Patrick Bua // d6 // fin

Patrick Bua // d6 // fin Mar 5, 2018 15:23:47 GMT -5

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Post by flyss on Mar 5, 2018 15:23:47 GMT -5

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PATRICK BUA

DISTRICT 6

It starts with a heartbeat.

Then two heartbeats.

Then none.

Amy Bua was ready to be a mother. Her smile was warm, face doused in a perpetual glow, and the sparkle in her eyes held a maternal pride only before seen in the women she looked up to. When she found out that she was pregnant, she'd told everyone she did and didn't know about the little baby tucked away in her round, plump stomach. Amy would speak of how it had to be a boy because she was craving salt and how her husband, Kurt, had been working extra hours down at the lab so they good afford to dine parallel to her cravings. Weeknights were spent fixing up the spare bedroom into a nursery, and weekends were spent visiting soon-to-be grandparents to keep them updated on the newest Bua not yet born. Months began to feel like seconds, and it seemed like "The Day" couldn't come sooner... everything appeared perfect. Everything was perfect.

About 38 weeks in, shrieks could be heard from the family bathroom as Amy Bua fell to the stone cold ground, hands clutching at her abdomen and eyes gawking wildly at the puddle of blood only a few feet away. Her skirt and underwear laid soiled over the rim of the bathtub, and clots of maroon had already begun to slink down its sides. Like teardrops, she thought as her husband rushed to her side. In the midst of shock, it felt like the world was crying for her.

The trip to the hospital was bittersweet. Kurt carried his wife just like he did on their wedding day, and despite that fact that the pain spreading throughout her stomach was becoming almost unbearable, Amy closed her eyes and tried to remember. It was just parents, siblings, and close friends, fifteen bodies huddled into a living room made only for four. Her then-fiance couldn't stop blushing, his tongue tripping over words left and right, but all she could think about was how much she loved him. Kurt was the man she knew she was meant to be with, and though he spoke with an awkwardness that showed his youth, when he kissed her and lifted her feet from the ground to carry her outside, his mouth didn't seem to miss a beat.

Amy desperately hoped that when she opened her eyes, she'd be back in that moment. That when she allowed herself the liberty of sight, that she'd see her wedding dress spilling over her husband's arms and the happy faces of the people she loved instead of the depressing, blue brick of the medical building. But hope only got her this far, so she opted for burying her face into her husband's chest instead, so that she could still try and hide from the inevitable. She remained that way until the nurses rolled her onto the stiff, parchment-covered cot, their perfectly-trained and polite voices asking her questions about her pregnancy, mostly along the lines of if she'd noticed anything else out of the ordinary or if she'd taken any drugs that would be important to note. She told them no, that nothing had been bad like this at all. The conversation seemed too casual for its contents.

When Amy first realised that that she was pregnant, the only time the doctor told her to worry was if she started bleeding. She remembered him using a word that only her husband seemed to understand, and that in the small packet they were given upon leaving the facility, there was a page with the word typed in all bold at the top that listed several symptoms where an immediate trip to the hospital was recommended.

Stillborn.

At the time, the word seemed like nothing. Even after collapsing in the bathroom, a stillbirth still wasn't the first thing that Amy thought of when asking for help. Sure, bleeding while pregnant didn't give off the idea that something was right, but there was nothing to tell her that it would end up being so wrong, either. By the time the doctor swept back the curtain to meet with the worried couple, the once-happy mother looked almost like a corpse herself, skin pale and eyes glazed, arms locked around her stomach as if offering protection then would somehow make everything better.

Just wait it out, they'd told her. The fetus will come through naturally sometime in the next couple of weeks. But she still couldn't believe it. Breaking out of her daze, Amy begged the doctor to fetch a midwife, shouting to him that he had to be wrong and that she wanted to give birth right then to prove it. There was no way she'd gone through nine months of happiness for this, she reasoned. She was the mother, after all. How could the mother be wrong?

When the midwife arrived, there was a look of pity in her eyes that the Buas tried not to see. The young lady, obviously nervous from being called to the sector with such an odd request, made sure to explain that this wouldn't be easy and that she'd be breaking through the amniotic sac to induce labor early. Amy agreed without hesitation; she didn't care, so long as she'd get to hold her sweet, living baby at the end.

Hours passed before anything happened. The cramps she'd been struggling with beforehand had only gotten worse, and her face was more wet than it was dry, tears having covered almost every inch of skin from the bottom of the eyelids down. When the first tuft of hair finally came peaking out, she was filled with a great pain, then a great relief as the entirety of the head followed. Amy waited, each second becoming more agonizing than the last, for the first cries of her infant...

one second...

two seconds...

three seconds...

ten seconds...

but nothing came.

A roar belonging to a lioness, not a 20 year old girl, erupted through the room with an anger fueled by the sun itself. She screamed for the baby to be handed over, that it must be sleeping just like it was before, and she screamed for them to tell her why he was limp like this, because this wasn't how babies were supposed to feel.... but every man and every woman in that room, no matter how badly they felt for the heart-broken mother, were too occupied with something else to afford her an answer.

A second head, the same size as the first, had appeared just moments before, and though this child did not provide the comfort of cries as was hoped, it had left everyone frozen. No words could be said to match the amount of grief in that room when he was placed next to his brother on Amy's chest. To an outsider, it would have looked just like any other delivery. The two ~~boys~~ bodies blended the line between life and death, and it felt almost unfair that they looked like they could wake up at any moment. Sure, the Buas had been wrong, but nobody blamed them. One baby lost is tragic, but two babies lost is a tragedy.

Life carried on. After their denial had passed and two infant-sized plots were dug at the district cemetery for Neamh and Cairde Bua, Amy and Kurt returned the bustle of life as a means to forget what had happened. The night following the hospital had been brutal; both husband and wife screamed hymns from their knees, raw voices pleading for Ripred to bring back their children. By the time the sun dared to shine light through the front window of their house, not single table was left unturned nor was a single mirror left unshattered in the home of the Buas. Covered in blood, sweat, and tears, they decided to forget rather than forgive. A few days later, their frustration was buried six feet under, and a depression quickly took its place like a bandage, the wound they were left with too wide to heal shut in the open air.

It took five years for Kurt and Amy Bua to re-find their purpose, and another decade for them to want to try again.

Humbled by last time, when Amy found out that she was pregnant for the second time, she confined her bragging to only Kurt and her mother. There was no boasts to the city, no talk of her cravings to the girls at work. She continued to work hard at the district's distribution plant, checking exports for perfection before marking them as complete to be sent off to the Capitol. Her uniform flowed nicely down her torso, masking her bump better than any of her common clothes could, and she was grateful for the fact that seniority allowed her to spend most of her time sitting down versus standing up like some of the newer employees. It was nice to keep a secret, something she hadn't found the strength to do since her last year at high school.

For Kurt, staying quiet was something he had never struggled with. A man of few words, he made only small talk to the others who shared the space at the lab, so when he was faced with the news that had another chance at fatherhood, it didn't take much for him to resist the urge- if you could even call it one- to speak. The closest he came to telling another soul was when the lady working the fruit stand at the market asked why he was buying so many peaches. Of course, it was just a playful jab, but he almost replied by telling her how his pregnant wife had been craving sweets all week. Suddenly, it struck him. He'd never been so excited for something, not even the last time with the twins. This pride was foreign- a force to be reckoned with. Still, it took nothing more than thinking before he spoke to keep the secret safe.

As the due date drew nearer, the couple seemed to grow more and more restless. More often than not, Amy would opt to do her work from the house rather than at the facility. She'd been working there long enough that her boss didn't seem to mind, and it gave the coworkers that had begun to depend on her ethic some time to form skills on their own. She urged Kurt to do the same, and though his boss- a peacekeeper, intent on keeping the medicines they worked with as contained as possible- proved harder to persuade, he was able to join her by filling out labels on Thursdays and Fridays instead of fiddling with his usual chemicals. The arrangement allowed for a bonding that had been lessened with age, two internally youthful hearts injured by loss but mended by gain given a second chance at a love they'd abandoned long ago in the name of growth.

Of course, 35 and 39 could hardly be considered old. They'd lived through so little but experienced so much, a maturity usually reserved for couples facing retirement instead given to a couple facing parenthood. If they played their cards right, they still had over half of their lives left to live. Forty-some-odd years was a long time to spend on making things right, but they knew it was a small price to pay for happiness. That "retirement" never had to come, if it meant starting a family.

It was long past supper on an average Thursday night when Amy sensed that something was different. Nudging Kurt, she asked him if they'd done everything they normally did per their daily routine, and he responded with an affirmative, ensuring that all the dishes had been washed and all the clothes were hanging up in the backyard to dry. Still, it screamed odd to her that her life seemed so off-balance so suddenly. She was peering over her belly, eyeing her slippers next to the bed as if to decide whether or not she should get up to investigate, when she felt the wetness spread through her shorts and to the rest of the bed. At first, she thought back to that ugly day 15 years ago, when that feeling brought terror. But somehow, as she laid there trying to figure out what to do, it was different.

With a smile, she turned to her husband and asked him to go find Gretchen, the kind midwife who'd helped her deliver Neamh and Cairde the last time she'd gone into labor. Gretchen was the exception to the "tell nobody" rule that the couple had agreed to nine months prior, and the once-young woman, then well into her 40s, happily accepted the invitation to help birth this child in the safety of their own home. As much as their wounds had healed, the Buas couldn't bring themselves to have it any other way. Rushing to slip on his shoes, Kurt helped to place a mat under his wife's back before giving her a kiss and running out the door. It'd be a long labor, just like the last, but it was nothing she couldn't handle. Holding her hand to her stomach and cherishing each kick as if it were the last, Amy Bua let her self hope that everything was going to be alright.

Patrick Cathal Bua was born the next morning.

The first year of Patrick's life was full of doting and affection, a honeymoon period of joy flooding his parents' peripheral until it was all they could see. Little Rainbow, as his aunt called him, was treated like as much of a king as a kid in district 6 could be treated. He was fed well- a feat considering the cost he posed to his family as not only a third mouth to feed, but also a third body to clothe- and as his chubby baby tummy continued to grow into a chubby toddler tummy, Amy's and Kurt's physiques began to shrink to match. The girls at work pretended not to notice when the standard distribution uniform began to look more than a smock than a shirt and pants on their once-plump senior employee. Likewise, the men and women working at the lab pretended not to notice when their formerly average coworker started wearing his lab coat buttoned up to hide how thin he'd gotten.

Nonetheless, so long as their baby boy was happy, the Buas lived on without a care to their name. When Patrick learned to crawl, they celebrated by giving him a toy car, sacrificing their dinners to get the last few dollars they needed to pay off the bill. When Patrick learned to walk, they celebrated by buying him a cake, sacrificing their entire week's lunches to cough up the change that the bakery demanded. And when Patrick said papa and mama for the first time, they celebrated by buying him a trike he wouldn't be able to use for at least another year, sacrificing what only Ripred knew to gather the bills the lady in the nice part of town had asked for. Spoiled was the word for how the young boy's folks treated him. Seclusion and luxury- the enemies of the poor- were given in exceeds. Their origin was one of false pretenses, and to anyone either ignorant to or knowing of what the family had been through previously, it seemed almost suicidal that Amy and Kurt would be so willing to turn themselves into skeletons to try and force a lie that would inevitably fall apart.

By the middle of Patrick's second year, the awards for minuscule achievements had become less common, and some color had returned to his anxiety-paled parents' faces, dusting them a rosy pink. By then, his hair had begun to lose some of its red, the bright, firey strands trading themselves for a more subdued auburn-sand color not by choice, but by genes. His father had been blessed with the red of a rose and his mother had the same dirty blonde as her mother, though both had long since begun to turn grey from a mixture of stress and old age. Time was funny, they'd joked about once, when Patrick went from being 33 inches tall to 34 inches tall overnight. It felt like the previous two and a half years were merely days, and while every memory brought a laugh or a smile, the thought of the next ten years to come brought just as many frowns.

Of course, Amy and Kurt didn't fear that Patrick would have a bad life. In fact, they were almost certain that he'd be healthy and live happily, regardless of if they were there to see it or not. But the next ten years meant so much more than just age. They marked the last years of innocence for their baby, before he was made to acknowledge the reality of Panem and the Games and the people that would make it their goal to kill him. The Buas could shelter their son until then- they had even spent weeks and months coming up with plans to do so- but once he had to sit out there and hear the speeches and watch the videos- how could they possibly try to fix that?

They decided not to think about it until they absolutely had to.

On Patrick's third birthday, he broke his arm trying to run away from the "tickle monster" who had roused him rather suddenly in an attempt to get him to "laugh his way into the new year." Though he had to spend all day at the hospital getting his wrist wrapped in what looked like- to his toddler mind- gridded toilet paper, it made for a good memory... one that his mother wouldn't soon forget. From that day forward, there was no running or intentionally scaring another person in the house. It seemed like something stupid, designed only to take away the fun of the indoors, but Amy- and reluctantly, Kurt- decided that their precious baby's body wasn't worth the risk. The fun would have to be taken outdoors, plain and simple.

Patrick's fourth birthday was a little better. Per his mother's rules, his birthday party was outdoors, and it consisted of only three Amy-approved guests and a wild rabbit they'd caught hopping around the district square. The three boys were Patrick's cousins who'd he'd met only once before at a wedding for his Aunt. They were much larger and rougher than he, obviously raised with a different set of rules, and the bunny they kept trading off like a toy somehow made them seem all the scarier. As dusk approached, he recommended that they sprawl out on the grass to look at the stars, but the other, older boys wanted to play football instead. Patrick wasn't sure what that was, but, after checking to see if either of his parents were around, he agreed to watch them do it for a bit. It was interesting, definitely the most savage thing he'd ever seen before, and though he tried his best to stay on the side lines, he ended up getting dragged right into the middle. When he waddled back inside a few hours later with a bloody nose and a mouth full of grass, it was decided then that he couldn't run or intentionally scare another person outside, either. Actions have consequences, his mother scolded after shooing her nephews out the front door. He wouldn't know until next year that this marked the ban of all birthday celebrations altogether.

In the fall after turning five, when the time came to sign Patrick up for school, the Buas simply 'forgot' to do it. The risk was huge- their own lives were put on the line- and the peacekeepers in the area had no mercy. But being somewhat well off could get you places; heads could be turned for those who paid the right price. They were safe for now. They'd be safe for another seven years. Food and luxuries would become more scarce than ever before, but it was all worth it if they could afford their child a life free from worry for just a little while more.

By then, Patrick's hair had long since grown past his shoulders, the ends falling just below his ribcage when down and to his lower back when braided. He'd never been able to leave the house much, let alone get a haircut, and his parents were afraid of trying to do anything on their own. Each strand was a beautiful, curly spiral; the reddish-brown color looked like amber when the sun hit it just right, and it gave him a sort of elegance that stood out from the other kids his age.

Sometimes, he'd peak through the holes in his back yard's fence to watch the other little girls and boys play. Eyes bright, smiles wide- the children seemed to glow in each other's presence. He longed to be out there with them. His legs craved the burn of running, and his arms buzzed with the thought of getting to throw a ball again. Patrick even missed the feeling of peroxide on his knee after busting it on the rocks. Time and time again, he'd begged his parents to let him go out front to play. He promised that he'd be careful and that he'd be inside before dusk, but every time, no matter how hard he tried or how pitiful he looked, the answer was always a disappointing no.

So he lived vicariously though watching the fun, imagining that he was on the other side shooting hoops with the boys or painting rocks with the girls instead of sitting on the muddy, dead grass like a loser. He already had the freckles to show his commitment to the sun, pale skin kissed a thousand times over. It felt like a different world, and while he didn't want to necessarily give up what he already had to go there, he desperately wished to have a rocket ship so he could fly back and forth.

The following spring, Amy Bua brought a young girl into their house to tutor Patrick, introducing her as Miss Sarah and stating that she'd be coming over every weekday afternoon from then on out. Miss Sarah was petite brunette, age no older than 16, and she had a somber aura to her that wasn't belonging to someone so young. She'd agreed to help out the Buas in exchange for a hot meal every night, a small but meaningful deal that seemed to benefit both parties. Her lessons were helpful in more way than one, the knowledge offering Patrick the education he had missed by skipping school and the occupation keeping him as far away from the fence and outdoors as possible. His mother had grown scared watching him sulk every night, and even when Kurt tried to reason that perhaps they were being too protective and harsh with their son, the woman would not be satisfied until she had found a way to "make him better."

During his lessons, Patrick would always sit in the chair facing the door. No matter how hard he tried to stay focused, he'd feel his eyes creep from the papers up to the window, vision straining to catch glimpses of the tops heads whenever they'd pop into view. Vocabulary words turned into imagining conversations, and writing assignments turned into adventures that he'd always wanted to have. As he turned seven, then eight, then nine, the Little Ranbow's work continued to revolve around the outside world. Even after his mother had a curtain put up to block out the light, he still pretended he could see through it, imagining that the other boys and girls were waving for him to come out and play even though they knew not of his existence.

When he turned ten, he decided he wanted answers. He'd never questioned why we wasn't allowed to leave the house or be with other people or cut his hair like he'd seen the others do. Content with his fantasy, content with his Prison. Patrick didn't know what was out there, but he wanted to. That night, he fought with his mom for the first time. Knuckles colored more red than peach from punching the bathroom mirror over and over and over again, Patrick shouted through his tears, asking his fear-stricken parents why they couldn't care less about how he felt or what he wanted to do.

Amy resorted to the easy response, claiming that she'd only wanted the best for him. She didn't dare tell him why she was so protective, or that when he was three, that'd they'd tried to have another child but failed. Again. Her motherly love- her desire to protect her only child from the struggles of the world- had done more harm than it had prevented, and Kurt, as much as he'd wanted to see his wife happy, couldn't bring himself to stop it. But it was too late to go back. In her eyes, no matter what she should've done or could've done or would've done, she did what she did and now she had to see it through. He couldn't survive if we threw him into it all now, she reasoned with herself while screaming for Patrick to go back to his room to think about what he'd said. Twelve is a fine enough age to wait 'til... only two years off.

After receiving no explanation and being given his meal through a cracked door instead of at the kitchen table like usual, Patrick began to think about what would happen if he tried to leave it all. If he ran, what would happen? Would they find him? Could he find one of those nice kids to live with instead? It didn't matter to him that his only experience with the outside world had been through what he caught from the backyard. He didn't know what the other adults were like, or if there were any animals that could gobble his small ten-year-old body up like a snack. It would be an adventure, just like the ones he'd written about with Miss Sarah... just like the ones he'd been banned from writing about with Miss Sarah.

After his plate had been collected and he was allowed out of his room to go and brush his teeth- the shards of the glass in the sink had seemed to disappear during his detention, probably cleaned up by his mother- Patrick waited by the door, peeking through the crack at the bottom, until all the lights had been turned off and it was apparent that the other two Buas had headed off to sleep. When the coast was clear, he pushed the door open as slowly as he could until the opening was wide enough for him to slip out. Though he was dressed and ready to head out, he had one more stop to make before he could truly "start" his mission. Tip-toeing to the kitchen, Patrick looked both ways before fiddling with the child lock on the drawer that was closest to the sink. Hearing the soft click that signaled his success, he quickly set the plastic circle aside and tugged the handle back far enough to where he could see the contents of his treasure.

Knives of all different sizes sat in rows upon rows, the glaring sheen of every blade still blinding even in the dark of the night. He wasn't looking for anything big, just something he could use if he had to protect himself. He'd never touched such a dangerous object before, his parents' objection quite obvious from the level of security they'd placed to bar him from access, but he figured it'd work from all the times he'd seen Amy and Kurt cook with one. Grabbing a potato, Patrick stabbed the blade deep into the end so that it wouldn't cut him when he placed it in his bag.

Though done with knives, he wasn't quite done with the drawer itself. At the back, hidden under a paper towel years old, was a small pair of scissors. He'd seen his mother pull them out last week so Miss Sarah could cut out some shapes for his lesson, but he'd never seen them in use nor had the opportunity to use them himself. Still, Patrick was sure of what he wanted to do.

Grabbing for the handles, he pulled the tool out with the blade away from him. It was lighter than he had imagined, and once he had successfully closed and relocked the drawer back to how it had been before, he took a moment to admire the power such a small object gave him. No more than eight inches long, less than an inch wide, a finger's length tall... built from efficiency and usefulness and necessity.

It was something he'd never been allowed to know about.

His fingers were trembling when he brushed the curtain away from the window, daring to look at himself with a loneliness that no child in his tenth year should know. He felt like a doll, his appearance and actions dictated by somebody else. Miss Sarah had brought a doll with her once, he remembered. It looked both human-like and inhuman at the same time. But Patrick didn't want to be just "human-like"; he wanted to be human. Shakily, he imagined how he'd look if he were a normal boy, if he could choose what he wanted like all the other kids. A trembling hand came up to his cheek, pulling the mahogany curls away from his roots and to the back of his head, while the other grasped the handles of the scissors in the way that seemed the most right. I'd have short hair, he thought sharply, dual blades cutting through the virgin lockes like butter, to make the ribbons of hair dance as they fluttered to the ground. All the way around, just like the other boys so I'd fit in.

It took him no more than five minutes to make it look like how he wanted- the cut itself was by no means even, but seemed to him to be a better option than what he'd had- and it made him proud to stare at the ground, glaring at the clumps that he'd made all by himself. He'd done that. Not Amy. Not Kurt. Not Miss Sarah. Him. Growing nauseous, he decided that it'd be best if he left then so that none of the aforementioned had the opportunity to rouse and stop him. He gave the room a kiss goodbye and set the scissors in the middle of the sink. He'd be back, maybe, probably. Only Ripred knew where he was going.

By morning, Patrick had already grown bored. There was little to do during the night, excitement holding the treat of sleep at an arm's length away, and he desired for something interesting to make his adventure a little more worthwhile. The closest he'd come to anything out of the ordinary was when a Peacekeeper asked why he was out so late, to which he responded- in stutters- that he was just on his way home. He'd expected to be escorted back, but he must have hit a pot of gold because the man just told him that it was dangerous to be out by himself and that he should hurry it up. He agreed, putting a hop in his step to put as much distance between himself and the officer as possible.

When the first shop opened, he rushed to the door to see what was up. It was a pawn shop, run by a man with little hair and a boisterous smile.

"An early bird, I see. What can I do for you, boy?" His voice cracked like salt and pepper, in the same way Patrick's father's did, and he seemed curious at the appearance of a child so young.

"Nothing, sir. Just looking around." It was the first time he'd held a regular conversation with anyone other than the people presented to him by his parents, and yet it felt so normal to just... talk with someone he didn't know. After spending about 15 minutes walking around and asking about the history of certain objects, Patrick wished the man a good day and left the same way he came in. To his fortune, several other shops had opened up since. One in particular caught his eye, the sign hung up in the window depicting a large pair of scissors, almost identical to the ones he'd used last night.

Upon walking in, he was immediately greeted by a girl around his age, but dressed in slate grey- a stark comparison to his tan shorts and striped top.

"Hi there!" she chirped out, eyes peering innocently through grown-out bangs. "You here for a hair cut? My daddy's out back getting ready, but I'm sure he can fit ya in before school." School? Patrick had never heard of "school" before, and his face wrinkled up into a confused mess trying to figure out what his new friend meant. "What's that look for? You never seen a girl before?" Her giggles were playful and she hopped forward, closing the space between the two kids by a significant margin.

"N-no. I just don't know what you mean by school? I've nowhere to be. I'm an adventurer!" His mouth curled into a confident grin as he spoke, the gaps from his lost teeth resembling windows as he waited for her response.

"An adventurer?!" The girl broke out laughing, and Patrick's heart dropped to his knees. Was he not scary enough? Why was she mocking him? "No adventurer has hair like you do. Like I said, my daddy'll make you all spic and span. Lemme go fetch him." Though he felt a little better following her joke, he still grew worried at the fact she seemed to ignore his confusion. It didn't matter anyway, he figured that she was probably the confused one, not him.

Hesitantly, Patrick took a seat in one of the two silky, black chairs. They spun and made his backpack press uncomfortably into his ribs, but it seemed more like toy than a thing to sit on. Left to his own curiosity, he scanned the room for where the real scissors were, still intrigued by the picture on the sign. When the girl's "daddy" finally came to meet him, he was peering into the drawers, sticking his nose in taboos he'd never before been exposed to.

"And what do you think you're doing, young man?" The guy's voice was powerful and full of an authority he'd heard before but never had directed at him. "Do you have any money to pay for your cut?" The man shooed him away from the drawers, knocking them closed with a loud whack that sent Patrick scrambling back into his seat.

"I don't know what you mean," though it seemed like a cop out answer, Patrick truly wasn't aware of what "money" was, either. Just like school, it was a word he'd never needed to use nor ever heard used around him in a way that he would care for. The man acknowledged his fear and took a step back, sighing while sending his daughter to the back room to grab him his blades.

"Look. Next time you need a haircut, don't go looking through my stuff. My name's Judd." Patrick still didn't quite understand what was going on, but Judd seemed like he was... nice enough. "I heard you were an adventurer. I'm sure you heard Kimmie say it, but if you're gonna be adventurer, you're gonna have to get a better hairdo than that." Judd asked the boy to take his shirt off, and although the request seemed very strange coming from a stranger, Patrick complied quickly. From behind him, a soft buzzing began and he could feel it coming closer to his ear. "Is something wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"No, sir. I've just never seen one of those before." He was telling the truth. A razor, as Judd called it, looked like a bulky, far scarier mega-scissor. After learning that it would just make it hair shorter, he felt more comfortable. The man continued to work away at his scalp, and the breeze from the square that blew in every time the door was opened left goose bumps dotting Patrick's arms and neck. By the time Judd was finished, Patrick's hair was short on all the sides and a soft fringe hung over his eyebrows, framing his sky-blue irises in a sea of auburn. He felt good. This felt good. As they began to sweep away the mess, Patrick stopped to ask Mr. Judd a question.

"Do you have a family?" It was an odd inquiry, and it left the barber with confusion on how he should answer.

"Yes, I do. I have little Kimmie, my wife, and two little boys just a bit older than you are." His set up sounded nice. They had several kids, and it seemed like they let them out of the house as evidenced by the girl's appearance earlier. He wondered what it'd be like to be able to live like that, with only guidance infringing on his liberties.

"Do you have room for a third little boy?" Patrick's voice sounded more demanding than inquisitive, and he could tell that he had shocked his new friend by the expression he'd made right after. Without knowing it, the boy had come off like an orphan.

"Do you not have a family of your own? My boys are a lot of work, but I'm sure we could figure something out." Living was tough for most in district 6, especially for a barber whose pay is lower than his wife's, who worked at a factory. But this boy had something special to him and he didn't want to see his ambition get stomped out by the foster homes or by volunteering for the games. He was young anyway, and probably wouldn't cost too much to feed. All of a sudden , the adventurer guise seemed to make complete sense.

That's why Patrick's response made him stop in his tracks.

"No, I do. They're just real mean." He didn't want to lie to the man who had been so kind, but he needed a justification to why he had left. He figured that Judd was nice and would understand, but all he got was a frown and a pat on the head.

"Look, I can't go taking you away from your folks. I'm sure they're just looking out for you, and if you've really been adventuring like you say, then they're probably worried sick." He wasn't sure how to handle this, as he was never good with other people's kids, but he tried his best to sound sympathetic. "Feel free to come back any time you need your hair cut, but you really need to go back home for now." His words were heartbreaking and left chucks of hurt in Patrick's chest, despite their good intentions. He'd been so excited, if only for a few seconds, but it seemed like the man was right. He couldn't just leave on his mom and dad like that. After giving many thanks, he walked back outside and tried to remember his way home. At least he'd gotten his hair how he wanted, even if his escape didn't quite work out as planned.

Upon returning home, he expected an all-out war with screaming and hitting and pure punishment as he'd never experienced before. Instead, he found his mom curled up in a ball on the couch with his father sitting patiently at her side. It seemed like they'd known he'd come back, and that's what hurt him the most. He was just like they thought he was: incapable, not enough. Once they'd really comprehended that he'd walked back through the door, he was greeted by a jumping hug, Amy's tears soaking through his cotton shirt like paper.

She asked him, through her sobs, why he'd decided to cut all his hair off and when he knew he wanted to leave. Too young, she thought, to make such a bold decision. Feeling like she had failed him for letting him slip out so easily, she asked Patrick what it was like out there, if he'd learned about anything knew. In that moment, Momma Bua made a silent prayer to Ripred pleading that her baby's innocence would still be in-tact.

Kurt let out the breath he didn't realise he'd been holding when their son said that he'd heard a couple words he didn't know, but that he never figured out what they meant. If words was all that happened, neither him nor his wife could say that they weren't grateful for such a close call. After reconciliation, Patrick was asked to go back to his room to clean up. He didn't look the same without his heavenly lockes- something that Amy wouldn't let go until the day of her death- but the Buas figured that if a haircut was enough to keep him obedient, that, just as they'd decided many times before, it was a sacrifice they were willing to make.

Throughout the rest of the next two years, Patrick was taken on regular trips to the same barbershop, where he was greeted by Judd (and sometimes Kimmie) as if he were one of their own. It was small enough gesture, and though the boy was still not allowed to play with other kids and both the knife drawer and the front and back doors were now fitted with a lock and key, it felt like he was gaining something. Turning eleven and approaching twelve couldn't have felt sweeter.

On the day of his twelfth birthday, Patrick was allowed to invite Kimmie over to play for a couple of hours. He'd been looking forward to the play date- he spent a moment questioning whether it was appropriate to call two twelve-year-olds hanging out a "play date"- all month, and when the time finally arrived, it seemed like his friend couldn't arrive any sooner.

They'd spent most of the day chilling in the backyard, just talking about life and catching up on anything interesting that they'd had happen. Kimmie did most of the talking- she always did- but that never bothered Patrick. He didn't have much to speak about anyway, and tended to get caught up if forced to say anything more than just a few words. One story, in particular, piqued his interest, though.

She'd been talking of something called "the games" and how her friends would act it out in the courtyard at school. It had something to do with death- another concept he'd never heard of- and all she'd really said was that their teachers always got mad because it was considered "insensitive". They'd been told that they'd understand as they got older. Most things Kimmie said didn't make sense to him, and when he'd ask his mother what his friend meant, she'd always say that it was just slang and that he shouldn't concern himself with it. But this felt different. Why would the teachers think a game was inappropriate? All the games he'd managed to catch glimpses of seemed harmless and only full of fun.

Shaking it off, he regained his focus on Kimmie- who had already moved onto another topic- until they were called in for supper. Mashed potatoes and chicken was one of Patrick's favorite meals, and he only got to have it on very special days. Most birthdays weren't even special enough to afford him this luxury, so he was left both content and wondering what made this one unlike the rest. Was it because they had guests over? That couldn't be it. They'd had guests over before, and all they had was soup. Left unsettled, Patrick finished up his plate and took it to the sink. Once everyone else had done the same, he wished Kimmie and Judd goodbye, so they could return home without overstaying their welcome. It'd be another month before they saw them probably, but just as he'd bared it before, he could bare it again.

He'd have to think about stuff in the meantime.

One morning a little later on in the year, when Patrick had gone to bed thinking that he'd be sleeping in until long past dawn, he was roused rather early by his mother's gentle touch on his arm. There was nothing malicious about the gesture, no tricks hiding up her invisible sleeves, and yet there was a tangible tensity in the room that he hadn't felt since their fight when he was ten. Drowsily and with words dipped in slobber, the boy asked what was a matter, to which he was told to get up and dress nicely. In a timely manner, too.

This was odd, for the only other time he'd been expected to dress nicely and leave the house was for his aunt's wedding nine years prior. It wasn't like it was a difficult task- he had only one outfit that screamed "Sunday best"- but he still felt himself confused as he wiped the sleep from his eyes and stood to grab his garb from the closet.

In the kitchen, he was greeted by his father who had been cooking eggs. He couldn't recall the last time breakfast was made for him, but he happily accepted the food nonetheless when his stomach rumbled in protest to his hesitation. Maybe they were going on a trip. He'd always said he wanted to do that, to which his parents told him that they never would. Patrick always assumed it was because they were happy here and didn't really have any place they wanted to see. He never saw the merit in that, but then again, he never saw the merit in making your child a prisoner to their own home. Though he was no longer hungry, he gobbled up the eggs like they were the last thing he'd ever eat.

Once everyone had gotten ready and the clock ticked to just past eight o'clock, the front door was unlocked and the entire family shuffled out and to the streets, where dozens of faced had already begun to gather. Everyone seemed to be walking in the direction of the barbershop, and as unlikely as it was, Patrick hoped that that's where they were headed. He couldn't imagine them going anyplace else, especially with a crowd of people this big, but another part of him just assumed that city life was normally like this and he just didn't know because he never got to see it.

He did recall that once a year around the same time, he'd be left alone at home for about half the day while his parents were off running "errands", but he didn't think that this was for that. Not to his knowledge, the same people who'd been bribed in regards to his education had been bribed in regards to the mandatory Reapings, also. The deal was until age twelve; past that, the secrecy of Patrick would no longer be secret. But today seemed just like any other day in the life of a normal boy, so Patrick would pretend it was so.

His shirt was a baby blue that matched his father's and his slacks were colored a jet black that screamed formality. His shoes were the same shade, albeit shiny, and this was the first time he'd ever seen them, let alone worn them. Patrick assumed that this was how people dressed when they were out and about, and that Kimmie was just weird for being dressed so casually all the times that he'd seen her, but when him and Kimmie locked eyes a little bit down the road and she donned an emerald dress that made her look more fancy than he, it hit him that something was up.

When he asked Amy why they were all dressed so nice, it was obvious that she didn't want to answer. A gathering, was all she dared to say, gaining a look of worry from Kurt. We'll have to go away in a minute, but we can meet back up after. Ask one of the older kids if you need help. Just as she'd said, they soon approached a long line full of only youth. With a kiss, the Buas parted from their son, walking off in melancholy to find a place to stand where they wouldn't be seen.

From a few spots ahead, a familiar voice called out to Patrick. It was one belonging to the same girl he had eyed earlier, and though she seemed less enthusiastic as she had then, Kimmie grabbed his wrist and pulled him forward so they could stand together.

"Look at all of this!" She said with open eyes, mouth gaping wide open in shock. Her main focus was on the big screens and speakers, every bit of the set up screaming WEALTH in a way that neither child had ever seen before. Patrick thought he'd seen one of those before in his parents bedroom- a television- but it was much smaller and mother always kept it covered up with a sheet so he couldn't touch it. He wondered what they'd be doing, but by the time he'd reached the front of the line, all he'd gathered was that all the children were separated by age and gender.

The lady at the booth asked for his name, so he told her in the most prideful voice possible. She was left unphased, though, and quickly gestured for him to continue walking so that she could help the next kid. Kimmie was still waiting for him thankfully, but looked disappointed when she told him that they'd have to walk to separate sides to stand with the other twelve year olds. With a hug, they parted, and still, Patrick did not know why this left him with a weird feeling in his gut.

After finding the appropriate section, Patrick was hit with a sea of boys his own size, most of their faces appearing almost ghastly even in the midst of what seemed like a celebration. A desire to ask what was going on overtook him, but he decided to keep to himself, instead waiting for the event to start.

Almost ten minutes later, he was startled by a woman dressed in bright orange walking up on the stage in a rather... prissy fashion. She seemed important, though her mustard yellow skin and plastic-looking red hair screamed obnoxious, and when she spoke, her voice was unlike any other he'd every heard.

Whispers of capitol bitches and capitolites and sadistic fuckers filled his ears as he struggled to make sense of what she was saying over the floweriness of her own words. It was something about "the hunger games". He wondered for a moment if these were the same games that Kimmie had been talking about back on his birthday, but he reasoned that it had to be something different because a schoolyard game would never be this big. As the speech continued, videos full of blood- the same red blood that bled from his knuckles when he was ten- and people falling to the ground like trees played in the background, giving a history of some placed called "Panem". This brought nothing but confusion for Patrick- they lived in district 6, so why were they learning about "Panem"? Eventually, the videos faded to black, but the woman never did seem to stop talking.

In between the murmurs of the crowd, he could hear something being said about one girl and one boy being chosen every year as a penance for what him and his people had apparently done wrong. It seemed foolish to him; perhaps this is why he was never let outside, because all of the games were as pointless as this one. But when he heard two names being called and saw two disaster-stricken children making their way up to the stage, it all seemed to click for him.

This is Panem. Those children are going to bleed like the ones in the video. This is what death means.

For the first time in his life, all he wanted to do was go back home.

After the sobs had died down and the kids who had been offered as "tributes" were taken away by the Peacekeepers, Patrick somehow found the strength to pick up his feet and walk away. He didn't care so much about finding his parents as he did just getting away from there, but he wondered how something like this could be going on all along while he was living a life that was so much better.

The next time he saw his parents was at home, after he had tucked himself away in his room, refusing to eat dinner for the first time in years. His appetite seemed to have been snatched by the same force that wrecked his oblivion. Why would he want to eat while people were dying? He didn't even know what dying was until all of this. Eventually, his father came in with a plate of potatoes and corn, something comforting but not so overwhelming that he felt nauseous. With a few words of thanks, Patrick closed his eyes and dared himself to ask why.

So he did. As the food lay untouched the boy sickened by his ignorance began to question his parents- Amy had joined her boys just in time- as to why they had kept this from him for so long. Surprised, they tried to lie and say that no children knew until age twelve, but he immediately called them out, saying that Kimmie seemed to know way before that. As much as he couldn't believe that he could be given almost an absolute death sentence at any time, he couldn't believe that he'd never known. As they filled him in on what they felt was fair for him to know, he learned that this happens every year and that district 6- one of twelve districts, their district- hasn't had a victor in a time longer than memory can tell. He was told that he'd have to be entered into the Reaping until his 19th birthday, and the was one of the "lucky" ones because some kids have to enter themselves more than required in order to get enough food to survive, called Tessarae.

It was all a great shock. For weeks, he'd beg his parents to let him watch the games on the TV in their room, then become full of regret when he had to rush off to the bathroom to vomit. It was a lot to take in for someone so young, and yet, he still desired to handle it in the most mature way possible. He wouldn't dance around the dangers of life like his parents had- no. All he wanted was honesty- the real kind, not the kind he was spoon-fed for the first twelve years of his life.

When the time came for him to attend his second reaping, Patrick Bua was ready. He was up before his mother even came to wake him, and his clothes had already been set out on the dresser the night prior. It was the same outfit from last year, but it felt less classy after witnessing such a grotesque "celebration". The slacks were quite a different fit than they had been previously, the hem no longer dragging on the floor when he walked and the fabric lazily hugging his lanky legs like it was intended to. To an outsider, he might have been mistaken as excited, but if anything, little rainbow was anxious as could be. What if he was the one that got his name called? What if it was Kimmie? After learning more about the rules, he'd learned that some people choose to "volunteer" for these antics, mostly in the upper districts where killing is culture. Some people volunteer for the ones they love, too, but it's only possible to volunteer for someone of the same sex. Which means that ever saving Kimmie was out of the question.

Despite Patrick developing a newfound interest, the events of the day were almost identical to how they were the last year. Dad makes breakfast, child accepts. Family walks to District Square, says goodbyes. Child checks in desk, goes to find spot. The youngest Bua even made sure to give Kimmie a good luck hug again, pretending not to notice all the ways she had changed from last time.

For this games, though, it's two more kids. Two more kids that come home dead weeks later.

For the quell, the thought of volunteers is once again brought to the front of his mind. A game full of only those who choose to be there- a shocking three males and three females from 6- leaving him with both less anxiety and more anxiety at the same time. He hadn't thought that anyone around here actually wanted to be in the games, yet he was proven wrong by six deaths.... a whopping four more than the usual. He's fourteen then, having sprouted up several more inches, and he can finally see the top of Kimmie's head as she greets him for the third year in a row. It's a bittersweet feeling, seeing her like this, and even though they were meeting more frequently then they had in years past- including at school, which he started the year he turned twelve- the Reaping day always made everything feel so different.

For the next year, when Patrick is fifteen, it feels different for another reason. Though he watches two tributes get ushered away- Teddy Ursa and Basil Isley- only one comes back in the same way as the others. He remembers watching the finale, sitting on the edge of his seat when only a district 4 Lux Pelotte and a district 6 Teddy Ursa remained, and screaming at the TV as the one from his district- the one from his district!- grabs a historical win for the 76th. While the pride was sickening, he wasn't so sure that it was as much pride as it was relief. It gave him hope, hope that if he ever ended up in the same situation- and Ripred, he hoped he'd never end up in the same situation- that he'd be able to get through it, too.

Sometime between that games and the 77th, he remembered talking to Kimmie about how lucky you'd have to be to win something like that when all of the odds were against you. They were out in his back yard, laying down in the same place he used to sit when peaking through the fence, just relaxing and watching the clouds roll overhead nonchalantly. With little thought, she'd replied that when you're so used to something happening a certain way, you start to expect it to happen that way every time. No matter how different it appears, or how different it manifests, you expect it to be the same as always to the point that when it's different, it's hard to digest. They'd agreed that that's what happened, that you can only handle so much loss before you get gain, and then that gain just feels wrong. Patrick didn't feel like all of the deaths that the others had faced or would face in the future were justified by Teddy Ursa's win, but that it didn't make his win any less valuable.

When Kimmie had to leave that night, she made sure to slip something into Patrick's pocket when they hugged goodbye. It was nothing big, and he didn't even find it until a couple days later while he was getting his laundry together to take to his mom. She had given him a small chain bracelet with a black, scissor-shaped charm on the end, just like the one in her dad's shop's window. Patrick couldn't begin to imagine what she had to do to get this, but he spent a long while just laying on his bed, staring at it, thinking about what would have happened if he never cut his hair and ran away back when he was ten.