Colin Grant | District Seven

N A M E | Colin Crucis Grant
A G E | Sixteen
G E N D E R | Male
D I S T R I C T / A R E A | District Seven
S E X U A L I T Y | Pansexual


B I O G R A P H Y |

In my life, there are few things to hate. Many would suspect otherwise. It's not like my mom and dad are exactly together. It's not like my brother didn't just die. Oh, wait, he did die. And every time I think of him, I die a little inside, too. Because beyond popular belief, death isn't as painful as Band-Aid. You can't just rip it off in a second and let the pain vanish instantly. Knowing someone who died is more like being dragged by a car, gathering cuts and bruises all over your body. But, you know letting go would be worse.

And so I hold on.

I hold on to whatever's left of my life until my knuckles turn white and my palms blister, just like I've been doing all my life. Holding onto the bright, tearing threads presented in front of me instead of letting go and falling behind. I've always been one to look at the positive sides of things, blocking out the shadows until light is casted upon them. There's no use in letting all the burdens in my life bury be alive, so I shake them off. It's much easier to look strong when I am strong.

Being the oldest child in the Grant family means holding my head high enough for Cecil and Cassidy to follow lead. Cynthia, although I beat her out of the womb by mere minutes, would insist she's the oldest. I'm not going to lie, I feel closest to Cynthia, but her absence in the household was always unsettling to me. It was never fair. When Curtis was still around, I would help him with the younglings, albeit rarely. But, at the moment when Curtis died - or I suppose I should say reaped - all of his responsibilities fell onto my shoulders. Admittedly, it isn't easy. My mom gives some assistance, but if I ought to find a job like my mom insists, no one would ever look after the little ones (and I say "little" loosely because they're all grown up now).

My father routinely visits, although about once a month. It still is nice, knowing my mom didn't hook-up with a complete jerk. Some of my other siblings weren't so lucky, and it's a bit guilting when Dad visits and poor Cecil never actually met his father. I'm sure he knows that if I could make it the other way around, I would do it in a heartbeat. Plus, when Dad brings over food and money (though not much), it's not like all of the siblings don't get their fair share.

My mom says I got a lot of features from my father. She never went into specifics, but I know one of those traits are my prominent collar-bones that Cynthia and I share. His eyes are definitely from his mom, the icy-blue irises that he shares with no only Cynthia, but with all of his siblings.

Growing up, I was never a favorable friend. To put it simply, I was weird. I still am, I suppose. It seems kids knew I liked boys before I did - not that I still don't fancy the female gender - and they knew I was a freak of nature before I realized it, too. I even look the part. Long, lanky limbs that awkwardly stumble over themselves. No muscles whatsoever, just fair, soft skin and thin bones. And my hair, in a messy-mop atop my ovular head. When I was younger, my mom would comfort me, stating I was just a good soul. I believed her. But, there's still one question I ask myself: If I had a bad soul, would I be considered normal?

The only things I could call friends are my animal figurines. Wooden and carved by hand, usually mine. Although, if I see one at a store and it's attractive, I'll buy it. I have fast and steady fingers, rarely shaking or twitching. Long and thin and blistered from hours and hours of caring with such pressure. My toes are like that, too, long and thin, just missing the blisters. Even creatures that would never be able to survive in the forestial environment of District Seven - like an orcinus orca (whale) is part of my collection. That's another thing, I have this habit of calling animals by their scientific names. It's one of my quirks, and to this day I'm still not sure why I do it, I just do. Like how when there's music on, it's practically instinct to tap your feet to it.

Another habit of mine is almost mapping out a person's personality by the first glance. Some would say it's a bit judgmental, but it's more than just their personality. It's their whole background. Their parents' jobs. If they have parents in the first place. How many siblings. Their grades. People are so easy to understand, so easy to grasp and decipher. The day I meet a challenging lad will be the day that I die.

All my life, I've been selfless. Trying to please others. Trying to make peace. Trying to make our world a better place. You think all of this is bullshit? Think again. It's hard to live in a world where you can't turn your back to a person without getting stabbed and perhaps that's why I never actually went out there and tried to make friends. Staying back and watching the show was always easier. More entertaining. And, at the same time, frustrating. I still don't get why girls use every window of opportunity to dis on another girl.

I won't lie, I'm not perfect and my heart has cracks like yours. And I won't lie, I hate some people, but there's one person in particular.

Naveen Casovnik.

That... beastly bitch killed my brother. Why aren't I mad at the mayor? The one who picked his name out of the jar when it could have been anyone else's? Because although the mayor sent him off to his death, Naveen Casovnik finished him off when she didn't have to. The mayor couldn't pick up another slip. The Girl From Six, however, could have let him go. He could have won it all if it wasn't for her. We could be bathed in riches right now if his skull wasn't split in two like a opened book.

And the one person I'll always envy is Bran Wolfe, because he was more of a brother to Curtis than I'll ever be.

odair

Florentin Glémarec
Hugo Cabret