Tobias Pine {D2/FIN}

Tobias Pine {D2/FIN} Apr 19, 2014 11:13:05 GMT -5

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Post by Deleted on Apr 19, 2014 11:13:05 GMT -5

I M N E V E R G O N N A G I V E I T U P

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T O B I A S P I N E
DISTRICT2 | NINETEEN | MALE

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I’ve never liked the name Tobias. It’s always sounded too down-to-earth, too realistic for my tastes. It doesn’t fit me the way a name is supposed to. A name is supposed to tell your story in a way that only it can, and mine does not do that. It doesn’t describe my vibrant blue eyes or my light, messy hair. No, it’s the reverberating squall down the empty hallway, a shout of disgust and annoyance. “Tobias!” My mother shouts it the same way every time, her displeasure evident in the way she taps her toe as I come sliding down the hallways, a storm of destruction only stopped by the tap, tap, tap of her foot. She rolls her eyes, unamused by my disportionately long legs that are unable to stop myself as I skid to a stop. I assume she’s hearing the echoes of “he’ll grow into them” and “he’ll even out eventually.” (But if it hasn’t happened by now, it won’t). My toothy grin sends the slightest smile across her face, met by the instant remembrance of the fact that she is indeed, not happy with me. My amusement fades quickly, and with a downcast look that matches that of a six year old, I reply with a simple “Yes, Mother?”

If I told you I was listening past that point, I’d be lying. I’ve always zoned out at one point or the other. Whether it’s the paintings on the wall or the hole in my sock or the blades of the ceiling fan, something always finds a way to distract me. It’s not necessarily on accident either, in fact, more often than not, I’m looking for something to distract myself from any family matters at hand, because I do not feel involved in them. Their agendas are almost always different than mine, and that’s not a problem, in my opinion. In fact, I’ll keep my “childish and stupid” ideas to myself if they’re so bothered by them.

Tobias doesn’t tell my story, no, it tells nothing. It doesn’t tell of my light hair or blue eyes or lanky proportions. It tells only of a boy who’s overshadowed by violent relatives and primitive ideas. It fails to mention a boy who isn’t control of his own self, no matter how hard he tries. It leaves out almost everything I deem important, and for that reason, I would prefer you call me Tank.

Of course, people always give me a strange look at the mention of this request, for people have physical appearances set as the only defining trait of anything. However, that’s not the reason I would prefer that name to my own. I believe a tank to be something that drives forward without relenting, something that doesn’t stop. I believe that with the flash of my blue eyes comes a flicker of determination, a vow to myself to not slow down until I’ve passed the finish line, and then some. Of course, many of my family members link this drive to my heritage, and in a way, I suppose they’re right. But on the other hand, I think they’re connecting the dots in the wrong order, not realizing that my determination doesn’t come from them, but myself. In fact, I think it to come from anything but them, because their drive is all in the manner of climbing over someone else, whereas mine comes from an inner goal, an inner voice telling me to push further and further away from all that comes with the family name.

So in short, our motives are differing, and this is something that none of my current family members have been able to accept. Not my father, whose voice still rings out from kitchen, screaming about how useless I was and how I would never bring honor to our name. Not my mother, who only rolled her eyes and comforted my father through his fits of anger. And not my cousin, Ares, who would throw his sword down in frustration as I never quite grasped the concept of what he was trying to teach me. We would stay after everyone had gone home, and we would leave when I had accomplished something, even if it was in the early hours of morning. Of course, he was never content with what I got done, and he continued to push me further, and further, and further, until one day I told him I was done. This wasn’t how I wanted to be remembered, and I remember warning him of how dangerous this swirling vortex of life really was. He looked confused—even shocked at my words, not understanding that someone could think differently from the way he did.

That wasn’t the determination I wanted to be known for. I’m not another boy with a sword in his hand, another brainwashed child of regretful parents. That’s something I refuse to become, and it all started with the word “no” and an about turn. I’m sprinting off in the opposite direction, running towards the goal of being someone who isn’t focused on the idea of destruction. The first time I came storming back from the training center, I threw myself through the door and told my parents that that was not a path I was willing to go down. Both of them were so shocked by the idea that they didn’t say anything, but as soon as I began to tell them what I was going to do, how I was going to learn different trades and make a name for myself in a different way, they both began to scoff, writing off my ideas as childish. It didn’t come as a shock to me, for I knew that any ideas that weren’t theirs would be laughed at. So the cold stare that followed, along with the slamming doors, were nothing of a shock to any of us.

When I was younger, about eight, to be exact, I would sit out on the lawn and watch people go by. Most everyone I saw was absorbed in something, another person, a newspaper, a shout from out in the distance. No one was just looking around, acknowledging all the little things that surrounded them. It then occurred to me that everyone is on a path of their own, all driving towards the finish line that lays somewhere in the future. I then led myself to assume that there were two ways one could react once they’ve reached the end: one, you could be dead (which seems pretty practical), or two, you could walk around in life admiring the little things. The way the sun looks as it sets in the evening, or the way birds streak across a colored sky— things only the privileged could truly admire. It was for that reason that I turned my eyes away from the beautiful things, looking at my feet rather than straight ahead. It was a dull task, for my view hardly changed, but I kept telling myself “One day, you’ll be able to watch the world. The wait will make everything worth it.” But truly, I never quite convinced myself of it.

Ares and I spent quite a bit of time together once I passed the age of thirteen, as my parents seemed to like him more than me, or maybe they just liked his reasoning, his ideals that fit so closely with theirs. But for whichever reason, whether it was getting rid of me or admiring him, they would send me away for the day with my cousin, telling us to stay out of trouble and to be back before the night fell. I never really looked forward to these days, as they would be brought up the night before at the dinner table. I would groan a bit, and when my father gave me a silencing look, I would pick at my food and break eye contact. The following nights were full of anything but sleep, fidgeting and tossing about as the sheets twisted about my body. No one ever bothered to notice that my eyes were heavy the following morning, for they were too consumed in the task of pushing me out the door as soon as they could, waving goodbye from the steps like parents from a poster.

Ares and I would walk in silence for a while, until eventually he would tell me where we were going and what we were going to do when we got there, but I hardly paid attention. No matter where we were, whether it be here or some distant planet, the result would be that I would end up being punched or beaten on, and anything I could do to take my mind off of it, I did. The last time we went to the training center (I was about seventeen), we walked in a silence that was even more rigid than any other walk down that familiar sidewalk. Even as the doors to the big hall opened, the jumble of sounds all seemed to cancel each other out in a way that made silence the only thing to be heard. We assumed our normal positions, his weapon firm in his hand, while mine trembled, the tip slowly sinking towards the ground in an admittance of defeat, and we hadn’t even begun. His voice began to raise, a tremble of relentless rage falling across his tone. It was the first time I was truly afraid of him.

I never stopped being afraid of him until his cannon sounded, and at the time my parents hung their heads in shame, I let out a sigh of relief. Of course, I never expressed my gratitude at this, for the only thing I was allowed to feel was remorse, but mine was never genuine. He met the end of his path at the grave, and as I stood over his closed casket, I vowed to finish mine in a different way. I would drive in a different direction, one that ended with me admiring the beautiful things of the world, not the dirt that surrounded me six feet under.

{o t h e r}
Tobias "Tank" Pine
Age: 18
District 2
Gender: Male
Face Claim: Ole Syrstad
Codeword: oDair
Words: 403 + 577 + 703 = 1,683
The Best Day of My Life-- The American Authors

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