Maslow Tiresias Ibex . Wanderer . FIN

His brain was a still life painted by the hands of Picasso, too many shapes and colours and jagged lines with even more jagged angles to think clearly to, but he still found room in it to guide himself; edges dug deep, crusted canyons into his psyche... his blood refused to clot... but still, Maslow Ibex knew not of the word "no".

He was five years old when infantile glaucoma fully claimed his vision and six years old when he realised that he would never see his mother's smile or his dad's stubbly chin again. Conceptualization wrecked a prodigy into the shards of missed opportunity, but this boy was no Humpty Dumpty. Maslow took a box of needles he had stored in his heart and sewed himself back together again, without the help of all the king's horses and all the king's men. His tongue found purchase on the roof of his mouth any time he moved and bursts of shapes slowly began to engrave themselves into his field of vision. 

First came the walls of his house, aided by memories- as few and scarce as they were visually-  and with just a gentle clicking, he could find his way effortlessly throughout his house, guided by the shivering grasp of vibrations. Slowly, he pushed himself until the even the edges of the couch were defined by the graciousness of noise. By age nine, Maslow could act almost like every other child, but he often found himself overwhelmed. As someone who had taught himself an oversensitivity to sound, the loudness of a group of children, or even the school bells ringing writhed his stomach into knots. By age ten, the Ibex child had begged his parents to homeschool him; reluctantly, they agreed and bought him every piece of literature and textbook that he did and did not need. 

Often, Maslow would need to be pried away from the pages, his hands almost raw from rubbing themselves upon the rough grain of text centuries old. Adapted, he had figured, from their original states, but still enough to offer value to him in the midst of such harsh censorship. Knowledgeable, he was, yet he kept to himself nonetheless. His parents thought him to be innocent, and he was, for all intents and purposes. But there was always a voice in the back of his head, urging him to be defiant. He refused. At age 15,  after memorizing every bump on every page in every book he owned, Maslow asked to be put back into regular schooling to focus on his social skills. Wanting to give their only son everything he ever wanted, yet again did they allow for their son to make his own educational choices. Precedent said that he knew what was best for himself, and this was what they followed.

Being out in the public more often was not the easy feat he had thought it to be, though. Tirelessly, the children at school mocked him for his intelligence and disability, often both at once. His only aid in this ongoing war- if he could even call it that, with children dying annually to the Hunger Games (which he, ultimately, agreed with)- was his best friend, Christopher Helm, who had been his sense of safety growing up. Being the illegitimate son of the peacekeeper gave way to sympathy for Maslow, and they bonded over their losses as much as normal friends would over their triumphs. The occasional checks that Christopher would receive in the post from his father were shared with Maslow (despite Maslow's seemingly bottomless wealth) and the two grew to be enamored with the idea of justice and willful abidance of law. 

As Maslow journied through high school, his social skills did not change as he had expected them to. Aside from being more arrogant than he once had been, all the boy had to show from his efforts was the bruises of black and blue and purple that lined his torso and arms. He took careful measures to hide them from his parents, in fear of them revoking their trust in his decisions, and with the help of Christopher, he would practice small scrimmage after school. Over the course of the remaining months of his Junior year, Maslow began to challenge the kids who rubbed him the wrong way. After a few punches were thrown and his desire to enforce "justice" became painfully overwhelming, people began to leave him alone. Maslow did not think he had won the war, but it comforted him to know that he had won the battles. 

One day after school in his 12th year, Maslow found himself loitering on school grounds after class, the bell having rung a good thirty minutes ago, but the children not yet drained from the front courtyard and swimming pool of the senior high. His satchel sat in the plastic chair next the left of him, and Christopher sat to the right. For now, the youngest Helm would be eyes, the only Ibex unable to pick up the finest details of who was approaching him without voice to guide his assumptions. Soon though, he could rely on himself as the familiarity of his peers began to encompass the soft shell of his ear. 

"What's up, headass?" The sharpness of Killigan Smith's voice rang out louder than the rest and Maslow breathed out sharply through his nose, looking over to the source of the obnoxious noise and sighing impatiently. He could tell from the others' snickering that the beast of a man wasn't alone, but he wasn't fearful. They wouldn't do anything to him that he couldn't handle.

"It's about time, Killigan. Are you actually going to 'teach me a lesson' or will you have to tell your mommy that you got too scared again?" Maslow's words were pointed and packed with sarcasm, each syllable strategically emphasized to envoke a reaction. "I'd be glad to 'throw down' with you if it'll pacify that mouth of yours, Mr. Smith. Your voice is awfully atrocious to be wasting your breath on such nonsense." To this, the larger man seemed almost in awe, although Maslow couldn't tell. It was obvious to anyone that heard him that he could shut somebody down with mere words, but many still chose to ignore it.

"Don't..." Killigan found himself at a loss for words, his meaty hands clenching themselves into meatballs at his sides. With a shudder, he took a threatening step forward, placing his palm flat on the arm of the chair. "Don't act like you're better than me, 'cause you're not." He scowled, putting pressure into his arm and snapping the rest with Maslow's arm still in it. The broken plastic stung momentarily, but not enough for the boy to lose his cool. "You think you're so tough with your big n fancy words. But you're not. You're a damn coward for beating up my boys. And you'll learn that." As Maslow had expected, he felt knuckles breaking into the thinned meat of his face, shattering the resolve of his deeply brown hair and forcing him out of the chair like a rag doll. He would let Killigan have his fun... and then he would show him.

Showing him wasn't enough, though.. no.. Maslow Tiresias Ibex would make an example of him. 

As if he had entirely forgotten the restraint he had been practicing only seconds before, the smaller man grabbed ahold of Killigan's wrist, pulling the appendage sharply downward and to the right, the small yet carefully planned movement sending the giant to the ground in the breathless heap. Before his opponent had a chance to merely retaliate, Maslow shoved the tip of his steel-toed boot into his chin and ribs and knees over and over and over again. Shouts of "can't you see you're killing him?" began to rise throughout the small crowd that had formed, but he only smiled. 

"No, I can't." And he continued to kick until the air was thick with moisture and the body was close enough to the edge of the pool so that he could simply push it over. Like hell anyone would mess with him after this. Like hell anyone would even look his direction at all. And as if it had suddenly appeared to him what he had done, Maslow swallowed hard and took a step back, his knees feeling nonexistent as Christopher ran to him for support and the group of onlookers quickly dispersed. Without further hesitation, Maslow grabbed his backpack from the chair and ran, his tongue clicking painfully against the roof of his mouth as he left his best friend behind to go home. He could feel the blood sticking to the ground with every stride, but he pushed himself harder until the front door could be felt cold underneath the burning flesh of his hand. 

Maslow knew that he would have to leave. He had proven that being blind doesn't mean being weak, but what that would do to his safety and his image was something he hadn't expected to undergo. As if his life were in its last seconds, the boy emptied his belongings onto the floor and quickly began to shove the necessities into the pockets of his school bag. It was roomy enough to hold two changes of clothes, plenty of money, and some toiletries. Without a second thought, he felt under his bed for the water and food he had smuggled up here a few weeks ago while studying. It hadn't yet fully dawned on him that he would be leaving the safety of everything he had known for the past seventeen years, but it didn't matter to him in the least. Even the smartest fail to comprehend their actions at time, and he would come to understand this soon. It's inevitable that he would come to understand this soon. 

As speedily as he had come in, Maslow was back out to the loft of their house. After a quick moment of thought, he made his way to the front desk and grabbed a pen and paper from the drawer, doing his best to write out a brief message, even if he didn't quite remember how the letters looked from when he was young. 

i lOv3 u guy5
b3 hOm3 sOOn

His parents wouldn't be home until 6, two hours from now, and with a final deep breath, he released his grasp and made a run for it. The weight on his back became seemingly nonexistent, his only priority to get out of here. The notorious hole under the fence would be his first and only stop before freedom, and his heart began to ache at the idea of genuinely leaving. He was doing this, he was doing this, he was doing this, and without skipping a beat, the boy threw his backpack over, his body under, and made a break before the peacekeepers could even notice that he was gone.

--

Five minutes later, a short boy with blonde hair can be seen standing in the middle of the district center, frantically speaking with a pair of peacekeepers, the wetness of his face evident in the deep April glow of sun. Around him, people have begun to gather as he tells his story.

"His name is Maslow Ibex, he's 6'2". and he has brown hair. His eyes are brown too, but he can't see out of them.. he's blind, but don't let him fool you. Real thin, extremely intelligent and witty... he's like a dragon almost. It's terrifying. He was my best friend, too, but after watching him beat up one of our classmates a little while ago, I can't even stomach the thought of him. You have to get him. You have to. I don't want to be next. Please, officer. I don't want to be next." As if he were out of breath, the boy shadows his eyes downward and frowns. Tears have begun to form in eyes and his eyelashes have become moist.

"And your name?" The peacekeeper asks, his voice slightly muffled from behind the mask he wears, yet still stern enough to be considered authority. He taps his foot while waiting for a response.

"Christopher," the boy pauses, spitting to the ground in disgust and wiping the tears from his cheek. "Christopher Helm."