sangfugle og slanger | d4 | done

sang

Paying our way to power.

That should be my family's motto.

Our conniving streak dates back to the the dark days. My grandfather would often tell me stories of when he was a kid and how his father betrayed the rebels in exchange for payment. He traded off secrets that destroyed the groups that had formed in four in opposition to the Capitol in exchange for wealth and riches. His goal was a luxurious life in the capitol, but instead he got his luxurious life in District Four. The money the Capitol paid him set him up for life, and then he used that to start his own enterprise.

That's how I'm told this story each year by my grandfather. That's where our deep sea fishing business got started.

To the public, it's presented as a story of giving back to the community, sharing the wealth the capitol has graciously provided my family with in exchange for jobs and economic prosperity. My grandfathers casts my great grandfather as a hero, the herald of District Four's fortuitous times (for at least when it's compared to other districts).

In private, he laughs at them. It was nothing more than a smart investment to him. We made money, we intend to keep it he says. And with a few small payments, the peacekeepers look the other way when unpaid workers going missing, turn a blind eye when a portion of the profits goes missing without report on tax documents, and help stop any thoughts of striking.

I'm no better than them.

I'm set to inherit everything once my dad hands it off to me. And that's fine by me.

My status allows me to surround myself with whoever I choose. Everyone's vying for a chance to be friends with someone who will soon be one of the richest men in district four. Socialite parties and brunches cloud my schedule. To them, it doesn't matter that I'm not a career. My status isn't defined by the number of people I kill which, by the way, I've always found kind of absurd really. I mean, yeah the games are cool to watch and all, but not everyone should be focused on getting big muscles so that they can get their neck snapped by a twelve year old. I let my status be determined by my wealth, which is honestly a better way than trying to show off who's the most meat-headed. At least they're good for being mindless workers who won't put up a fuss.

Yeah, I don't have that herculean body from years of career training. I might be scrawny from trips to islands rather than trips to the beach. But hey, who cares when you're rich.

You can call me shallow all you like, it doesn't matter that much to me.

The people who are worse off than you who aren't groveling for your attention will always say trash behind your back. It's kind of sad, really, that people feel like they need to lash out at you for being better than them. I learned to ignore the haters from an early age.

It all started in my first few years of school, people looked at me, heard my name, and never gave me a chance. It was all "daddy's money," and I was alone those first few years. I desperately wanted a friend, needed a friend. My dad had sat me down and explained to me that they were just jealous of who I was going to become, who I am. As soon as that sunk it, my anger and desperation for true friendship evaporated.

Then as soon as smarter people realized the true benefits of being my "friend," I let them flock to me. I knew they didn't like me for who I am. No one truly does. Dad was sure to make me see that too. They followed me around like I was their Shepard, but I knew better than to think they wanted more than rides in a fancy boat.

"No one wants to be your friend," My dad had said, "You got that? You can have fun with them, but never let anybody take advantage of you."

I would always nod, saying "Yeah dad, I get it," pushing him away.

He made it very clear that no one will appreciate me for anything more than wealth. I'll just forever be nothing more, nothing less, than a protectorate of this fortune.

Ripred, this sucks.