conrad torrens : d1 [fin]

with the air so cold and a mind so bitter

Red neon light soaks me, licking at my dark skin, picking at my features with an intense heat that makes sweat bead and trickle down my neck. The heavy thumping of bass from the nightclub beneath my room subconsciously makes me tap my foot on the floor, frantically trying to keep sync with the intense rhythm. This room was hard for the owners to rent out, but I like the noise. It drowns out everything. Clubs finish at midnight, but on the weekends they go on until 6am. I sleep through it most of the time, it seemed impossible at first, but like anything else I adapted to it. I almost find it soothing. The heavy drones that blast through the woodwork used to be deafening, but it's my lullaby now. It makes me feel at home.

I'm lucky to have a home. Orphans aren't common in District One, not when the people are so affluent and can afford healthcare when they need it. My parents were never rich. My father was an accountant from Three, but him and my mother moved to One before I was born because the authorities thought he could do more good for the government out here. The rent is higher in One, and we never had much money in the first place.

I glance at my watch. The red digits flash at me.

It's late, and I've been training all day. My body urges me to sleep but my mind is busy. The wind blows through the open windows of my room, carrying with it the noise from the nightclub below. It's like a heartbeat through District One. I think for the babies and little children living nearby, but most people who live in the busier parts of the District are the metropolitan type anyway. Not family people. I can almost smell the sweat from the club seeping up. Teenagers and young adults who drink and dance away their troubles. It's never really been my thing, but I have been down there a few times. I get discount seeing as I know the landlord.

People call me unorthodox. I don't like being labelled, but it's unavoidable when you're an orphan. You're an instant target from the moment you lose your parents, susceptible to any number of hurtful names stuck on you by cruel children. Children have a reputation of being innocent, but they can be more cruel than any adult. I used to run away from the bullies, run away from the words they spat at me. The more I ran, the more I realised that you can't run from who you are.

I'm always learning. For someone with a history of conflict and violence, I'm not actually an aggressive person. I'm a firm believer that what doesn't kill you simply makes you stronger. The more people try and take you down, the more you learn about them - and believe me, as an orphan with no money trying to make it as a Career, I know a lot about other people. Fights with drug dealers, thugs, Peacekeepers. I even begged for a while. I had nowhere.

People in District One are products of their environment. They're following a system that's backwards and oppressive, fooled into thinking that being Reaped is like ascending to glory. It's not. It's like being thrown into a hurricane. I've seen it. I've seen people train for years, build themselves into juggernauts who think they can charge into anything, and I've seen the Games pick them apart like they're made of straw.

I too am a product of my environment. I'm raw, like a bleed. Exposed. Open. I would like to be Reaped. I'm confident I can win. It's not arrogance like most Careers display, it's just that I know people. Not just the proud, dangerous Careers, but the desperate oppressed types from Lower Districts too. I know not to underestimate, and I know how to think like they think. I can win it, and make a better life for myself.

But if I hit Eighteen and I'm not Reaped, I won't worry about it. I want to be a bouncer for the club, earn some money and start paying back the debt I owe to the DeSauxs. I think they hold a grudge against me, or see me as some kind of disease on their daughter because I wasn't born into privilege like them. Catrice is my best friend. She somehow convinced her parents to pay for my accommodation and food until I found my feet. She's an angel. I don't think I'll ever stop trying to find ways to repay her.

I wonder what she's doing now. She's probably asleep at this hour, unless she's with her fiancée. The thought of that germ wrapping his hands around her and turning her over underneath the quilts makes my jaw clench and my muscles seize up. I know she doesn't like him. I can tell by the way she avoids his gaze and feigns ghost smiles when she's with him. I haven't talked to her about him yet. I've always been supportive of her boyfriends, no matter how arrogant or pretentious they are, but this guy doesn't sit well in my stomach. More importantly, she's not happy with him. Why should she have to marry him?

She's gorgeous, and funny, and my best friend. She deserves better, and I'm...

Eh.

I'm no good for her. What can I give her? These guys have money, and fortune, and a future. I don't even own a shirt. Any idea of me being with her is a fantasy.

The music cranks up, blasting upwards and vibrating my floorboards. I slump back on my tatty mattress and try to drift off.

I'll stay here, out of the way, where I belong.

no doubt this is a tragedy for all
but it ain't over yet
head's up and thank fuck you're still alive
still air in my lungs, still blood in my veins