Absalom Ottrel, District 1

(Name) Absalom Ottrel

(Gender) Male

(District) 1

(Age) 18 but forever a child

(Classification) Simpleton

(Head in the clouds, beautiful boy?)

I will do better. I will be stronger. He is in the training center, late at night. The lights have gone out, save for the few that have been left on for his exercises. A concentrated effort of strength, it is all he can do to be the best. Nothing too complex—the agility exercises are not his forte—but brute force seems unmatched. And he will lift, he will triumph over what has been placed before him. And should his body break in that sweat moment—when the weights clank, and he stands, fighting the pain in his shoulders and the fire in his chest, because it’s happened before, him falling over himself and having to quit—he will hate himself. Because if there is one thing—the only thing—he can be, it is strong. The strong boy, the unbreakable boy.

It is an aching that never leaves his body—more painful than what he feels the next morning. He will never be strong enough. He can bend bars—others have seen it, his face red and his body grunting—a brilliant feat unmatched. Does it matter to him? The sweat drips down his brow, from brown hair into brown eyes. So plain, so simple. Not the beautiful blue’s or blond so elusive, so wonderful. Unlike his father or mother. But he is not unlike his sister—they two together are plain, upsetting, disappointing. Never enough for his mother and father—never enough for his own wanting—pretty but ordinary. A dime a dozen in a district of boys with perfect bodies. What could ever have made him different?

Can you see it in his face? They whisper about it, the scrunching he makes when a particularly troubling through crosses his mind. Two dead eyes—off in space, no noise between two ears—a simplicity that shines through even his rough exterior. Over six feet of muscle and terror, but a face that belies the horror he is to reap. Taught to kill—trained to be the one that ends lives, he cannot hide his smile. Enough is it that his trainers scream, and his father brings out a belt to wipe him clean. There is nothing to smile about. Not when he is supposed to be perfect—he is supposed to be just like everyone else.

(Do you know who you are?)

It’s like talking to a brick wall sometimes. You can see the screws turn, his head processing the words but not finding the answer. Speak to him like he’s five. He’ll understand then, when all is simple. They say that helps to keep away confusion. And he should be the perfect soldier—the type of boy that would go to the grave for any cause, as long as it’s simple enough to understand. Because some boys and girls are evil, and some are good. And life is for the capitol—the greatest glory is to please the capitol. And how he would please them—in the games he would never let them down. Death is necessary, especially for those that are unworthy.

The world is black and white. Easier to understand when one is one or the other. They try to complicate themselves with big words or strange sayings, but he knows the truth. They are good, or they are bad. There is no in-between. His life has always been in such absolutes, and will be until the day he dies. They will never teach him otherwise—moreover because he cannot understand. Shades of gray make his head hurt. It’s the story of life, beginning, middle, end—everyone must die. And he must be good. Because to be bad is to be unloved. And to be unloved is the worst thing, it is ugly. And ugly is evil—and of all things, he is not evil. How lonely it would be how lonely, it is to be ugly.

He serves to be the best he can. Please his parents. Please his sister. Please the capitol. Be strong. Be brave. Do not question. Do not doubt. Only be true. They can judge. They can tell him what he has done wrong. And he will work harder, he will be stronger. He will break those who need to be broken. And he will let them try to break him, but he never will. There has never been a challenge to knock him off his feet and keep him there. Absalom gets up. He wipes the dirt from his shoulders and face. And he tries again. Because until his heart bursts, he is not undone. Good is good, and bad is bad. Evil is ugly. And he is not ugly.

(Will they ever tell the truth to you?)

Everything was to be perfect. Two goldsmiths, brilliant careers now retired, turned to a life of luxury after perfecting their bodies. Warik and Sperrylite could have all they ever wanted, and they wouldn’t be refused. They would own anyone that ever opposed them, and the rest would love them for what they were. All they ever wanted—the beautiful home, the strong family name with a good match, a business unrivaled—was laid out before them. And neither was the type to stand back and let life happen. Ruthless and cold were words too kind for the Ottrels.

Absalom was heralded as the heir apparent to the empire they were developing. He would have all the wealth wanted—never having to work, only to train for his possible entrance to the games. And he could be trotted out to the rest of the families as yet another plaything acquired. For that was all the children were—just another show of superiority to the rest of the world. They would have not bothered had it not meant a greater show of power. A boy to marry off to another great family and amass even greater a reputation. That they might be able to love him was an added bonus. And should he prove unwanted, they would still have the perfect plaything to shape and mold as they wanted. His destiny was just as a casualty in what they wanted.

(He was born blue)

Intraventricular Hemmorrage. A nice way of saying his brain was bleeding—and damaged at birth. Their perfect, lovely little boy had no exterior scratches, no disfigurements. But his mind was part gone before he’d spent a minute in this world. The doctors said he could make a full recovery. The only way they could ever tell would be to test him again, periodically. And that they were the Ottrels—of stock better than any lower districter, or even most of this district—had them worry less. But his lack of fussiness and general passivity—they could tell there was nothing right about this child.

Slow. Everything took three explanations, or more, to become real. He was the agonizing, insufferable child that spilled milk and needed his hand held. Could they have drowned him in the river, and been done with it? But he was still their first born—as much of a disappointment as he proved to be. “He has the mind of a dog,” Warik would say. And so he treated him as one—keeping him on a leash as they walked about, or whipping him with a belt when he’d done wrong. All was good, or bad. No need to explain the in-between to one that would never understand the difference.

He still loved—loves—them, whether or not they tied his hands together and have him kneel in sand for his mistakes. They made him tougher because they loved him, or so he believed. They whipped him because he was bad when he needed to be good. He was to carry more because he needed to be strong. He needed to be as perfect as he could for them, because it is what they demanded. And they would love him for being as perfect as they wished. Then he could be pleased, so long as they were pleased. A simple mind with simple desire: nothing more, nothing less. He wasn’t more than six when he realized he was strong. He could do few things right—but lifting, wrestling, crushing others—he would do that.

All the blows he’s taken cannot remove distractions. From time to time he will be curious—like a moth to a flame. He can’t help what he can’t understand. Sarkine should protect him—his sister, two years younger—but she is everything he is not. And to love him for being broken is to lose favor with her mother and father. The only reprieve she gives him is in explanations for what he cannot figure out for himself. A whisper here, a note there—her protection goes as far as she can remain unknown for doing so.

How long he remains is a question of his utility. A life in District One is snuffed out easily enough—especially if he becomes too much of a burden to take care of. But for now he is safe—just as long as he tries harder, and becomes stronger.

(Codeword) Odair