DARCY PIERCE | DISTRICT SEVEN | WIP

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Something about the tree branches swaying in the wind and the sounds of birds chirping always made those light caramel colored irises of his light up with excitement. He loved the way the wind blew through his soft brown hair, as if it needed any help looking messy. He wasn't entirely sure if he was naturally olive skinned, or it was just the after math of spending so much time in nature's calm embrace, but either way, his skin was a few shades darker than the majority of the people in his grade. His mother said his father had sun kissed skin, but for all he knew his father could have been anything.

He breathed in through a small but sure nose, enjoys the fresh air, and then out through slightly parted, and very thin lips. Always turned down, always making him look like he was pouting when he really wasn't. A curved jaw clenched several times as his neck stretched over the top of the forest green sweater he wore. The itchy wool of it was something he had learned to ignore, and even came to love it. (He was all too used to doing that.) His nimble fingers ached from the evening's cooling temperature, even after he shoved them in those tight denim pants he always wore. They pulled out a cigarette, and shoved it into his mouth. Also producing a match, and using the rough sides of his converse to light strike it, he lit the tip on fire. He was quick to shake it out before the gentle embers licked the fragile skin of his fingers. (That had already happened one too many times.)

He had never been the tallest person, not nearly, or the most fit. It wasn't that he didn't try. He ran so long that he vomited multiple times. His metabolism just worked over time, and refused to let him gain an weight, or any muscle at all. He pulled himself up on a low branch of a tree, his feet careful as he expertly climbed to the top, smiling as he reached the top. He could just see the sun disappearing over the horizon, and it was really beautiful. Especially when he blew his smoke out, and it danced in the free air. He loved it here, he did. But this was not where he belonged.

He belonged in the winner's circle, that golden crown pulling out the delicate flecks of green in his eyes, and everyone cheering his name. He belonged on the television screens, where people stared in awe at the body the Capitol had taken and made brand new after his victory, hopefully choosing to leave the one on his arm he got from falling out of a tree. He may have been an acquired taste, and to some he might not have been attractive, but he deserved to be noticed. Pushing the cherry of the cigarette into the tree's stiff bark and cracking his knuckles, he decided to head home.

It's no secret in District Seven that Darcy is over dramatic. He doesn't see it as a negative thing like some, though, but more so adding a creative twist to everyday life. He wanted to be remembered. Some people didn't understand that was all he was trying to do, like the two boys that cornered him in the market his mother shopped in. Both of them laughed, pulling their faces close enough to his that he could feel their hot breath on his face, sticky and terrifying. The smart thing to do would have been to apologize, and Darcy knew it, but he let his temper get the best of him. Letting words fly from his mouth in a swift, sarcastic manner that seemed almost magnetic to the smaller of the pair of boys' fists, he held no regrets. Even as he felt pain lurch into his stomach, one strong enough to make him feel nauseous, he was proud of his words.

People always seemed to undermine Darcy because of his small size, but determination had always been a key factor in who he was as a person, and that, combined with those bony knuckles of his made him more of a threat than people realized. Before he could stop himself, the back of his hand landed squarely across the boy's face, and he used to little window of opportunity he created from the shock of his retaliation to run. Fast. He had never been good at wrestling, never a spectacular lumber jack, since he couldn't lift all that much at a time, but he could run. He liked to run. It made him feel safe, and still in more danger than ever. Like seeing a snake through a glass window. He knew danger was still there, but he was immune to it, at least for the time being.

He guessed he deserved the punch to the stomach, calling the boys out on their stupidity and lack of basic common sense, but he had never been one to hold his mouth. He finally stopped running, unsure if the sickness he felt was do to the physical activity or the fist that was jammed into his stomach. He sucked at being nice, really. He told it how it was, and while the majority of the time people thought he was only joking, he wasn't. He meant everything he said. There were a few that could detect his sarcasm, and they always seemed to cause problems for him. Pity, really. He enjoyed deceiving people, making them believe he wasn't a monster. What fun was it if they caught him before the game had even begun? That was the thing with Darcy, though. Everything was a game.

The problem with that was he hated to lose. Sadly, in his eyes, when it came to pleasing those parents of his, he came last thanks to Bryce and Caston. People said that he shouldn't compare himself to them, but why shouldn't he? Everyone else did. Or it seemed that way to him, at least. He hated being compared to his brothers, and sometimes thought he might have just hated them all together, but without them he would've been lost. As much as they fought, as often as they would have liked to kill one another, he knew he could count on them.

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