and he’d clap a hand on my shoulder out of pure success before moving on. He liked to show off his work to everyone else, but around me he seemed more humble I suppose. My mother has been the opposite for as long as I can remember. She knows just how beautiful she is, and likes to talk, but usually her work over rides that. I know it’s the reason my parents were married, my father found her boldness to be an attractive quality, strong and never relenting.

Maybe they had hoped me to be like that, strong and impulsive. But for some reason I just didn’t catch on. As each new game rolled by, my parents would think it to be a shame. That if I had been picked I would win, their over confidence in me was stifling. Still, after the reaping he’d clap that same hand on my shoulder and that’s when I knew the truth. That they really dreaded the idea of me being sent away, that what they had been doing year after year had just been an image they broadcasted to keep everyone around them happy. To fit in. So I obliged to make them happy, when I turned sixteen I finally caught on with the program and developed a careless nature. Not only was it for them, but it was a way to help my apparent anxiety as to how many times my name would be put in. And I still had two years of this waiting, and anticipating. I grew to be relaxed and fun, even though I tried to find solitude when I could. But it worked, I seemed to please more people. I made more friends and became recognized within the community just like my parents. I would spend time with them, breaking bottles with sling shots; I always was good at paying attention to details and developed a strange skill. As long as it didn’t require muscle, I was pretty good at watching and learning fairly fast. Like the slingshot, it only took two tries before I could hit just about anything within reason.

At seventeen, I realized just how lucky I was to be alive. Every year I was forced to watch other’s be killed to no end. And in truth, I felt there was no such thing as a victor. Those who were left became a shell of the person, it was no better than dying. The only way I could pass time was working on homework, or finding ways to create music. I had fallen in love with the cries of the gulls and the sound of water. Even in a wealthy district we had our limits, but I found a way to make my own guitar. A rough version of one anyways. And I’d sit and play for hours, because I knew that at eighteen I still wasn’t safe, and that future was just ahead of me. Would I live? The question haunted me wherever I went. But I tried for a smile. Oh yes! Don’t get me wrong, it was supposed to be an honor. But did that mean I was ready to die? No. And anyone who ever answered yes was just lying or mentally gone.

So this is the end, or maybe the beginning. I’m not sure yet. But I’m Kai Fenton, born during the 42nd Hunger Games. Eighteen and probably running out of time. My future is up in the air along with others like me. I still consider myself fortunate, don’t get me wrong. I have both of my parents, I’ve never lost a sibling because I’m the only one. But I’ve still lost friends, and I would give anything to bring them back.

Codeword: <img src="http://i41.tinypic.com/16h2ibt.png">
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