Carver Cunningham D7

The spit wasn’t sticking today. Maybe it was dryness in the air, maybe it was cause he didn’t drink enough water, but for some reason, the spit wasn’t acting like the natural glue it had normally been acting like. The impatient shreds of tobaccos sat on a tiny bed of white paper; the edges were flayed from multiple attempts at joining together. It had been a bitter divorce, between the top and bottom edges. They had managed to stay together for a few moments; but it seemed like whenever he looked away, the disgruntled sides of the rolling paper had separated once again, completely intent on avoiding each other. After multiple failures and nearly being driven to the edge of insanity, Carver Cunningham reached his long, skinny finger into his pocket and pulled out a booklet of fresh new papers, grabbing the one that appealed to him the most out of the others.

Carver hated wasting rolling papers; he had done his due diligence in finding the ones that burned to slowest and allowed for the smoothest pull. These were in short supply; Carver had spend an entire check at Mr. Mango’s tobacco stand, buying tons of different flavored tobacco’s and all of the rolling papers he had in stock. The selection was absolutely beautiful; Carver had found himself wondering if the old man had managed to find a spot to grow. Anywhere from fruity flavors such as blueberry or strawberry, to sweet flavors such as chocolate or vanilla. Carver would much rather taste these flavors in his smoke than in his diet; plus, it didn’t add to his calorie count.

Carver never really had to worry about putting on weight; the brittle boy could eat a feast for twenty and gain no weight, genetics had been kind to him. Often times the old ladies had pointed out just how thin he was. “Put some meat on those bones,” they would say, “How are you ever going to lift an axe when you can barely lift a finger?” Carter was skinny, but he didn’t feel as though his was weak. They may not show, but as far as he was concerned, they had always gotten the job done. Besides, woodcutting was always more about technique, skill, and endurance than it was about pure strength. Not that Carver had any of those, but he had more of it than people thought.

Transferring the tobacco from one paper to another was annoying. He had dropped a bit on the floor, only to pick it back up again and put it on the new paper. He didn’t care how dirty it got or how sick it would make him; besides, the floor wasn’t even that dirty, and if something is set on fire, it can’t get you sick, right? The moment of truth was near; He used his pinky to even out the tobacco, the nail on his smallest finger was a bit longer than the rest to add precision to his cigarette rolling. It was an odd feature to have, but Carver couldn’t care less what people thought about him, much less so about his appearance. Finally, he took a breath. He used his thumbs to roll the lower layer of paper against the top and used the tip of his tongue to apply spit to it. He rolled the top over the bottom, pressing slightly, hoping that this time, the paper would stay together, and it did.

Carver reached back into his pocket and pulled out a match. He struck it quickly against the side of his boot, and lit the end of his cigarette. He inhaled deeply, trying to contain as much of the smoke as he could in his lungs. He had heard you could get extremely ill from smoking cigarettes; he heard everything about it. You look older, your face gets more wrinkles, it’s harder to work because you find it harder to breath. “You’ll get a cough,” they would say to him, “There’s nothing good about smoking cigarettes.”

But they were wrong. Maybe they weren’t wrong about the health issues; but there was plenty of good that came from his cigarettes. It was calming, relaxing. The tension in his muscles always left when the smoke hit the back of his throat. Things that weighed heavily his on mind became as weightless as the smoke he blew from his nose. Most of all, the oral fixation of it all was fantastic. Instead of licking his lips or chewing on the inside of the cheek, all he needed to do was roll a little bit of paradise into a neat little paper, and smoke his cares and problems away.

Besides, Carver looked so young, adding some wrinkles and speeding up the aging process might be good for him. His olive skin was smooth; no scars, no blemishes, no discoloration. His cheeks were round and despite his extremely skinny body, his nose was puffy and stout. His lips were thin and pink, they were always pursed into a slight scowl, making Carver look a lot more intimidating then he really was. His hair was long and straight; parted to each side and resting behind his ear. He hated having hair on his face; it was extremely distracting to work with and often got into his mouth when he was smoking. Often times he contained it in a black bandana that wrapped around his head; he wore it not only for functionality, but for style, because it simply mad him look like a total badass.

His eyes were a bright green, much like the color of the forest he worked in so often. They had spots of brown surrounding his pupils, which most had considered to be smaller than normal. His eyebrows were thick and dark, but they were often trimmed neatly into misshapen rectangles. Sometimes the whites of his eyes were bloodshot when he had worked to late or had smoked too many cigarettes; most of the time it was a combination of both. His teeth were stained from smoking, they were a faint yellow; and while they weren’t grossly unattractive, they didn’t do much to help his luck with the ladies.

One thing he absolutely hated about himself was his grotesquely protruding Adam’s apple. It may not have seemed as bad as he thought it was, but it was rather large and looked like Adam had bitten of way more than he could chew.

He blew out a cloud of smoke, smiling and squinting up at the sun. The weather was particular nice today, no wind, no clouds. He had always enjoyed the sunlight; his skin wasn’t as pale as some of the other kids in the district. He often worked shirtless out in the lumber fields or the forest; he tanned rather nicely and liked to keep things even. While he wasn’t the most metro sexual person around, Carver took a good look at himself each morning. He always dressed himself carefully and meticulously, his reputation hindered on a particular style. While he pretended as though what other people thought didn’t matter to him, it couldn’t be farther from the truth. He wanted people to believe he was a badass; he wanted everyone to think he was grungy and didn’t care. So far it had been working.

He always wore jeans. For some reason to him, jeans had always seemed more badass than other articles of clothing, especially if they were black or grey. They were often tattered and worn, partially because he did it on purpose and partially because he doesn’t like to spend his money on his clothes. His shirts were just as tattered and dirty, but it’s harder to see on a completely black shirt. Out in the fields Carver tries to wear a minimal amount of clothing. He works up a sweat and prefers not to have to sit through a soaked shirt. His black bandana does a good job soaking it all up, and it’s probably the only thing he washes every day.

Most of his shirts are flannel, much like a typical lumberjack. They provide good warmth in the winter and his style seems to be emphasized by taking the typical dress of the workingman. He doesn’t think much of the color red, so green and blue are the most common colors he wears. His shoes are busted but he has a pair of steel toed boots that a virtually indestructible. Sure, the boots aren’t going to help from falling trees but they can take a good hit from some of the smaller branches.

Carver has a litany of tattoos; custom made by his father who takes plants and seeds from around the district. He has a large tree that runs down his spine, he has the words, “Axes cut, Words don’t” across the left side of his chest, and he has a picture of a monkey eating a banana on his left lower abdomen. The first tattoo represents his allegiance to the district and his life’s work. Carver had always said if he ever ended up in the Hunger Games, he’d at least put up some sort of fight. It wasn’t that he was in love with district 7, he just never had any issue with it. It’s his home and he would hate to live anywhere else; even though if he was born or even got the chance to visit the upper districts, he’d probably see things a little differently.

The words across his chest are rather self-explanatory, they represent everything he is and wants to remain. His reputation is held to his own personal standard, and while he does care that people know who he is and what he’s like; he doesn’t necessarily care about the words people speak about him. As long he portrays a certain image, he’s done his job, and the tattoo across his chest is perfect for that.

Carver stretched his arms out; the hem up his shirt came up just above his abdomen. He looked down and touched his monkey tattoo, laughing at the memories that came along with it. As a young boy, Carver couldn’t sit still; and while cigarettes help with that today, he still has a penchant for getting a little stir-crazy and antsy. When he was younger, he had always found himself climbing trees of all kind. The fact that he was light made it much easier to swing himself around. Tree limbs barely even creaked under his weight, and he seemed to climb around even faster than he could walk. His father had decided to give him his first tattoo, and when he couldn’t decide, he tattooed the monkey with the banana to his stomach.

Carver finished up his cigarette and made his way back home. He dangled his axe loosely from his hand, dropping it could result in the loss of a toe or a severe laceration, but he simply didn’t care. He walked down the path to his home, a small cottage built from scratch by his father and late grandfather. His mother was probably there waiting with dinner; and as much as he disliked his mother’s cooking, the thought of food made his mouth water uncontrollably. He got to his door, and opened it. His father was sitting at a table reading a piece of paper and laughing. Carver wondered what was so funny, but he didn’t ask. He’d have a better time imagine what his father was reading. Maybe it was a dirty joke, maybe it was some awesome news.

“Son! Welcome home, you have to see this list of dirty jokes my friend sent over.” Carver’s mother rolled her eyes. His father beckoned him over, still sweaty and grimy from the days work. “Why don’t you take a shower dad, you stink.” They both laughed. “Well, I was going to, but your mother insisted on feeding us first, now, go wash your hands you smell like blueberry bullsh**.” Carver’s father wasn’t a fan of his tobacco habit, but still, he took it pretty lightly. Times were hard, and everyone needs an outlet. Carver’s was smoking, his was art, and his wife’s was cooking; even if she hadn’t been very good at it.”

Carver and his father are very much alike. They both have green eyes, they both have long dirty blonde hair, and the both have the same color skin. His father is a much larger man; he was an early bloomer and some say he had the strength of two men. He has a headstrong personality and a don’t give a damn attitude, and Carver has had no problem emulating his father’s personal fortitude. Carver doesn’t care what anybody says; sometimes even his parents, although, they hardly ever get in his way of anything. He does what he wants, when he wants, how he wants. He’s not a bad kid, and he’s only slightly rebellious. He would never inflict personal harm on somebody for pleasure’s sake, and he doesn’t even like to bully people.

Carver’s a bit of a natural loner; his laziness in terms of social activity causes him to do most of the things he likes or has to do on his own. He doesn’t dislike people, but he can be off-putting and tends to not care if he’s hurting some-ones feelings, even if he’s not deliberately trying to make someone feel bad. He doesn’t go out of his way to meet people; all the people he knows are either from work or from some chance meeting in the town square or out and about doing something else.

Carver likes to have fun, and he’s good at making it for himself. As a boy he created his own rope swing; one that he still uses occasionally to this day. It’s extremely dangerous, all it takes is one snap of a branch and the tree’s limbs won’t be the only ones that are broken.

Carver’s parents are nothing special; his father is a lumberjack who works almost day and night in the fields. He’s a former artist, but art doesn’t make money in these types of districts, so he resorts to using his strength and skill in the forest. He enjoys making tattoos for people, so much so that he does it for very cheap. He doesn’t see the harm in tattooing children; even tattooing his own several times. Carver’s father met his mother when she was looking for someone who could draw a heart on her ankle. It was a typical small tattoo, but he made it look so brilliant and detailed that they spent hours talking about his art and their lives. Eventually they fell in love, and Carver was the finishing product.

His mother is a secretary at one of the offices designed to help the lumberjacks work way more efficiently. Although it was a simple job, she was extremely good at what she did, and she was fiercely loyal and independent. Up till now, she’s been working at the same office for over twenty years and hasn’t had a single problem. She doesn’t get paid a whole lot, but the costs of living aren’t excessive for her family. They are a simple bunch, and they are good at making things for themselves. Most of the furniture in their house is completely crafted by hand, and while they wouldn’t call themselves inventors, the custom-made feel of their home makes visitors feel extremely welcome (even though they hardly get any.) For parents, they are extremely lively. They often go out hiking and adventuring through the district. They’ve seen nearly every spot by the fence; they know almost every secret hideaway and crevice, and they know almost everybody’s parents by name.

“So, how was work today mom?” Celia brought a plate full of fruits and a skimp slab of meat. It was probably rabbit or possum, judging from the color, and Carver had hoped it was the former. Celia had a way of looking for deals of all kind, especially when it came to food. It wasn’t that she was a horrible cook, but she insisted on the cheaper meats and the more expensive fruits and vegetables; Carver had blamed her for why he was so skinny. Often times he wondered how is father hadn’t lost so much weight due to his mother’s cooking, but he never wondered out loud.

“Work was alright, there was far too much paperwork to do. Some of the workers got injured on the job today, I think one of them is in critical condition, and it’s not looking very good. I always say safety first, I tell them to do things by the book, but no, they all want to cut corners. Now one of them is going to end up dead again, and I’m going to have to fill out all this paperwork and inform the family of their loss. It’s not an easy job you know. All you men, you, your father, you don’t care if you get injured, but what about the women you look after, huh?” Celia had a way of exploding like no other. She was the opposite of Carver in that she held no emotion to herself, and always spoke what was on her mind.

“Well, those guys are just dumber than us, that’s all.” Chester wasn’t one for words. He liked to keep things short and sweet, and do most of his speaking through his actions. “What about you, Carv, any new shinies today?” Shinies are what Chester called injuries, and Carver was the one he probably said it to the most. Not just because he’s his son and they have more of an opportunity to talk to each other, but because Carver had always found his way into some sort of trouble.

Carver has plenty of scars all over his body, all of them due to injury. He shares his parents desire of adventure, and as a result, he’s broken nearly all the big bones in his body at least twice in his life. He’s fallen out of trees when he was younger, he’s been hit by low hanging branches, he’s even cut himself with a knife when trying to whittle his name into the trunk of a tree. If you can think of a way to accidentally hurt yourself, chances are that Carver has done it. Honestly, it’s amazing to think that someone who has spent so much time alone has gotten hurt so many times.

Carver finished his dinner and went over to the sink to wash his dishes. It was in fact rabbit, and he was glad to say the least. “Thanks mom.” He went over and kissed her on the cheek. Carver was the only woman he had ever shown affection to. He didn’t try hard enough to get the attention of the girls at school, and while he could be considered somewhat attractive, his grunginess makes him seem unattainable.

At school, Carver was one of the only boys not to run in a pack. He sat at a table and ate alone, he went to recess alone, he did pretty much everything alone. Occasionally during his free period, he’d go out back to smoke a cigarette; there would be others there he might chat with for a little. They talked about nonsense mostly, and they never grew close, but they always had that little time for themselves; and while Carver himself wouldn’t admit it, he enjoyed spending time with other smokers.

Carver hopped in the shower, using the least water possible; afterwall, water was money, and he was amongst even the cheapest of penny-pinchers. He made his way to his room, and plopped on his bed. Tomorrow was going to be another day, he had hoped it would be a little more eventful.