Cole Fenton D12

Cole Fenton D12 Sept 16, 2012 16:56:19 GMT -5

Post by heartwood on Sept 16, 2012 16:56:19 GMT -5

Name: Cole Fenton
Age: 17
1382 words

Hi, my name is Cole Fenton, and I’m dead. My skin is cold, my muscles are lifeless…my bowels are turning and my eyes are lazy and wandering. I must be dead, or, at least I wish I were. Maybe I’m using the wrong words; we don’t get high quality education over here in district twelve, so if you’re expecting me to care about things like syntax or grammar when my family is starving each and every night; I’m sorry but I’m not going to live up to those expectations. Because like I said, I’m dead. There was a time when I was actually alive though. But we’ll get to that.

You wanted to know about my appearance right? I know what you’re thinking. This is district twelve; hardly anybody has blue eyes here. You’re not wrong; both my father and my mother have the darkest brown eyes you could ever find in Panem. My little sister Kaleigh’s eyes are brown too, albeit a bit lighter in color. But my eyes are a bright blue, and they never fail to get me noticed. Sometimes that’s a good thing…actually, a lot of that is a good thing. But, we’ll get to that later too. Lets keep talking about how weird I look, cause yea, that doesn’t make me the slightest bit uncomfortable.

My hair is brown; just plain old, boring brown. I guess that dispels any thought that blonde hair and blue eyes have to go together. That’s what district one always makes it seem like during the Games doesn’t it? I’ll admit I am a bit envious. They look so otherworldly and regal; I don’t necessarily want to be like them…I just want to be wherever they are. But I would totally settle for not here. Not here would be the best place on earth, because it’s simply not here. My hair isn’t too long either, but I wouldn’t call it short. There’s nothing special about it; it’s just hair after-all. It’s straight, messy, and sometimes it grows on my face.

My father is always making fun of me because of my lack of facial and body hair. He says that a true mark of a man his moustache, but I just don’t see how that makes any sense. Facial hair itches, and I prefer to keep any and all distractions off of my face…it’s just annoying. Besides, shouldn’t the true mark of a man be how well he can feed his family? It shouldn’t be based on anything physical, because if it is, I’m just completely out of luck.

There’s nothing masculine about me if you look at what I bring to the table physically; but how can you expect me to get stronger if I’m fighting an uphill battle against starvation and genetics? Both my parents are inherently skinny, so it makes sense that both my sister and I are as well. I’m tall and lanky, at least, tall for any normal sixteen year-old around here. People are always asking me to reach for things at the Hob, at least I have some use around here.

My skin is very pale, something else that tends to go along with having blue eyes. My friends call me Ghosts because my skin is so pale that you can see my veins running in my arms; I’m virtually transparent. My smile is small and tight, my lips are thin, and I happen to never show any teeth. Everything about it seems extremely fake, and most of the time, it is. I have nothing to smile about around here. Am I supposed to be happy that my friends are getting sent off to die in the Hunger Games? Am I supposed to smile when people around me are getting sick, and I have to fear for the lives of my family and me day and night? Am I supposed to laugh when my stomach rumbles, because I’ve never felt what it feels like to be full? No. I’m not.

I guess the only thing left to talk about is my clothing style, but to be honest, there’s not much to talk about. Shirt, shoes, pants, underwear, and sometimes socks. I have a jacket for when it rains, and a nice shirt for when I’m standing in line for the reaping. There’s no choosing of colors, there’s no back to school shopping. There’s what I have, and it’s simple; but frankly, I like it that way. Better looking like you belong around here than looking like one of those Capitol clowns.

If you can’t tell my personality from the way I’ve been talking to you this entire time than something must simply be wrong with your brain. I’m not the nicest guy around; people learn to stay away from me when I’m in one of my moods, and I’m in one of my moods a lot. I get my sickly looks and posture from my father, but I get my no nonsense and anger filled meltdowns from my mother. Mom never takes anything from anybody, and it’s earned her both scorn and respect from the others in the district. For me, it’s pretty much just the first part. Not many people like me; I have a select few friends, acquaintances really. I’m not amiable, so be it.

I don’t think I was always this way though. Somewhere far deep in the recesses of my mind, I can remember a time when things were far more simple and innocent. Times are never easy for anybody in district twelve, but for a kid under the age of twelve, it’s far easier. You don’t have to work; you don’t have to worry about the reaping. All you have to worry about is a sad excuse for a school, not getting into trouble with the Peacekeepers, and of course, starvation. The starvation is always the worse for a growing boy, at least, that’s how I remember it.

But there were fun times. Times when tag ruled the world, when hide and seek was a close second, and manhunt was tied for third with rock skipping at the river. There was still joy, and there was still laughter. Humor isn’t something that finds me often anymore. I don’t really laugh, really because there’s not much to laugh at. I find myself yearning for a time lost long ago way too often for my liking.

I still remember my first reaping, but doesn’t everybody? I was twelve, obviously. I had taken tesserae the moment I could; it was a chance I had to take. Either take food or have a chance to be chosen to be put into the Hunger Games (which would be certain death for me), or not be able to eat, be forced to starve, and have no option but to either die, or steal food from others. I’ve never really been good at stealing; hell, now that I think about it, I’ve never really been good at anything.

I guess that’s something I can be thankful for. I don’t have to worry about being looked at as a lesser human being; here in district ten we are all lesser human beings. There’s nobody here to ‘groom’ our talents. A successful person here is likely a merchant; living off whatever sales they make, struggling to make an honest dollar. My father works at the mines; pretty much half adult males do. I’d be lying if I told you he was one of the most productive members of the group.

I’ll probably work in the mines when I’m eighteen, but for now, I make a small buck buying things from the hob and selling them at the black market. Some people don’t know how to make deals; I do. It’s a little hard to understand…but I’ll give you an example. Someone at the black-market is looking for a trinket of some kind, but she doesn’t know whom to ask. I’ll ask around at the hob, find someone who can smelt a bit, find someone who deals with alloy, and I’ll by the service and the alloy, and sell the trinket that comes from them for profit. It’s not an easy job; and it’s by no means reliable. But I do what I can to help the family out.