A History of White (Standalone)
Sept 18, 2012 10:04:19 GMT -5
Post by heartwood on Sept 18, 2012 10:04:19 GMT -5
I remember my first sword. Dad got it for me for my eighth birthday. The hilt was white, like the rest of the ones I have now. Dad is a proud man, and he wanted everyone to know just how powerful his last name was, making everything white was just another way to remind people who we were. I always liked that about him. On the bottom of the sword, connected to the hilt was a short, reflective dagger. He told me, “Son, the day is going to come when in the Games, you need to have an edge. Attaching a dagger to the sword is one of the most brilliant things you can do. Double-edged swords are too dangerous, but in the right hand, the daggered hilt can turn the tide of any battle.” He’s right, I know that now; and I believed it when he told me then. I’ve wanted nothing more than to make my father proud.
I always wondered how he had gotten so good at fighting. He had never been in the Games, but he had trained since he was eight in case he had ever been reaped. Back then, he said people trained in case they got reaped. Now, he says people need to do it to try and get reaped. That’s what I’m doing, and I’ve never questioned it. Not even when I was just a boy.
My eighth birthday was probably more eventful than most, the sword wasn’t the only gift I received. Dad felt I was old enough to start my Career training, old enough to know just how much a wooden sword to the forearm hurt; and old enough to realize that if I was hit by a real one, my arm would be gone. There was a point in the day where I just stood, and he smacked me in every part of my body. He showed me the points where things hurt the most, and by the end of the day, I had cuts and bruises all over my body. It wasn’t just for information; it was so that I knew what it felt like to be attacked. And to his pleasure, even at eight years, I took it like a man.
I knew from my earlier days watching the reaping that people cheered and chanted for our districts tributes to win, and on the occasion that they lost; those tributes had never come back. When I was six, I asked my father, “Dad, where do the tributes go when they lose? How come they don’t come back?” He told me straight out that they died; that anyone who lost was actually dead on the television and it wasn’t just a show. That day, I stood up late, thinking. I was only five years old, and already I was thinking about death.
The next morning my dad came to me and asked me what I had dreamed about. I told him nothing, I had no nightmares, no dreams, I slept soundly. I didn’t really know why he asked; but eventually I found out. He told me, those who have nightmares about things do so because their conscience isn’t clear. Either they fear things to come or they have been unable to move on from things that had happened in the past; children have nightmares because they fear things to come. I wasn’t one of those children. Maybe that was the day he knew he would make me a Career.
I didn’t know what becoming a Career meant. I knew it meant fighting and killing, I knew it meant you would get to go to the Capitol, you would get to see things you never saw before. I knew it meant people would be cheering your name in your district, and I knew if you won, people would remember your name forever. Dad always liked our name, and I have grown to love it as well. We both wanted it to be remembered forever, and on my eighth birthday, we took every measure to make sure to make sure it was. But what I didn’t know was how much work went into things that had nothing to do with physical confrontation. It was all speech and fashion, words that meant nothing and faces that were plastered with the fakest of emotions. Those in the lower districts had to pretend like they were okay with dying, those in the upper districts had to act like there was no chance that they were going to lose. And to them, there wasn’t. Part of winning the Hunger Games is believing you can win the Hunger Games, and on my eighth birthday, I started being taught how to believe.
That’s the day I also meant Florenzo, my stylist. Florenzo was an odd-looking man. His hair was cut into a neatly trimmed Mohawk. It was spiked up into the air and painted degrees of orange, yellow, and red. His pupils were thing and his irises were an odd yellow color. He looked like a lizard, like someone had set fire to his scales, and it just hadn’t burned all over his body. The way he dressed was odd as well. He wore a jacket that changed colors with the temperature, and his pants were always full of holes. What good is a pair of pants if it has holes in it?
The charismatic aspect of the Games was what confused me the most, but he showed me that a good outfit can distract the audience from any nervousness or anxiousness I might feel at any point during the precession. He told me someone like him would design my clothes, and that it was always important to be nice to the stylist, because a good outfit can get you good sponsors; and good sponsors equal good weapons. Every tribute needs good weapons. I told him, I wasn’t going to be nervous; I told him I was born for this. He laughed, told me that perhaps I was, but I would have to learn the tricks of the trade before I threw myself to the wolves.
Florenzo wasn’t the only person my father hired for me. There was Duncan, a middle gentleman who looked way more normal that Florenzo. He had worn a plain blue shirt, a pair of plain blue jeans, and a pair of black shoes that looked so ordinary, I couldn’t even tell you what brand they might have been.
Duncan was my first ever speech therapist; but I was confused as to why he was even hired in the first place. I didn’t have any speech impediments. I didn’t have a lisp, and I never had any trouble talking to the other kids in my district. Duncan was there to refine my charisma, to change my attitude. At that point, I didn’t even know what that attitude could possibly change into.
Duncan was good, though, now that I think about it. He told me confidence is key; if the audience sees that you’re confident during every stage of the Hunger Games, and then they know you’re a formidable opponent. The audience wants to see that you’re just like them; people love themselves so much, they cheer for those who remind them of themselves. The trick is to show that while you are like them; you are still a trained killer. You have to show your strength and bravado, while also show you’re still human, because really, nobody likes a psychopath.
The rest of my birthday had been uneventful until I was introduced to Stromboli Coraline, a woman who’s muscles were so defined it looked like you were looking at the muscular system diagram in biology class. Her curves were all but absent, and she had a way of speaking that made her seem so manly that it was actually pretty intimidating; but I finally put together who she was pretty easily when she had mentioned some of the other tributes she had trained.
Stromboli was the best in her field. She had coached not one, not two, but three victors over the last fifteen years; and math says, those are some great odds. Stromboli had never been in the games herself, but she trained as a young girl and fell in love with the art of swordplay. She loved it so much, that when she was reaped, she actually allowed someone to volunteer for her so she could teach others. Now, I was going to become her personal apprentice. I was excited to say the least. I wanted to learn everything I could the instant I met her, I wanted her to teach me how to make blood splatter and heads roll, but most of all, I just wanted a chance to use Dagger-hilt, the gift my father had given me. But none of that happened, Stromboli had a specific way of teaching people, and no matter how much money my father had offered her to expedite the process a bit, she was absolutely dead set on fundamentals.
She taught me everything I know about swordplay. She taught me the proper way to hold it; she told me which grip to use if had felt any sort of fatigue set in, she taught me how to breathe through my strokes and where to keep my eyes focused on during battle. I don’t think I hit a single target that day, I spent the entire first two hours gripping and un-gripping swords, and standing in the corner breathing as I imagined myself cutting someone’s head open. She told me that the sword was an instrument of peace, not war, and that death was the ultimate peace on earth. I think that was the first day I stopped fearing death, and that was the moment I decided that I was going to be a Career, no matter how hard it would be and how much work it would take. Apex White would be a victor, and the White name would go on in history forever.
w1671
I always wondered how he had gotten so good at fighting. He had never been in the Games, but he had trained since he was eight in case he had ever been reaped. Back then, he said people trained in case they got reaped. Now, he says people need to do it to try and get reaped. That’s what I’m doing, and I’ve never questioned it. Not even when I was just a boy.
My eighth birthday was probably more eventful than most, the sword wasn’t the only gift I received. Dad felt I was old enough to start my Career training, old enough to know just how much a wooden sword to the forearm hurt; and old enough to realize that if I was hit by a real one, my arm would be gone. There was a point in the day where I just stood, and he smacked me in every part of my body. He showed me the points where things hurt the most, and by the end of the day, I had cuts and bruises all over my body. It wasn’t just for information; it was so that I knew what it felt like to be attacked. And to his pleasure, even at eight years, I took it like a man.
I knew from my earlier days watching the reaping that people cheered and chanted for our districts tributes to win, and on the occasion that they lost; those tributes had never come back. When I was six, I asked my father, “Dad, where do the tributes go when they lose? How come they don’t come back?” He told me straight out that they died; that anyone who lost was actually dead on the television and it wasn’t just a show. That day, I stood up late, thinking. I was only five years old, and already I was thinking about death.
The next morning my dad came to me and asked me what I had dreamed about. I told him nothing, I had no nightmares, no dreams, I slept soundly. I didn’t really know why he asked; but eventually I found out. He told me, those who have nightmares about things do so because their conscience isn’t clear. Either they fear things to come or they have been unable to move on from things that had happened in the past; children have nightmares because they fear things to come. I wasn’t one of those children. Maybe that was the day he knew he would make me a Career.
I didn’t know what becoming a Career meant. I knew it meant fighting and killing, I knew it meant you would get to go to the Capitol, you would get to see things you never saw before. I knew it meant people would be cheering your name in your district, and I knew if you won, people would remember your name forever. Dad always liked our name, and I have grown to love it as well. We both wanted it to be remembered forever, and on my eighth birthday, we took every measure to make sure to make sure it was. But what I didn’t know was how much work went into things that had nothing to do with physical confrontation. It was all speech and fashion, words that meant nothing and faces that were plastered with the fakest of emotions. Those in the lower districts had to pretend like they were okay with dying, those in the upper districts had to act like there was no chance that they were going to lose. And to them, there wasn’t. Part of winning the Hunger Games is believing you can win the Hunger Games, and on my eighth birthday, I started being taught how to believe.
That’s the day I also meant Florenzo, my stylist. Florenzo was an odd-looking man. His hair was cut into a neatly trimmed Mohawk. It was spiked up into the air and painted degrees of orange, yellow, and red. His pupils were thing and his irises were an odd yellow color. He looked like a lizard, like someone had set fire to his scales, and it just hadn’t burned all over his body. The way he dressed was odd as well. He wore a jacket that changed colors with the temperature, and his pants were always full of holes. What good is a pair of pants if it has holes in it?
The charismatic aspect of the Games was what confused me the most, but he showed me that a good outfit can distract the audience from any nervousness or anxiousness I might feel at any point during the precession. He told me someone like him would design my clothes, and that it was always important to be nice to the stylist, because a good outfit can get you good sponsors; and good sponsors equal good weapons. Every tribute needs good weapons. I told him, I wasn’t going to be nervous; I told him I was born for this. He laughed, told me that perhaps I was, but I would have to learn the tricks of the trade before I threw myself to the wolves.
Florenzo wasn’t the only person my father hired for me. There was Duncan, a middle gentleman who looked way more normal that Florenzo. He had worn a plain blue shirt, a pair of plain blue jeans, and a pair of black shoes that looked so ordinary, I couldn’t even tell you what brand they might have been.
Duncan was my first ever speech therapist; but I was confused as to why he was even hired in the first place. I didn’t have any speech impediments. I didn’t have a lisp, and I never had any trouble talking to the other kids in my district. Duncan was there to refine my charisma, to change my attitude. At that point, I didn’t even know what that attitude could possibly change into.
Duncan was good, though, now that I think about it. He told me confidence is key; if the audience sees that you’re confident during every stage of the Hunger Games, and then they know you’re a formidable opponent. The audience wants to see that you’re just like them; people love themselves so much, they cheer for those who remind them of themselves. The trick is to show that while you are like them; you are still a trained killer. You have to show your strength and bravado, while also show you’re still human, because really, nobody likes a psychopath.
The rest of my birthday had been uneventful until I was introduced to Stromboli Coraline, a woman who’s muscles were so defined it looked like you were looking at the muscular system diagram in biology class. Her curves were all but absent, and she had a way of speaking that made her seem so manly that it was actually pretty intimidating; but I finally put together who she was pretty easily when she had mentioned some of the other tributes she had trained.
Stromboli was the best in her field. She had coached not one, not two, but three victors over the last fifteen years; and math says, those are some great odds. Stromboli had never been in the games herself, but she trained as a young girl and fell in love with the art of swordplay. She loved it so much, that when she was reaped, she actually allowed someone to volunteer for her so she could teach others. Now, I was going to become her personal apprentice. I was excited to say the least. I wanted to learn everything I could the instant I met her, I wanted her to teach me how to make blood splatter and heads roll, but most of all, I just wanted a chance to use Dagger-hilt, the gift my father had given me. But none of that happened, Stromboli had a specific way of teaching people, and no matter how much money my father had offered her to expedite the process a bit, she was absolutely dead set on fundamentals.
She taught me everything I know about swordplay. She taught me the proper way to hold it; she told me which grip to use if had felt any sort of fatigue set in, she taught me how to breathe through my strokes and where to keep my eyes focused on during battle. I don’t think I hit a single target that day, I spent the entire first two hours gripping and un-gripping swords, and standing in the corner breathing as I imagined myself cutting someone’s head open. She told me that the sword was an instrument of peace, not war, and that death was the ultimate peace on earth. I think that was the first day I stopped fearing death, and that was the moment I decided that I was going to be a Career, no matter how hard it would be and how much work it would take. Apex White would be a victor, and the White name would go on in history forever.
w1671
