Darrion Blunt [D2]

{ d a r r i o n b l u n t }

seventeen - district two - male - heterosexual - bastard

He was a scrawny lad... Skinny little runt. Father always said he needed fattening up. Eat more, grow, be strong. Yet, like a weak suckling runt in a litter of healthy swine, he struggled to do so. Frail, weak, feeble. It's what I am, it's what I'm always going to be. I live in one of the wealthiest Districts in Panem and yet I am malnourished. It's fate, it's fair. Fair of hair, chestnut colored it was, like a light chocolate with swirls of caramel. The years grew longer and his hair darkened somewhat, became more mature as he did. Don't like it, I don't. I want to cut it all off sometimes, just because it annoys me so. My appearance is something I don't bother fretting about, but my hair, it's more than just appearance, it's the way it feels, the weight of it. He was a grumpy little shit, always had a cloud over his head. His face would droop in a constant glare. Eyes of malice and a scowl that had weathered his face. Looked older than he was. Maybe it's because I just have something against the world, or the world has something against me. I'm not cheerful, I accept realities, truths. I can't smile, not without effort anyway. Dressed in a poor man's clothes, he did. He was a poor man, had no one, poor bastard. Dressed like a beggar, a fucking beggar in District Two. Fingerless gloves and hoods to block the wind. The boy's homeless, the boy's lost. So what if I am? I choose to be what I am, a drifter, an upstart. It's my life, and if I want to slump around in messy slacks and creased shirts, then that's my choice. Always a cigarette in his hand, boy thinks he's something of a maverick. Think you're tough kid, 'cause you smoke? He was a fool, was that bastard Blunt.

Headstrong, oh yeah. The boy rushed into everything without thinking. Stubborn too, I'd say so. What's it to you? I don't think sometimes but that doesn't mean I'm stupid. Maybe I do try to feel my screaming ego more than I should. I've made mistakes, yes, but they haven't changed me as a person. I'm not adaptable to change, I'm stubborn. People call me stupid, call me Bastard and baseborn. Don't care much about what they think, because their opinions don't matter to me. I'm used to abuse, I was shaped through abuse and made what I am because of what I've been through. Guess you could say I'm weathered, I'm accustomed to it. Sure he thought he could take anything they threw at him, but every word still cut deep. Bastard. The word is a curse on him, a plague. He wants nothing more than to be a Career, to be able to train with others his age, to socialize. Yet he's shunned by them, they neglect him. Get lost, bastard. They'd say. I heard 'em say it once then I heard 'em say it a thousand times. People call me bastard more than they call me Darrion. I put on that blank expression and walk away, every time. Anger is a disease, y'can't let it spread. I don't get angry anymore, not like I used to. Simple, that's another word they call me. They don't understand that I'm trying to ignore them, so they think I don't understand them. They think I'm dumb. You are dumb though, aren't you Blunt? Yeah, you're not a bright spark, you're a lowlife bastard who works the shittiest jobs and lies at the bottom of the District Two food chain. You'd fit in perfect in a place like Twelve or Ten. I have some common sense, which I value more than intelligence. There are some people who know an awful lot, but do some stupid ass things in their lives. Guess that makes me smarter than them, in my own way. Guess that makes me a genius.

Who was that girl? I wonder what went wrong so that she had to roam the streets. She's used up all her money, she's blown used up her luck. And what a pissed-up asshole to come along and do what he did. A crime, unjustified and unpunished. She was with child not long after she was taken against her will. A bastard boy was I to be, my mother dead by the time I turned three. He took me in, the shit-faced drunk, told me exactly where I could bunk. I tried to wish it all away, to be someone else on another day. But life was cruel and painfully true, the man who made me beat me blue. I used to cry, I used to shout. I used to, until he kicked me out. I found some work, I bought a place, I resented all the human race. I built myself in the slums of Two, a place overlooked with naught to do. The bastard boy wished he never existed, he'd found that he had been blacklisted. Not a career, not a worker, not a son, just a precursor. He lived on the road, slept in a trunk, vowed to kill that shit-faced drunk.