Tuff Blackmore [D2] {done}

You are sitting in a room with white lights and fluorescent walls, your fingers running across the table in a rhythmic beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. Three beats in all as you start the process over, your tongue clicking impatiently as you wait for the questions to start. They want to know. They always want to know. Who are you? What were you doing in that alleyway that night? Can you tell us how that person died? You are always playing the witness, and never the perpetrator. 

They do not know your name. They do not know where you live. And really, can they ever truly know who you are? Not if you are feeding them these constant lies. You are whoever you wish to be in this moment, and they can do nothing to stop your banter. You're toying with them, they must know that. Surely they cannot be so ignorant to think that the words coming out of your mouth are serious.


People, especially people in authority, can be really idiotic sometimes. "Just give us the basics kid. We just want to work with you here." One of them breathes deeply, their words fumbling from their mouth with spit and passion. They are clearly frustrated as they shove a piece of paper in your face. A form of sorts. Is this how it's going to be? Will you have to weave a web of lies before they let you go free?

"Just the basics?" You ask, your voice oh-so-innocent and mildly "confused". They nod and you start your list. You like lists. They are your signature and the key to your success, even if they never actually reveal anything true about you.

I am Reed Morehouse. Lie.
I am sixteen years old. Lie.
I am an orphan. Lie.
I am an only child. Lie.
This was my first time in the streets. Lie.
I came across the body while trying to feed a stray cat. Lie.
I would never hurt anyone. Lie.
I would never kill anyone. Lie.
I have never killed anyone. Lie.
I did not kill this person. Truth.

Kind of...

Okay so you may have gotten somebody else to kill them. And you may have killed that person. And they may not have found the other body because you shoved it in a dumpster far, far away (they were running from you, after all. It' s not your fault they went three blocks south and five blocks west before you caught up with them. You are not the fastest of your siblings. You are just the smartest, of course.) But they were too daft to connect that murder with this one, and you were smart enough on your feet to make up some bullshit story about a lost cat when they caught you close to the body (you were going to hide it too, but of course they had to catch you. Did you not learn your lesson the last time you got taken in? Idiot.)

If only they knew the truth of that list. Let's reserve it, shall we?

I am Tuff Blackmore.
I am eighteen years old.
I am a twin.
I have many siblings.
I go on the streets every night.
There is no stray cat. I wanted to hide the evidence.
I hurt everyone.
I kill everyone.
I have killed many people.
I killed this person. Lie.

In a way...

So, who are you, really? We got the basics down, but how would people describe you? I know how I would. Fat as a duck, you look like you were run over by a hovercraft, speared through with a trident, and hit multiple times with an ugly stick. And, that isn't really a lie. You have an ugly, grisly smile with yellowed teeth and overly chapped lips. Your grin is harsh on the eyes and it really shows the world what you stand for. Stark sadism and dirty, dirty motives. You aren't to be trusted in any way, shape, or form. 

Your eyes are dark and crinkled, but they are buried deep within your face behind heavy eyelashes and overgrown eyebrows. Your hair is dark brown, curly, and unkempt because clearly you have nobody to impress. If you want a girl, you can get one, even if your means of doing so are unrighteous and uncalled for. You're covered with scars that you carved upon yourself in a crude attempt to look tougher. Maybe if you look injured they'll take pity on you. Or maybe your siblings will think you're tougher. You need to live up to your name, Tuff. 

At least your fingers are precise. You've practiced enough, surely they have to be by now? You've adorned them in rings and show-pieces. Proof of your wealth. You hide them during questioning. Don't need your identity revealed because of a silly ring, now do you? Really you just use them to get the ladies. Ladies love jewelry, even when they're on the hands of someone with looks straight from hell, like you. 

Your hands are always stained with blood. You try to clean them quickly but you lose control so often that they end up just like before. A crimson, painted mess of a reminder of your last haunt, your list victory. You're a monster, you know that right? Tuff Blackmore, District Two monster. They underestimate you, even with the blood. They doubt your ability up until the point you raise your knife and throw, stab, pierce, kill. They forget who you are until they are dead. 

Yet more often than not, they are the ones to finally end their life. You destroy them, inside and out, until they can't think of anything else but dying. Then you deny them that pleasure until they drive the blade through their necks themselves. You revel in the screaming. It's your sanity, it's your peace, it's your motive. You want to hear their pain as they die. You want to watch it twist onto their face until finally the lifeless draught overcomes their eyes and subdues itself into their soul and they're dead as a doorknob. You didn't do it, they did. You're innocent. You are guiltless. 

You're the opposite of your brother, Malachite, in looks (but not in character, oddly enough). Where he is handsome, you are disgusting. Where he is light and "innocent", you are dark and despairing. You're the shadow in the "perfect" society of Panem. You are the star of the nightmares, the villain.

Who is Tuff Blackmore?
List me this, my friend. You like lists. Hand it over! Hurry, dear, your audience is awaiting. 

I am selfish.
I am insane.
I am self-consumed.
I am God's gift to women.
I am convincing.
I can get you to do anything.
I am a wall flower.
I am violent.
I am angry. 
I hate you.
I want you dead.
I loathe you.
I loathe the world.
I am insecure.
I am jealous.
I want to be liked.
I want to be good looking.
I want to be accepted.
I want a good personality.
I want to not kill.
I am a monster.
You want me to die.
I am an outcast.
I am a reject.
I am a killer.
You will pay.
You. Will. Pay. 
You are going to die.
I am going to kill you.
You will die.
You will burn.
I will win.
I am Tuff.

You forget gluttonous and self-indulging in your tyrannical masterpiece. You forgot that you don't give two shits about anyone else because you're always trying to get things for yourself. You forgot that you use everyone and let nobody use you unless it's for some sort of torture or murder. You forgot that you get women to kill themselves because of the shame they have of sleeping with someone as ugly as you.

You forgot that you're the worse sort of human imaginable.


You forgot that your plan is to go into the games, not to win, but to get everyone else to hate themselves.

You forgot how much you deserve death. You forgot how much nobody loves you. You forgot how you're going to be alone for the rest of your life.

Did you tell them about your history, Tuff? Did you tell the men in the black coats as they questioned your motives for being in the alleyway that night that you got a whore to kill herself when you were only nine? She was the first death that gave you a taste for murder. You found her just moments after she finished some disgusting act with some disgusting dude and you convinced her that you really were just an illusion. You gave her all sorts of dreams for her future before you began to edge her on. You told her the only way to make this future happen was to kill you. You even gave her one of your parents knives, not telling her that you had two more hidden up your sleeves. She was about to kill you and you attacked her. Stabbed her right through the heart. Made her scream. Made her bleed.


You watched her die.

And you never, ever went back to the life you had before.

You became Tuff Blackmore. A serial killer. A monster. A nightmare.

The world should be afraid. The world should be very afraid.

Because I am releasing you into the wild.

codeword: oDair