TWELVE, TWELVE [FIN.]

Sometimes it's easier to believe that something went so irreparably wrong when he was born. It was easier a millions times simpler to create evil then a misguided good. When he imagined the reasoning behind his appearance at the orphanage his thoughts were plagued with darkness. It was, perhaps, one of the few memories that lasted, that brought along with it a chill to his warm heart. For some reason he could never think of the woman that ditched him as kind-hearted and sweet. He always painted her out to be a monster that drew strength form the dark and felt nothing for no one, not even the babe she had tossed in front of a door. It was easier that way, though. Surely she must have had no heart, or perhaps no space to spare for something as useless as he had been. He never had to pretend that she might have been someone good.

He couldn't help, but believe that the night his mother lay on those sheets in that musky room (he assumed), with the curtains drawn tight that she had cursed him. That with each scream of terror and pain and fear at the unknown she had pleaded with the doctor to end it now. It happened like every other unwanted pregnancy, it was the same as every child who was not wanted, waddled in rags, stained with dirt, before being tossed into a basket and left in the first place they could find.

Sometimes it was easier to believe that on the day that his mother -whoever she was- decided to kiss that boy and take it further it was the silliest mistake she could make. But then he'd remember, that it hadn't been a silly mistake, built rather a colossal one. She'd left him on the steps of a Capitol orphanage days after having given birth to him. She'd left him lying there and unlike most children he had not squealed and cried as the coldness of the night had settled over the streets like a blanket. Instead he had looked, he had listened, brown eyes peering upwards at the array of stars that had spilt across the sky as the light had been drawn away. Each and every individual star like a nightlight there to protect him and keep the edge of the darkness from swallowing him whole.

Growing up had never been easy, years had passed in that place. They had been kind, they had cared. He couldn't say a bad word against them. Even when they gave him away to the man in the long white coat he had said nothing. He had looked at them, with all the trust in the world, following their steps as they had patted his head and taken him to the door. He had smiled and laughed and waved goodbye at the age of four, fingers waggling in the end with that childlike innocence that said he thought everything was going to be alright. He trusted them, after all they had taken care of him and raised him and loved him, so when the lady let go and placed his little hand into the mans he had grinned, his heart swelling to accommodate one more person.

He'd always been like that, even now, seventeen years old and he still trusted with his entire heart and loved with even more. He'd been one to believe that there was no bad in people, but only good in this world, that those with tendencies to act cruelly or rudely were simply trying to learn and find their own way. But then he went off with that man and for so many years he suffered. He was put into white clothes and generic shoes and was placed with other four years olds. They stripped them of their identities, forcing a number upon them, re-writting any memory they held of their previous lives. They called him twelve, a number. They showed him no affection, no love, no kindness, the only times he ever received any was from the other children with him.

For years and years he was experimented on, every morning they ate the same thing, every lunch and dinner it was as bland, tasteless and empty as ever. Everyday they experienced new trials, they were faced with new challenges, tested on until their bodies screamed to stop. Child after child died, succumbing to sickness and to the suffering that was being inflicted upon them. Friend after friend disappeared from his side, the only person that remained constant was Nine. Nine was his best friend.

It was at midnight, when the accident happened and they had their chance to escape. A fire blazed within the confines of the institute and they ran. In the cover of the smoke and the confusion that it created they bolted, running as fast as they could towards the fence that would lead to their freedom. One other child made it out with them, Five, a friend of Nine's. But as they neared the fence she tripped, falling. But Twelve and Nine didn't stop. They just kept running.

After that it became a game of hiding and making sure they never found them. Six years since Twelve escaped with Nine, six years and they wanted their revenge, they had ended up in the slumps of district twelve, alive, but dying all the same. No one looked for them there, why would they? hey were failed experiments, closer to dying then revealing their secret if they remained in district twelve. They wanted to expose the pain they suffered, and the hidden world they were forced to endure. They wanted people to know, for someone to hear their story. For someone to remember them. But the truth was a thousand miles away. Somewhere they could no longer reach.