Patrick Thatcher {D9/FIN/CB}

“Patrick, why don’t you talk right?” Though simple words spoken by a good friend, my eight year old self had shrugged and replied with an “I dunno.” It was said with pure casualness, but the moments our paths split I ran home, red hair pressing to my face as the wind whipped it behind me, my cheeks flushing to match the same shade until I made it home, upon which I flung myself through the door in a desperate attempt to get an answer from my mother.

“Mom, why don’t I talk like my friends? What can I do to fix it?” Even then it taunted me, like I couldn’t form certain letters right, and instead of the fluency with which my friends already spoke, I stumbled and fell most often, retreating to speak as little as possible, or preferably, not at all.

“Patrick, you don’t--” She had kneeled down to my height and wiped a tear from my cheek, her soft, brown eyes met by a blurred pair of the same color as she laid a hand on my back, rubbing a small circle about it as she continued on, speaking in the same gentle tone as before, “Just because you say things differently doesn’t mean what you have to say is less important than anyone else. Everyone speaks in a different voice, Patrick.”

My red hair, though kept a bit nicer than ten years ago, still blazes with the same fiery red, and though I’ve more or less grown into my long legs, I still haven’t gotten over then barrier of my own speech, at least not well enough to believe I have anything of importance to say.

“Hey Patrick, cat got your tongue?”

A shake of my head and a downcast glance tells them otherwise.

{other}
Patrick Thatcher
Age: 18
District 9
Gender: Male
Face Claim: Max Girkins
Codeword: oDair
Table by the always fabulous Rave