Pacen Spektor ||District Six||

Pacen Spektor ||District Six|| Apr 21, 2012 19:40:16 GMT -5

Post by lunette on Apr 21, 2012 19:40:16 GMT -5

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APPEARANCE
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I’LL NEVER TELL YOU WHO I LOVED, OR HOW THEY MADE ME FREE

See that boy? Sitting there, smiling, for no apparent reason at all? I love him. I’ve never talked to him, and he, without a doubt, has no idea what my name is, what my face looks like; my mere existence. But I love him. I see him every day. He’s so tall and slender, with such a young face. And that smile, that reasonless, pointless smile that I love. That makes me love. All it takes it the curl of those perfect, pink lips and the world starts to spin slower. It’s the kind of smile that makes you feel cool and warm at the same time. The kind of smile that can make your heart beat faster and slower at once. I don’t believe I have ever seen anything more beautiful in my life, and it’s that smile that kills me when I think about how that smile is never for me. And it never will be.

He is so beautiful the sun has kissed his skin to glow and shine and make his friends and peers seem dimmer in comparison, as if he walks around with his own light, everyone else just dead, planetary objects that revolve around him. I love the sculpted curve of his jaw, to the perfect Cupid’s bow of his lips. I love him, yet I’ve never met him. But from his baby face alone, from his soft, fawn-colored hair, I know him. I know he’s gentle, I know he’s loving. I know he’s sincere, I know he’s trusting. I know I can’t possibly find another love after him. And I’ll keep watching, waiting, and dedicating my time to Pacen, until one day, that smile will be for me.

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PERSONALITY
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I’LL NEVER REPEAT WHAT I HEARD, HOW LONG IT TOOK ME TO LEAVE

And we were sitting in a circle; my friends and I. Using the term “friends” as gingerly as possible. They always change; I’ve given up memorizing their names by now. I laughed, merely because everyone else is laughing. I’m not entirely sure what was said, or who said it, or if anything was said at all. But everyone else is laughing, so I join in, playfully shove him there, making an idiotic face at her there. I’ve mastered the craft of appearing in conversation. I’m never there. At all. But somehow, I’ve become such an artist at tricking others that I care about their small talk and their weak, redundant jokes I’ve, by some means unknown to me, developed an alluring reputation. And the cycle restarts itself. I laugh when my new pool of faces laugh, add an irrelevant comment here and there, and suddenly I’m the funny guy. The charismatic boy. And it’s a rut I’ve been stuck in for so long now I don’t bother trying to escape. If I ever do, what would be left of me then? Just a boy who has no reason to smile other than to mask his absence. Their jokes aren’t funny, they’ve never been funny.

Not just names, but faces. As soon as I leave school and head for home, they’re gone from my memory; faded like whispers in the wind. And I feel guilty. I feel villainous, even, that my peers who called me their best friend confide in me secrets and dilemmas I couldn’t truly care less about. I feel like the ultimate sinner by the girls who confess and claim they love me, when they love really love Pacen Spektor: charming, witty guy who always has something to say. Pacen, who every parent would love their child to befriend because he is such an upstanding young man. You know Pacen. Pacen, the boy girls cake on the powder and gloss for the slightest fraction of a chance he may give them a smile, a single dimple. Pacen, the boy who’s friendship can bring you from the middle of nowhere to one of the most desirable people in town. That Pacen. The Pacen I lost a long time ago.

I was born Pacen Talos Spektor, but I lost him somewhere along the way. Somewhere along the way, he became a coward, scared of people leaving him alone. Somewhere along the way, he became a con artist, making his way into people’s trust and faith with such mastery; he himself wasn’t even sure how he managed it. Somewhere along the way, he became a fraud, faking sincerity and compassion to those around him, when he truly couldn’t give two damns about who they were or how long they’d stick around for. Because someone was always waiting to take their place. One stumble, and you’re out of my life, only to be replaced with another nameless, faceless figure who had been waiting anxiously and patiently in line. And I won’t remember you. And I won’t even notice you’re gone.

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HISTORY
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I’LL NEVER TELL YOU WHAT I SAW, CLOSE THE DOOR, SWALLOW THE KEY

Pacen was born in a well off family. His father and mother both managing to provide well for their families as neurologists, the Spektors never had any reason for complaint. Born the third and last of three children to William and Ondine Spektor; Pacen is the youngest child, an age difference of five and seven years between himself and his two older sisters, Lisbeth and Carlotta. After participating in a rather weak and frailly supported uprising against the Capitol when he was nine, Carlotta was publicly executed by peacekeepers among the few other rebels. Since then, William and Ondine have been entirely and unquestionably devoted to the Capital and raised Lisbeth and Pacen to dedicate themselves to the Capitol’s prosperous reign.

Pacen was born a standard, happy child. His fair share of scraped knees and missing teeth were allotted. Didn’t lose his soft baby chub until he was seven, to which he took on the scrawny, awkward noodle form. He was still making wishes on dandelions and shooting stars when his parents were invited to a prestigious dinner at the Capitol for their breakthrough in neurological disease medicine; a possible drug that can unlock chambers of the brain humans are incapable of using upon birth, ensuing unheard of intelligence. Ondine’s sister, Anais, who lived on the opposite side of town at the time, was then called in to look after eleven-year-old Pacen and sixteen-year-old Lisbeth. It wasn’t until several years later, when he had just entered his adolescent years, did Pacen understand what had happened that night with Aunt Anais. She stole the innocent rose buds that bloomed in his cheeks and his optimistic outlook on life.

His life after that slowly began to spiral downward. His peers and friends were no longer considered companions by him, but nuisances. He no longer concerned himself with the average adolescent boy’s dilemmas. And yet, despite feeling completely out of place with his cohorts, he needed them. He needed people to surround him. Couldn’t matter less who it was or where they came from or what they were like, he needed company. He needed company to feel safe. He needed company to feel safe and protected and pure again. So he changed himself. Pacen would spend so much energy being the type of person people clobber over to get into his good favor, the young boy would collapse into his bed from exhaustion. But he could never be revived from this perpetual fatigue. No amount of sleep could cure it. His two prestigious neurologists of parents couldn’t figure what was wrong with their son. And Pacen never told a soul was happened that night. Pacen never told a single person how the worst night of his life replays over and over again every time his eyes close.
There once was a boy who built himself a palace of people who absolutely adored him, and he never felt so lonely.