a million dreams [henry/adolesca]

Slammed doors and heated words were a thing of normalcy in the Marchenko household.

Mom was bitching at me about one thing, my dad always took her side because he's afraid of what would happen if he didn't, and my brother always stood awkwardly in the corner, observing the situation from a distance. We were the picturesque idea of a middle-class Panem family, if only you didn't look beneath the surface, where the horrid manifestation of my angry mother came to life.

Walking through the District always seemed to relieve me of my anger. I liked to play this game called daddy issues or mommy issues, where I, using my limited knowledge of a random passerby, like to guess which one they had. I mean, in this District, it seemed almost everyone you saw had some sort of tragic backstory. Whether it be a brother/sister/aunt/uncle/great-great-great-grandpa who passed tragically in the Games or the typical dead mom, dead dad situation, there were usually some juicy, exciting stories to make up in my head. Passing judgment on others made me forget about my shitty reality and feel sorry for whatever made-up fate I had thrown onto them in my mind.

The game is normally fun, but some asshole decided they wanted to play their guitar in the street, which totally ruined my vibe.

I looked over and saw some young dude strumming along, with very few people stopping to pay attention. That was life, I guess. No one had an appreciation for the arts these days, myself included. Who cares if you can pluck a few strings well? That wasn't entertaining in a world where most of us got entertainment from watching kids kill each other all day.

Despite my aversion to music, I decided to stop and listen for a while. He was alright. I guess he would probably be good if I cared enough about some rando playing the guitar on the street for money.

But that wasn't entertaining to me. He definitely needed to spice things up.

As the song wrapped up and he took a quick pause, I took full advantage and strutted up to the boy. He looked no younger than me, a youthful look to him which he could definitely play up to get him some more tips.

He reminded me a little of my younger brother, if Atlas were a little less nerdy and a lot less socially awkward. Then and there, I decided it was my duty to help him spice up his routine a little and get him some more money. After all, who didn't love unsolicited advice from strangers?

"Yo," I said, crossing my arms, "You need to do a whole lot more than sit there and play the guitar if you wanna make any kind of money around these streets."