Patric Lucce (D1) [DONE!!!]

Patric Lucce (D1) [DONE!!!] Jul 13, 2013 13:39:53 GMT -5

Post by kitkatmalfoi on Jul 13, 2013 13:39:53 GMT -5

Patric Lucce

center]District 1 has nothing for me anymore. I've done everything there is to do, seen everything there is to lay eyes on. I'm trapped in this hole with ladders made of gold I cannot climb. Twenty three years old and already my life is over.They say you learn new things everyday. Like what? How bored one came become, I suppose.
I look like an adult. Everyone expects me to act like one. I'm twenty-three, that's too young for responsibility. Parting is fun, until nothing excites you anymore. The stench of cigarette smoke on my rich clothes, the alcohol on my breath, everything about me says I am a wealthy man. No, I simply a very bored boy with a taste for bourbon. Silk ties are fun, so are good-looking stylists and sneering at the lower class. You can only do that so long before it gets old, though. It's always the same old routine. Attend this meeting, get your teeth whitened, bet on the Games, get plastered. I'm convinced I'll die either drunk and happy or sober and assassinated.

My mother left my father after he got uninteresting. She's on her seventh marriage now. Marriage is useless, in my opinion. Why get married if your going to cheat and then divorce. My father is rotting away six feet under due to some form of cancer from over-eating. Maybe there are pretty women and bourbon in the afterlife, who knows. I probably have lots of siblings. The only one I know of for sure is my half-sister Victoria who is my mother's daughter. Vicky's unbelievable immature and hasn't gotten over her party years yet. I like to pretend she doesn't exist. She gives our family bad name.
My father used to run the city transportation system, a company I'm expected to take over. Blah.

Girls say I'm good-looking. They'll lie to get what they want though, everybody knows that. My mother likes to mollycoddle me. Maybe I should start pretending she doesn't exist, too. I might of even started and not noticed. My father used to say I was the ugliest, most annoying, selfish child he ever saw. Those comments didn't exactly bounce off of me. There's a grain of truth in every lie. I might have been I good person, if I was raised by different people. At least, that's what I tell myself. That way I can just blame everything I do on my parents and people actually feel sorry for me. Ha.

I used to train for the Games when I was younger. I was never reaped, obviously, or I'd probably be dead. I say probably because my mother always said to have a sense of modesty. It took me awhile to figure out what kind of modesty she meant. She was either a horrible hypocrite or a horrible hypocrite, depending on your definition of the word. I become pretty strong when I trained, I can still beat up anyone who crosses me. Not that I would. What's the point? People like that aren't worth my time. I'm pretty bulky, but in a fit kind of way. As long as I don't have to continually let out my pants every year then I think I'm okay. My father's codeword was he was 'going to the tailor'. What he actually was up to was something I wasn't allowed to tell mother about.
I was always horrible with any kind of weapon. I'm awful at archery, dangerously inaccurate with any sort of knife or spear, and don't get me started on axes and pitchforks. Gah. What was my instructor thinking? I wasn't even worth his time.

My thoughts on the Games are this; if we have to kill each other for sport we mights as well do it in a supervised, controlled, and progressive environment. It's a bit inhuman, and quite primary. But other than that I don't care. Animals will be animals, and humans are certainly animals. Either that or dying machines.

I don't have many 'friends', per say. I have plenty of nice acquaintances and wonderfully brilliant enemies. My lack of friends is not due to my personality, I believe, so much as my habits and personal preference. Vicky is a sister, not a friend, she doesn't count. Really, she's more of a pet. Girlfriends are toys and tools, or nice outfit accessories. Anyone else is a enemy, an acquaintance, or a service person.

The one thing I truly cannot stand about myself is I look like my mother. Not that I dislike my mother, I just sort of tolerate her. It's simply I'm sick of hearing...

"You look just like your mommy dearest."

"You must have gotten your blonde hair from your mother. Goodness that woman."

"Good thing you don't look like your father, the scoundrel. It's like doubled in weight every other year. But you, dearie, wouldn't go doing a thing like that."

This sort of comment usually come from what's left of my mother's friends. Cougars and wanna-be aristocrats. Same level as service people. They can lie to me all they want. I will never be like my mother, and I'll probably ride the same road to hell as my father.

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