Maize Lemming [D11]

Maize is a fairly muscular young man, having gained his strength through countless hours in the field. He can haul a good many things, such as: baskets filled to the brim with various vegetables and fruits, sacks of barley and other wheat, and a fair number of things that has been endowed upon him as a resident of District Eleven. Though he certainly has the strength for life as a farmer, his stamina fails him; Maize tires easily when he’s working, having to pause and take a breath for a few minutes before going back to work.

He has large ears that jut from the side of his head like a pair of open car doors. Maize has a square chin and deep, dark brown eyes set into a light brown face. His nose is rather flat, almost as if it had been pressed down by a board. He also has curly hair that flattens into a pair of sideburns along the side of his head.

Maize prefers to wear comfortable clothes that move with the body, instead of against it. Most of these clothes are old, gray hand-me-downs from his father’s boyhood days. Being such, most of them are torn and stained, with little square patches covering up some of the bigger holes.

As of late, Maize has become very sharp-tongued. He doesn’t know how to control it; if a person tries to engage in conversation with him, sarcasm and smart-alecky lines just spew out of his mouth (except in special cases, such as speaking to his father, where he swiftly clamps down on his tongue). But, if the sarcastic part of his brain fails him, Maize may resort to crude comments that are much like the terms: “Your mom”, and “That’s what she said”, et cetera. Obviously, Maize isn’t the most popular kid on campus/farm.

All this unintentional sarcasm don’t come from the aftereffects of an undisciplined teen, however. It is the product of an unsatisfied frustration, birthed from a merciless confusion that has been torturing his mind for quite a bit now. Maize keeps it hidden well beneath his veil of sarcasm, but sometimes he relinquishes it in explosions of ragequits, or, in less serious cases, pure irritation.

Some days, his frustration subsides. On this rare occasion, Maize seems to be full of good humor and cheer, even willing to laugh with a pal who’s just pranked him. He even becomes more willing to do things for his father, where on other days it brings his father to the point of screaming to get Maize to do something. But even on his good days, Maize still glances at his father with a dark, hate-filled glare.

All his life, Maize had been told that there were higher beings. These beings weren’t gods, necessarily – but individuals of the mortal realm, who by natural means grew in social stature and prestige, ranking over certain members of the human race. Men dominated over women, the eldest had the choice to control the youngest, a Capitolite had the right to slay a resident of District Twelve, and children of career districts could shove normal district children into the dirt if they so wished.

It wasn’t that these higher beings had earned their title; instead, it was more by random. All that mattered was where they were born and their physicality. And as the higher beings thrived, the lesser beings must conform to their will, and do whatever pleases the higher beings without objection or rebellion.

“And that’s why,” Maize’s father always told him, “we got the Games ruining peoples’ lives, Maize. A bunch of idiots thought they could take on a higher power – and look at the ‘freedom’ those damn rebels have given us now! Hell, I’m half-tempted to say we deserve the Hunger Games!”

It was always his father who was keen on indoctrinating Maize; his mother would just lean against the wall, staring down at her feet as she listened to her husband drone on and on about higher and lesser powers. Sometimes, Maize would glance at her and noitce a tear roll down her cheek, having just escaped from a dark, bitter eye.

Life in the Lemming household was never truly easy. They padded across a dirt floor in their one-story shanty, and there was never enough food, especially in winter. Whenever Maize complained about this, his father would always reply, “Shut yer trap. Just be glad we don’t live in District Twelve; yah must be truly stupid to be born in a place like that.”

Mr. Lemming didn’t make life any easier. He was always imposing his will, reminding his family about how he outranked them, as he was the older male. One murmur, one slight hand gesture, one dark glance could mean a slap across the face. One never dared to cross Mr. Lemming. Never.

But there was one light in Maize’s dark world: his mother. She was always his friend, coaxing him in his moments of stress, telling Maize that if he just tried he could do marvelous things someday, and by doing so completely ignoring her husband’s philosophy. Maize would have a chat with her whenever he got the chance, because he knew she loved him, and he loved her back. Out of the corner of his eye, Maize could see his mother wincing whenever he complained that dinner was too scanty. He knew she was there for him, and he was there for her.

Last winter proved especially difficult for the Lemmings. Maize fell sick with fever, and Mr. Lemming took this opportunity to show off his dominance by giving Maize a small amount of food, “because he’s too lazy to do nothin’ but lie down and cough all damn day.”

But it was too much for Mrs. Lemming, as she watched her son deteriorate in front of her very eyes. So, when she went out to work in the fields every morning, she would steal some produce and slip it to Maize. The stolen food certainly helped; slowly yet surely, Maize became strong enough to fight off his fever.

One day in late winter, as Mrs. Lemming hurriedly stuffed an ear of corn into her bag, a Peacekeeper snatched her by the wrist, and with one dark glare dragged her away.

The Head Peacekeeper was especially cruel that winter. He ordered Mr. Lemming and Maize to be found immediately, and taken to the District Square. Mr. Lemming was discovered first, and when asked where Maize was he instantly squealed that his son was sick in bed. A few minutes later, a trio of Peacekeepers was barging through the front-door of the Lemming’s residence, herding Maize to the District Square, where they had set up a whipping post.

Maize was forced to witness his mother’s public whipping; forced to watch the whip come down on his mother’s back over and over and over and over and over and over again, and forced to hear his mother’s screams of agony every time a fresh wound was made. Every organ in his body seemed to lurch in unison as Maize noticed the bloood splattering Mrs. Lemming's clothes.

It felt likes day before they were finally threw with her. Peacekeepers unbound her wrists and shoved her face into the dirt, before marching off like nothing had happened. Maize rushed forward to attend to his mother, his eyes wide with panic. Mr. Lemming’s hand jerked forward, seizing Maize by the arm, and pulled him back. Maize struggled, his body lunging forward, but his father (being much larger than Maize) dragged him away, mumbling how about how this was the most embarrasing day of his life.

As he was yanked homeward, Maize felt his hands beginning to tremble. His mind started to spin with questions and bitter musings, all wondering why Maize had to submit to those monsters – those monsters that beat his mother, and to the monster that was pulling him away from her, and who later revealed that Maize would never be allowed to see her again, as she was a disgrace to the family now.

Maize has been keeping himself awake at night, pondering these questions, and allowing himself to be frustrated with thoughts he wouldn't dare think before last winter. This frustration has corrupted his once obedient demeanor, turning him sarcastic and short-fused in his private war with unknown morality and drilled ideology.

Ugh, the appearence part gets me every time... >__> And I'm a little nervous about the history, too. It's so bloody dramatic... D: Hopefully, it's not as much of a soap opera as I think it is. Dx *hates writing dramatic histories*