cruel // [Colgate]

”Mr. O’Leary!”

Somebody’s calling for me, I can hear ‘em clear as day, but I don’t turn around. I’ve got a hope that if I just keep on walking and move a little faster, the stranger will turn around and leave me alone. I know what she’s gonna say, I know it, just wait –

”Mr. O’Leary.. Mr. O’Leary.. Colgate!”

Wait for it –

”Happy birthday, Colgate!”

Am I obligated to turn around and smile? Is that victor-ly enough of me? Even after a few years, I haven’t got the hang of giving a shit about being Mr. Famous. I’ve tried my best to keep my birthday a secret so as to avoid unwanted attention (y’know, like the kind I’m getting right now), but somehow it’s leaked out. Bet one of my brothers told.

”Thank you,” I say, turning my head back slightly as I keep on walking. I don’t even get a chance to see who’s yelling at me, but I can tell it’s a woman, ‘cause her voice is high and all excited.

I hold my head low and bury my hands in my pockets and move along, slipping my way through the cold fog of the morning like I don’t exist. Then again, it’s hard to make myself small ‘cause I stand up so tall like a fucking beacon, and what’s worse is that the people of this District think I’m public property all because I won the Games for them, and now they feel like they have the right to prop me up and push me around like I’m their own personal trophy. It’s like they’ve elected me King of the Blue Collar Workers, defender of the weak, all proud and mighty, but I don’t think I’ve got the nerve to tell ‘em that District Nine is still a dump compared to some of those other Districts, and the Capitol only sees us one way:

Boring and dirty.

I think the people here like me ‘cause I make them look better to the outside world, standing so tall, with my hair done-up all nice, looking like the finest example of a citizen that District Nine has to offer. Truth is, I wouldn’t really clean up so well if Mom didn’t make me do it – I’d be leaving the house without combing my hair or washing my face, and I wish she would let me go because I would look like any other man heading off to work for the morning, and nobody would bother me.

Or maybe they like me because I fought for a cause. I know a lotta these men and women can relate to that, struggling in the factories for hours and days and months just to go home with empty bellies and starving children, and not so long ago I was doing the exact same thing. Now my family eats well and even gets new shoes whenever they need ‘em, and sometimes it’s worth it to see the smiles on their faces when they feel really full or they’re running around in their fancy new sneakers.

Other times, I remember stuff.

I remember how it felt to tug the armor off of Willis Keeni’s limp corpse and put it on my own body, his blood still dripping from the fabric.

I remember the sound his skull made when I ripped my bloody axe out of his forehead.

I remember the look of sheer terror on the Avox’s face as my knives flew inches in front of her eyes during my private training session.

(Even worse, I remember the high-pitched scream that erupted from her throat when my first axe tore into her arm. I said to her, ”Don’t worry, I’m not a bad guy,” and then I murdered her right there on the floor, throwing axe after axe, until the last one stuck so far into her throat that it poked out the other side, and she burned even after she stopped breathing.)

And I used to be an honest, blue collar kinda guy.

These days, I don’t feel triumphant. I remember the things I did – horrible, unspeakable things – and I see the way my family looks at me, and I know they understand that I’m not the person I used to be, all smiles and bubbles. Nowadays, they’re lucky if they hear me speak a single word during the day, ‘cause I don’t talk much and there’s not much I want to say to them, either. Sometimes I’ll take one of my brothers or sisters out into an open space and teach them to use a weapon, mainly because I want them to learn how to fend for themselves a little bit. If any of them were picked for the Arena, I wouldn’t be able to do much.

(Plus, I don’t think I could teach someone how to win like I did. There’s no strategy in that. You’ve gotta be fucked up from the start, or you’re gone. That’s what I’ve been thinkin’, lately – that I’m past the point of being fixed by anything or anyone, and maybe I was born violent and cruel and it would have just revealed itself with time and there’s nothin’ I can do about it, so I might as well live with it.)

It’s gonna bother me if people start celebrating my birthday, and that’s why I had to leave the house so early this morning.

Truthfully, I don’t deserve to be celebrated.

As it turns out, more than a few people have heard about my birthday, and I’ve got people patting me on the back and wishing me well as I stroll down the sidewalk, and I smile and nod as if I give a fuck, like a good victor would do, and everything’s pretty okay until somebody spits some vile words into the dirt.

”Happy birthday, Soap,” a man says out of the crowd, emphasizing the last word like the insult it was always meant to be.

(And that word cuts deeper than a knife ever could, ‘cause suddenly I feel all small and weak again, as if I’m back in the factory and being yelled at by three different supervisors tellin’ me I won’t ever amount to anything, that I’m ugly and stupid and weak, and if I wanna do well like the other men I’ve gotta hold my chin up and deal with it. Life’s rough and I’m gonna end up dying alone if I don’t buck up, and I’m nothing but a weak-ass dirty coward of a kid, and this world’s gonna fuck me up one side and down the other if I don’t hold my chin up and act like a man.)

(A strong man, a brave man, a cruel man.)

I look for the face of the person who called me out, and I find it in a second – he’s got an evil grin from ear to ear with these straight-white teeth and chapped lips, lookin’ like the exact kind of person that used to make me feel like a piece of shit when I was making soap in the factories. And though I don’t wanna be celebrated today, I don’t need anyone else on this godforsaken earth to make me feel worse about myself than I already do, and before I know what I’m doing I’m flinging my fist at the man’s face, all 6’7” of my frame flying forward to drop him to the dirt, arms around his throat, pinning him to the ground. It’s like he weighs nothing more than a little butterfly, ‘cause I eat way more food than he does and I’ve got the advantage here for once in my goddamn life. And oh, the man realizes his mistake - I see the fear in his eyes as the weight of my body holds him down, his face turning more purple than a fuckin’ grape, and I realize then and there that I’m gonna kill him.

I’m gonna kill him, and I won’t regret it.

After a few more seconds of struggling, the man’s about to go unconscious, and I feel the hands of others in the crowd – bystanders, people who didn't originally take my attack seriously - pulling me off of him, wrapping their filthy hands around my waist and pulling my arms from around his throat as he gasps for air, not lookin’ so smug anymore, staring at me with wide eyes like they’re popping out of their sockets.

”COLGATE,” I spit down at him, struggling against the endless hands that pull me away, down the street and out of sight.