theodora kayne | d7 | fin. | Hunger Games: The RPG

theodora kayne | d7 | fin. May 29, 2019 0:33:38 GMT -5

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Post by lee on May 29, 2019 0:33:38 GMT -5

// judas

you are born a shadow.

you come into this world in the depths of district seven, a cottage right before the harvesting woods, smoke billowing from the fireplace and into the cold night air. your father toiled for this house, just as he built the grand homes of the victors closer to the square, and it shows in the nooks and the crannies and the love your mother knows but you do not.

you follow your brother, tamsin, by an hour. you shared the womb, and soon, you will share everything. when his toys become unfixable they become yours, and when his clothes are tattered, they do the same. but you cannot share your mother's love, no matter how hard you try. you think it's because he looks like her in all of the best ways -- his eyes sparkle, the trademark kenzo smile tugs at his lips, his hair is neat and tidy and combed. you are nothing but a shoddy replica of him. your eyes are all wrong, your hair grows too quickly and too messily, and you wish you could see yourself in your mother.

all you see is tamsin. but you can't be him. not really.

---

"what are you doing, theo?"

it's your father, voice warm like the hearth in your living room. tamsin will always love your mother, and you will always wish you could do the same, but you do not have to fight for the affection of your father. you think that he loves you the most out of the two of you. you're grateful.

you look up from your spot on the ground, covered in muck and your shaggy black hair stuck to your forehead with sweat. you've been making a grave for your worms, lili and tilli, because you forgot to feed them. you know you can't tell him that. your whole class already thinks you eat the damn things, much less care for them enough to make them a grave. you would much rather die than tell him that.

"nothing, papa. was going to make a flower garden, but all we have are trees. would look weird."

someone should have told you long before you're as old as you are now that you are a flower garden in a place full of trees. strange, but maybe beautiful. but, they don't.

---

you live as a shadow.

tamsin is loud, commanding attention with every step into a room. you, however, are not. you are quiet, always watching, so much so that your teachers forget you are even there and your mother complains that you never leave your room for anything other than what is necessary. but, for once, you are better than tamsin in that regard. you know everything -- your job at the market (selling stupid wooden trinkets that visiting capitolites and district socialites that could barely be considered socialites love to drool over) allows you to do so, listening to them gossip about the next big thing, the next big tribute, the next big addition to the tiny lumber factory that is your district.

you don't tell anyone what you know. who would care to know about the trivial lives of ungrateful rich people the way you do ? and besides, you don't have anyone to tell. the life of a shadow is lonely, relegated behind a fake smile and small talk. you don't remember the last time you had a friend that was truly your own, not some weak attempt from tamsin to get you out into the world.

nevertheless, life is easier this way.

---

you will die a shadow.

your (and of course, his, as well) sixteenth birthday is a saccharine reminder that you only have two more years until you cannot be reaped. two more years until you don't find yourself in an ocean of nameless faces, ones that you've seen for years but never bothered to speak to, all standing and waiting like cattle to the slaughter. sometimes, you can pick a name or a memory from the back of your mind when they are called to stand on the stage. boys and girls that have shared your school-house, boys and girls that smile at you out of pity of being tamsin kayne's weird twin sister. they pluck at your heartstrings, and rip the very same heart out when they inevitably die on the static-y screen three days later.

sometimes, you put yourself up there. you can see yourself in your reaping dress (the same one you've worn every year since you were 13, the same one that is too short for your spindly legs and shows the bruises on your knees), wide-eyed and frightened. this thought never calms you down like you used to think it would, and in fact, makes you even more scared for the next two years ahead.

maybe the odds will be in your favor.

robb stark