Cyril Rinne - District 9 (Done)
May 18, 2019 16:08:10 GMT -5
Post by Tyler on May 18, 2019 16:08:10 GMT -5
CYRIL RINNE Male, Age 14 District 9 |
ARCHETYPE
The Seeker. The Individualist. The Explorer.
Marked by the desire to experience a better, more fulfilling life,
faced with a fear of inner emptiness.
The Seeker. The Individualist. The Explorer.
Marked by the desire to experience a better, more fulfilling life,
faced with a fear of inner emptiness.
APPEARANCE
It's a word Cyril has had thrown his way many times before. By teachers that can't seem to understand why he struggles to keep the words he tries to read from dancing on the page. By peers that have formed their own complex social circles that have no room for him. By his own mother, working hard to try and impress the more well-off members of the district that she wishes so badly to be among. And as he looks at his own reflection in the tiny mirror his family owns, he can't help but think the word once again to himself.
He can see both his parents reflected in himself. From his father he inherited a mess of sandy brown hair with a stubborn cowlick that never cooperates with a comb (much to the dismay of his mother). He's got the same slim frame, the same slightly lopsided nose, the same full mouth with a slight overbite. But it's his mother's pale skin that covers his body, her cold blue eyes that protrude from under eyebrows that arch steeply and lock his face into a slight frown. He got her pointed face, sharp and uninviting. He so often wishes he got the kind, round face of his father, the golden brown eyes that smile out at the world and invite you to know the man behind them. But nothing on Cyril's face invites people in. People rarely give him a second look. Forgettable.
For a fourteen-year-old boy Cyril stands slightly taller than average, at about 5 feet 6 inches. He remembers the day he became taller than his dad with a feeling of pride, although his mother still stands a few inches taller and thus can still leer down at him with disapproval every time she lectures him on his disappointments. Despite being better fed than others thanks to his mother's desire for others to see her family as being well-off, he is still slightly underweight at 101 pounds. He's not particularly strong, not like some of the stocky boys he sees in his classes who seem to spend any free time they have lifting things. But his slim build helps him squeeze into spaces most people can't, a skill he values much more than a bit of extra muscle. Whenever he's trying to avoid another lecture from his mother or just wants to be on his own, he can slide his way between the planks that board the entrance of a factory no longer in use and explore there until hunger or boredom wins out. It's for this skill that Cyril hopes he doesn't grow too much taller.
He can see both his parents reflected in himself. From his father he inherited a mess of sandy brown hair with a stubborn cowlick that never cooperates with a comb (much to the dismay of his mother). He's got the same slim frame, the same slightly lopsided nose, the same full mouth with a slight overbite. But it's his mother's pale skin that covers his body, her cold blue eyes that protrude from under eyebrows that arch steeply and lock his face into a slight frown. He got her pointed face, sharp and uninviting. He so often wishes he got the kind, round face of his father, the golden brown eyes that smile out at the world and invite you to know the man behind them. But nothing on Cyril's face invites people in. People rarely give him a second look. Forgettable.
For a fourteen-year-old boy Cyril stands slightly taller than average, at about 5 feet 6 inches. He remembers the day he became taller than his dad with a feeling of pride, although his mother still stands a few inches taller and thus can still leer down at him with disapproval every time she lectures him on his disappointments. Despite being better fed than others thanks to his mother's desire for others to see her family as being well-off, he is still slightly underweight at 101 pounds. He's not particularly strong, not like some of the stocky boys he sees in his classes who seem to spend any free time they have lifting things. But his slim build helps him squeeze into spaces most people can't, a skill he values much more than a bit of extra muscle. Whenever he's trying to avoid another lecture from his mother or just wants to be on his own, he can slide his way between the planks that board the entrance of a factory no longer in use and explore there until hunger or boredom wins out. It's for this skill that Cyril hopes he doesn't grow too much taller.
PERSONALITY
There's so much beauty for such an ugly world.
It's a thought that crosses Cyril's mind often. When specks of dust swirl lazily in the ray of sunlight coming through the window. When the fluffy flakes of snow float gently downwards in the silence of winter. He sees it in the iridescent greens and blues of the coat of the grackles that populate the fields of grain, in the tragic chaos of a cracked window pane. Even though the Capitol has done so much to take the beauty of District 9 and destroy it with factories and pollution, pain and fear, Cyril has always managed to find it. Even when he watches the Hunger Games year after year, forced to watch children die the ugliest of deaths, he sees beauty in the arenas. The forests, with their deep green leaves that shift as if to breathe and shadows that dance with the light that breaks through the canopy. The seas, with their crystal blue waters waving rhythmically, inviting you to dive in and lose yourself. The mountains with their frosted peaks and their mighty stone faces. Yes, so much beauty for such an ugly world.
It is this beauty that Cyril thrives on, uses to survive each day in District 9. He imagines the places where the arena designs take inspiration from. Surely there must be real places where you can swim among the sea waves, lie under the jungle canopy, stand atop a mountain on the top of the world. What wonders lie beyond the walls of his dirty, polluted district? What worlds exist beyond Panem? He spends most of his time daydreaming of breaking out of District 9 and finding these worlds, where he can leave the ugliness behind and immerse himself in the beauty of the world. Sometimes his desire to be in these other lands is so strong it's physically painful. But he knows these daydreams will have to remain fantasies. After all, he could never leave behind his father, or his sister. Even if he could go, even if the opportunity to leave and never look back arose, he knew he'd never convince them to leave the safety of the known.
Aside from those two, there aren't many others that Cyril cares about. He has yet to meet a classmate who he hasn't felt indifferent towards. They seem to be focused on satisfying themselves on dull lives in the district, afraid of the mere thought of change, of possibility. Not that he's usually approached by any of his classmates anyways. The exception to this was a girl named Nessa. They met about 7 years prior, and Cyril quickly became friends with this bright and bubbly girl who not only tolerated his fantastic stories of other worlds, but enthusiastically shared in his appreciation for beauty and curiosity for the things lying beyond District 9. Nessa was truly his best friend.
Unfortunately, Nessa happened to be from a poorer family, one mouth to feed among many. Cyril's mother disapproved of this friendship greatly, aghast at the thought of their family having association with someone so low on the social totem pole. Then, one winter day two years ago, the line was crossed when Nessa came to visit while she was entertaining some of the district's well-off members. Out of embarrassment, she barred Nessa from hanging out with Cyril any longer. It was the last time he got to see her before she caught the flu. In the winter this was a death sentence without proper medication. And flu medicine just wasn't the kind of thing her family could afford. Cyril never forgave his mother, and never found another person he trusted as much as Nessa. It was easier to be abrasive, be cold, never let others find their way into his heart.
It's a thought that crosses Cyril's mind often. When specks of dust swirl lazily in the ray of sunlight coming through the window. When the fluffy flakes of snow float gently downwards in the silence of winter. He sees it in the iridescent greens and blues of the coat of the grackles that populate the fields of grain, in the tragic chaos of a cracked window pane. Even though the Capitol has done so much to take the beauty of District 9 and destroy it with factories and pollution, pain and fear, Cyril has always managed to find it. Even when he watches the Hunger Games year after year, forced to watch children die the ugliest of deaths, he sees beauty in the arenas. The forests, with their deep green leaves that shift as if to breathe and shadows that dance with the light that breaks through the canopy. The seas, with their crystal blue waters waving rhythmically, inviting you to dive in and lose yourself. The mountains with their frosted peaks and their mighty stone faces. Yes, so much beauty for such an ugly world.
It is this beauty that Cyril thrives on, uses to survive each day in District 9. He imagines the places where the arena designs take inspiration from. Surely there must be real places where you can swim among the sea waves, lie under the jungle canopy, stand atop a mountain on the top of the world. What wonders lie beyond the walls of his dirty, polluted district? What worlds exist beyond Panem? He spends most of his time daydreaming of breaking out of District 9 and finding these worlds, where he can leave the ugliness behind and immerse himself in the beauty of the world. Sometimes his desire to be in these other lands is so strong it's physically painful. But he knows these daydreams will have to remain fantasies. After all, he could never leave behind his father, or his sister. Even if he could go, even if the opportunity to leave and never look back arose, he knew he'd never convince them to leave the safety of the known.
Aside from those two, there aren't many others that Cyril cares about. He has yet to meet a classmate who he hasn't felt indifferent towards. They seem to be focused on satisfying themselves on dull lives in the district, afraid of the mere thought of change, of possibility. Not that he's usually approached by any of his classmates anyways. The exception to this was a girl named Nessa. They met about 7 years prior, and Cyril quickly became friends with this bright and bubbly girl who not only tolerated his fantastic stories of other worlds, but enthusiastically shared in his appreciation for beauty and curiosity for the things lying beyond District 9. Nessa was truly his best friend.
Unfortunately, Nessa happened to be from a poorer family, one mouth to feed among many. Cyril's mother disapproved of this friendship greatly, aghast at the thought of their family having association with someone so low on the social totem pole. Then, one winter day two years ago, the line was crossed when Nessa came to visit while she was entertaining some of the district's well-off members. Out of embarrassment, she barred Nessa from hanging out with Cyril any longer. It was the last time he got to see her before she caught the flu. In the winter this was a death sentence without proper medication. And flu medicine just wasn't the kind of thing her family could afford. Cyril never forgave his mother, and never found another person he trusted as much as Nessa. It was easier to be abrasive, be cold, never let others find their way into his heart.
HISTORY
Cyril never understood what brought his parents together, or how their paths crossed in the first place. His mother is a teacher at the schoolhouse with a reputation for being strict on students and ensuring that the rules are stringently followed. She's particularly harsh on Cyril, obviously frustrated with his lack of academic ability. She doesn't understand, he thinks, that I can't control how the letters dance on the page to create words of their own. He's particularly frustrated with her burning desire to be part of the more well-off families of District 9. Thanks to her, their modest house is filled with items that look lavish, but have fallen into various states of deterioration due to being unable to afford to fix things as they break.
Cyril's father is a stark contrast from his mother. A worker in the factories producing various goods for the capitol, he only cares about providing his children with the best he can give them. At times when his mother has been extra harsh on him, Cyril has been able to count on his dad to make him his favourite tea with honey and tell him stories of beauty; beauty he's heard of from the other districts, beauty he's seen in the arenas of Hunger Games from the past, even beauty in moments from their own district. When Cyril doubts it, his father reminds him that his mother loves him, even if she doesn't always show it.
As much as Cyril loves his father, it doesn't compare to the love he has for his five-year-old sister, Jools. In his opinion, she has the best attributes from each of their parents: their father's kind face and gentleness, their mother's blonde curls and ability to dream big. When his mother is busy with the school and his father is working long hours at the factory, Cyril steps in to take care of Jools. He admires her for her innocence, her curiosity for the world around her, her ability to see the good in the midst of the bad. Cyril is determined to have her keep her innocence for as long as possible, trying to show her the beauty in the world and hide her from its ugliness. When the Hunger Games are on, he will try to distract her from the pain and destruction as tributes destroy one another by pointing out the beauty he so readily sees in the arena: the dancing ocean waves, the hypnotic ripples of wind in the grass, the stoic silence of the snowy fields.
His favourite thing is to show Jools is the stars. Not the ones in the sky, no, between the thick smog that billows from the steep factory chimneys and the bright lights left on every night for Peacekeepers to more easily stand guard, Cyril and Jools have never seen a real star. But Cyril has made his own stars, by placing an old piece of thick canvas over the light in his room and piercing some tiny holes in the fabric to let the light shine through. In an instant, his room becomes another world speckled with a million tiny suns. He fell in love with the night sky after seeing it in a Hunger Games long ago, imagining a million other worlds that could exist so painfully far away but that seem just out of reach. Now he sees his own wonder and excitement reflected in Jools as she gazes upon the stars he's created for her. "Do you think we'll ever get to see a real star?" she asks every night. And when she does Cyril thinks of the things that lie beyond the district gates, of the exotic worlds echoed in the arenas of the Hunger Games, of a world where Panem is different. And he looks up at his stars.
"I hope so."
Cyril's father is a stark contrast from his mother. A worker in the factories producing various goods for the capitol, he only cares about providing his children with the best he can give them. At times when his mother has been extra harsh on him, Cyril has been able to count on his dad to make him his favourite tea with honey and tell him stories of beauty; beauty he's heard of from the other districts, beauty he's seen in the arenas of Hunger Games from the past, even beauty in moments from their own district. When Cyril doubts it, his father reminds him that his mother loves him, even if she doesn't always show it.
As much as Cyril loves his father, it doesn't compare to the love he has for his five-year-old sister, Jools. In his opinion, she has the best attributes from each of their parents: their father's kind face and gentleness, their mother's blonde curls and ability to dream big. When his mother is busy with the school and his father is working long hours at the factory, Cyril steps in to take care of Jools. He admires her for her innocence, her curiosity for the world around her, her ability to see the good in the midst of the bad. Cyril is determined to have her keep her innocence for as long as possible, trying to show her the beauty in the world and hide her from its ugliness. When the Hunger Games are on, he will try to distract her from the pain and destruction as tributes destroy one another by pointing out the beauty he so readily sees in the arena: the dancing ocean waves, the hypnotic ripples of wind in the grass, the stoic silence of the snowy fields.
His favourite thing is to show Jools is the stars. Not the ones in the sky, no, between the thick smog that billows from the steep factory chimneys and the bright lights left on every night for Peacekeepers to more easily stand guard, Cyril and Jools have never seen a real star. But Cyril has made his own stars, by placing an old piece of thick canvas over the light in his room and piercing some tiny holes in the fabric to let the light shine through. In an instant, his room becomes another world speckled with a million tiny suns. He fell in love with the night sky after seeing it in a Hunger Games long ago, imagining a million other worlds that could exist so painfully far away but that seem just out of reach. Now he sees his own wonder and excitement reflected in Jools as she gazes upon the stars he's created for her. "Do you think we'll ever get to see a real star?" she asks every night. And when she does Cyril thinks of the things that lie beyond the district gates, of the exotic worlds echoed in the arenas of the Hunger Games, of a world where Panem is different. And he looks up at his stars.
"I hope so."
(edit note May 2024: fixed spacey background image, old image vanished)
