hector izar | district eleven | fin [cbd3]

Life is dictated by the number eleven. They say the double 1 carries so much luck, a powerhouse of victors and yet each victory comes with a prize of more suffering. Either the slaughter of the next pair to bid farewell from the steps of the train or more poor to come begging at the door of the foodbank.

Most of my days are spent dashing from one house to the other. Infected wounds and cold lungs, a repeated episode of illnesses that can all be prevented if not for poverty. No rest comes my way, as soon as I clock off from the medic job, I am straight to the food bank, collecting the scraps that the unfortunate donates to the even more unfortunate. It is just a repeated cycle of survival and the only thing that keeps it ticking is community. Izars, Kranes, Rhodes and Miristiomas: the cursed names and blessed names of District Eleven working together.

I do not complain, it is my life and I love it. To offer a hand to a homeless fellow and to see them turned around to a working man with food in his belly, it is what I do it for. I do it for the community. I do it for my family. I do it for all those that have fallen for us to be here today. I do not let the fear of another Izar being announced at the annual event stop me. No matter the cost of life, the many need to survive.