Kohl Scoria, District 1 [Done]

{K o h l} {S c o r i a}

{Age} 18

{Gender} Male

{District} 1

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I wonder if my family would have left me in the cradle had I not been handsome. A lot of what I’ve learned is that this District puts a heavy emphasis on appearance—that if you’re not gifted with the strong jaw or the broad shoulders, you might as well forget about becoming the avid fighter you so desire. I was lucky that way: my parents saw me as the child that put into hand to hand combat, with a wide frame and a hard head (some might say that this is a flaw, too). My older brother and sister were designed for weaponry, with throwing knives and a whip, respectively. Chyrs and Moon spent a lot of time building me up as a child. They were the sort of older brother and sister that tried to keep me on the straight and narrow, even when I seemed to be staring off into the distance with my mouth open.

One would think if you’ve had everything handed to you, you might seize what was given and put it to use. I just find the state of affairs so terribly boring, to be honest. I think they suspected one of us would wind up in the games. My mother was more anxious than my father, saying that it would do us a great honor (and business even better) if one of us showed up on screen. I have the face for television, or so my father likes to say. Then again I don’t know if I want to go getting my face cut to pieces—don’t all the victors return home with a part of themselves missing? I think I’m perfectly happy not missing a finger, toe, or ear, thank you very much. I think a lot of people here lose sight of what they’re fighting for, besides the glory and the fame.

It’s either a tuxedo or a set of shorts and a breathable spandex shirt for me—something for going out in the evening or for being in the gym. We float around the top circle so easily, from party to party, as though that is what our lives truly depended on. They’re the old money, my mother and father, going back generations and having made alliances to power just when the nation of Panem was born. It’s why they lean on the old way of doing things: dressing a certain way, speaking with diction, standing up straight. They don’t like any deviations from the norm if it can be helped. If things have been working so well for them for so long, why change? A part of me wonders what would happen if I showed up to dinner sporting a Mohawk and neon clothes. I think my father would have a coronary, and my mother might just fall out of her chair (before promptly standing up and strangling me to death).

People have asked what I find interesting, if I’m not really entertained with the notion of becoming a fighter. I look to my brother, whose gone into business with my mother and father—something involving finance, trading precious metals, all of that. It seems dreadfully dull and lots of his time is spent crunching numbers into the wee hours of the morning, just so that he can sit on top of ever growing piles of money. My sister decided law would be her track—and while that seems all the bit fancier, the politics involved appear utterly exhausting. Why would I want to kiss the asses of the lawmakers of Panem, and all the families that are obvious liars, but spend their hard earned coins making troubles go away? Moon says herself that she doesn’t fight for justice, only for her clients to be proven innocent (and the reverse, should they need it).

I used to spend a lot of time playing my part. It’s probably true that most teenagers try to rebel a little bit, so this won’t sound so unusual. I spent the better part of my younger years bowing, saying hello, doing the right thing. Is that what it is? When I was supposed to jump, I just asked how high, and that was that. It’s so much easier than having to think, I believe that’s why we do it. People may say that sounds so silly, having free will and all, and disappearing behind some preset expectations. My family didn’t make me a slave. They didn’t hide me in a cupboard and it wasn’t as though they would have killed me in my sleep if I disobeyed them. We had everything—a big house, the name—what else could I have wanted growing up?

But it drives me out of my mind, having to perform and become something so pre-fated. There’s no excitement in a world that’s so predetermined. Not to mention exhausting to have to hold up the kabuki mask for all of them. I’m supposed to be married young, powerful by twenty-five, perhaps Mayor when the time comes. My brain is as hazy as it is when they let me drink the champagne; are all adults so tragically boring? When we grow up, are we just confined to these little blocks, with blinders on over our eyes, and kept walking on little tracks? I struggle to find what makes my mother and father happy. I guess it’s having some sort of power, or understanding the internal politics of the district. We’re still under the thumb of the capitol though. Does that mean they don’t mind being sub-par, no matter how hard that they try?

They tell me it’s best not to question things as they are. If I accept what I’m supposed to become then I will be happy. I just have to trust them, and the whole world will open up before me. Of course, I could be swallowed up by the games—but my parents already know that the odds are so slimly in my favor (have they rigged the bowl?) that the prospect of such a thing happening is beyond them. I should be happy they don’t want me to turn into one of those mindless careers, or that they would be ashamed for not being picked to represent us. If anything, my mother finds them detestable, as though we have more important things to worry about than children slashing themselves to bits.

My brother and sister have always been my source of strength. They’re the ones that keep telling me that I need to figure myself out, that we all go through this stage but I’ll pull through. I suppose I can’t go thinking that I’m unique—it’s just that I don’t know if what I’m going through is truly a phase. My parents would—they do—say that I’m just another teenager hell bent on embarrassing them at every turn. The truth is that I don’t care one way or another. I would think they would want me to be happy with myself, and with them. But I see now that if I am to be what I want—whatever that is—I should hope to please them, unless I want to be disowned entirely.

{Codeword} Odair