The five times throughout his life that Woof Barton lost his temper.
#1. He was seven, and Da was screaming again. He was screaming at Ma. It was usually at Ma. Not always though. Sometimes it was at Adella, or Mara. More often it was at him.
Ma was crying. She was trying to walk out of the apartment, but Da was blocking her way. Woof didn't want her to go. Adella was under the mattress, holding her ears and singing as loud as she could. Mara sat in a corner, staring. Ma finally got around Da and she had a bag in her hands, and she said something about going to her Ma's. Woof wanted to come too. Gamma never screamed or cried and her apartment wasn't littered with empty bottles and stale pieces of tesserae bread that the mice would come out at night to nibble.
Ma walked out but Da followed her, and there were angry shouts coming from the other apartments as their neighbors were disturbed from their meals and rest, but Da kept screaming. He never stopped until he ran out of energy, and that only happened when he left for hours and hours and would come back at night with his shirt on backwards and smelling like icky-water. He didn't know Woof watched him, but he did.
Woof watched now. He peered around the doorframe. Da was holding onto Ma's arm as she tried to tug away. She was standing at the top of the stairs that lead to the outside door, Da was above her on the landing. He raised his hand. It came down, once, twice. He raised it a third time.
Ma always told him not to hit his sisters, and he didn't, but at school he would punch anyone who teased them or pulled their hair or made fun of their shoes that were just bundles of wrapped up paper. He knew Da wasn't like those kids, he was bigger, and meaner, and he was Da.
But right now, he didn't care. And maybe if he could get Da to stop hitting her, maybe Ma wouldn't go away and they could all sit down around the cookfire and sing work songs like they sometimes did.
"You leave her alone!" Woof screamed, and his tiny hands hit the small of Da's back and Da fell. He tumbled down the stairs, over and over and over again like the one time Woof had thrown Adella's doll down the hill, and he was laying at the bottom and he wasn't getting up and why was his head turned like that?
Ma was screaming. She was looking at him and screaming.
"I didn't mean it!" Woof cried, the tears streaming down his face. He stared at Da, and Ma was still keening, and his sister's peered around the doorway, joined by their neighbors.
"I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it!"
He was still yelling the words as he ran out of the flat into the rain and mud of Fog Town.
"I didn't mean it!"
But he had.
#2. He was eleven, and he was hungry. The big oak tree hid him from the other kids, all in their clean dresses and ribbons and giggles. He had never been up here before. The Clear was for the rich kids, the kids whose parents didn't have to work in the factories and the textile mills and the warehouses. Townies didn't go to the Clear, not if they wanted to keep all their bones unbroken. Four years on the streets hadn't disabused Woof of that particular fear. He could handle the street gangs, and the leering warehouse overseers who let him sleep in the warm if he stole a few sesterces and handed them over. But there were Peacekeepers up here, and they were mean.
But he was so hungry.
They were having a garden party. Woof recognized one of them. She was the Capitol liaison's daughter, he was pretty sure. She was always on the stage on Reaping Day, smiling and waving at the cameras with that simpering, smug look on her face because she was safe. Maybe it was her birthday. Or maybe it was just for the Games, which were playing on a screen near the table. Woof was looking at the food. He smelled cookies and chocolate, and there were strawberries and cake and orange juice.
Best not to get greedy. There was bread too, long loaves of soft, white bread with seeds and cheese baked into them, and that's what Woof went for. The children screamed when he dashed out from the tree. One of the adults made a grab for him, there were more shouts, and then the loaf was in Woof's hand and he sprinted down the hill.
There were heavy footsteps behind him, and the voices of men, shouting and shouting. Woof ran like he had never run in his life, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his sides aching. The slums of Fog Town rose up to embrace him, and the twisting alleys were his cloak, the empty doorways his shield. The footsteps disappeared, and Woof allowed himself a chuckle and sunk his teeth into the warm bread.
He was crossing the bridge when they caught him. Not the Peacekeepers. Morlan and his crew. The bridge was their territory. Woof didn't have a choice though. The Community Home was on the other side of the river and Woof had kept more than half the loaf for Mara and Adella. Morlan held up his hand as he stumbled across, trying to find a way around him and his three mates. There was none.
"Gotta pay the toll, squidge," said Morlan, smacking a piece of chew-snap between his teeth. "What you got in there?" He pointed at the lump in Woof's jacket.
"Nuthin," muttered Woof, but of course it was no use. Two of the boys held Woof's arms and the third ripped the bread out and tossed it to Morlan.
"Mmmmm, yum," said Morlan as he bit into the soft bread that Woof had stolen, that Woof had risked his life for.
"That's mine! You give it back, slummah!"
Morlan laughed and ripped off another piece. "Gotta pay the toll, squidge. Let him go boys."
His crew laughed and threw Woof to the ground before stomping off. Woof's vision clouded over. His hands shook. It was his bread. His, and they had taken it.
"Give! It! Back!" he screamed and launched himself onto Morlan's shoulders. The boy was three years older than him, and bigger by a foot, but Woof was possessed by that insane strength born of righteous anger. He was pulling hair and punching flesh, and the others were grabbing him and he was biting at their hands. They dragged him off and Morlan was coming for him, his fist raised, and Woof kicked out at him. His feet caught his chest, just right, and Morlan flew back. He hit the railing and flipped over, and all Woof heard was a long cry and a splash.
The hands around him went limp as the boys stared at him in shock. Woof ran. And then he doubled back and snatched up the battered and dusty scrap of bread from where it had fallen. And then he ran.
He didn't even bother telling himself he hadn't meant it. He had.
#3. He was eighteen and he was sitting on his chair in CGN studios, fiddling with the collar of his ridiculous shirt. His stylist had decided to showcase all of District 8's selection of fine fabrics, so there he was in velvet pants, orange silk shirt, green linen coat, samite collar, and lace ruff. He picked at a loose thread, fuming inside even as Augustine Pine called his name and he stomped up to the front of the stage.
"Woof Barton! Welcome, welcome! Are you excited to be here?"
Woof snorted and glared. Augustine didn't miss a beat.
"I understand that you've led quite a rough-and-tumble life before you got here! Care to tell us about all those run-ins with Peacekeepers?"
"No."
"Oh, it's alright, it alright m'boy! Don't have to worry about consequences here! Besides, our viewers love a bad boy!" He winked at the studio audience and they laughed uproariously.
Woof crossed his arms. "Your viewers can go shank themselves."
The smile slid off Augustine's face for the briefest of moments before he found his face again and smiled hugely. "Excitable boy here! Now, surely you don't mean that, buddy! We're all excited to have you hear and-"
"Oh shut the #%*# up you &#*$ clown!" The audience was stunned into silence, Augustine was trying to find words, and Woof felt his anger build up and he grabbed at it.
"Yeah, you're all excited. To see me get %#& gutted. Well, %&$# you, you stupid clown and #& % my stylist, and this damned lace and $&#% this damned interview. Just give me a knife and put me in the damn arena already!" He didn't bother waiting for the bell signaling that his three minutes were up. He marched back to his seat and snapped at the girl from 9 to get her stupid ass up there before he smacked her.
"Mr. Pine, he didn't mean it. The stress of the Games and everything, he's had such a long week, he really didn't mean it!" Woof's mentor was still repeating the line three days after the Games began, but she wasn't kidding anyone. Pine, the audience, the whole Capitol knew that Woof Barton had meant every word he said. And they loved him for it.
Everyone loves a bad boy.
#4. He was eighteen, but that's all he was sure of at this point. It was hard to keep track of time in the arena. Woof had been there ten days. Eleven? No, ten, he was pretty sure.
The arena this year was an ancient pine forest. It snowed at night, and sometimes during the day, blanketing the arena in drifts piled higher than Woof's head. There were only a few left at this point. Woof had lost count of how many. At least there was no need of a water source, the tributes just stuffed snow in their mouths. Food was scarce, though. Woof didn't understand where all his parachutes were coming from. He didn't think people would like him. He had meant for them to not like him.
He sat in his shelter beneath the massive limbs of one of the pine trees. He sort of liked it here. It was quiet. No textile mills roaring at all hours of the day and night. Peaceful. The air was better too, clean and fresh. And the snow was pure white, not the mushed up filth that landed in the streets of District 8. He had decided he liked snow. Who would've thought he'd end up liking his arena better than his own district.
He heard the soft thump in the snow as a parachute landed outside his shelter. Something hot sent steam into the air and Woof's stomach rumbled noisily. He climbed out of his thermal sleeping bag and checked to see that his knives were stuck into his boots before stepping out into the harsh sunlight.
His parachute was gone.
Tracks, widespread and messy with desperation led deeper into the forest. The pounding rage built up behind his forehead and he pulled out his knives and launched himself after the thief.
It was his parachute! It was his!
The thief had chosen speed over stealth, and the tracks never disappeared. Woof was lucky that the pine trees weren't built for climbing. He heard footsteps. Heavy breathing. The tracks grew erratic, dodging this way and that. Woof found his parachute thrown aside between the trees, the hot stew staining the snow. His rage built. The thief had stolen his food, and then wasted it. It was his, and now it was no one's.
On a hunch, Woof clambered up the side of a drift, the soft snow muffling the sound. He saw the red coat below him. It's owner stumbled and fell and Woof jumped. He landed on the boy's back, and felt the bones break, but he was still holding his knives and screaming "It was mine! It was mine! It was mine!" as he stabbed down again and again and again.
The rage subsided, and Woof stared down at the broken body of the boy from 4, the handsome boy that had smiled and laughed and charmed so many of the other tributes. He had sat with Woof at lunch one day, trading bawdy jokes and ranking the girl tributes. He didn't understand. He was chasing a thief. Not this boy. Not this one. He wasn't…it wasn't meant to be…
"I didn't mean it," Woof mumbled, even as the trumpets sounded and the hovercraft came to carry him away. "I didn't mean it."
It wasn't a lie this time. Not that it made much difference to anyone.
#5. He was seventy-nine, and he was sitting in the Control Center for the sixty-first time in his life. He had not lost his temper in all that time. All he had to do was think about the fisher boy again and the rage melted away like the snow had under his warm body. Woof didn't get angry. He got upset, bitter, cold, but he never got angry. Everyone knew that.
But now, he was staring at the screen and Triss was gasping for breath. Cecelia was beside him, her body shaking as she tried not to cry. Triss made a gurgle, blood specks flew out of her mouth as she grabbed at the massive slash across her chest where the huge boy from 2 had cut into her.
A dark shape materialized out from the trees and Woof was ready to scream, and the old anger was building up, but it was that boy, that strange boy from 12 with the blond curls and gentle face, the one who was in love. Peeta Mellark, that was his name. He knelt down by Triss, put her head in his lap, wiped the tears from her eyes. She made one more sound, like a dying lamb. Peeta's hand was steady and quick. There was no hesitation and Triss died instantly.
"Was she dead?" asked one of the Careers when Peeta returned.
"She is now," said the baker boy as the cannon boomed. They marched on, and Peeta let himself fall behind and wiped the tears from his eyes where the others couldn't see. Marvel was making some sort of joke, Cato laughed. Even Clove smirked. The rage built up again and this time it didn't go away.
There was a party that night. A lot of Victors were there, those who weren't mentoring or didn't have a living tribute any more. Brutus was there. Surrounded by young, beautiful people as always. Woof didn't really hear well any more, but he could understand more than most people thought. Very few knew that he could read lips. It had come in handy. Few people bothered to worry about what an old, broken-down half-deaf Victor might overhear and pass on to a clever Gamemaker.
He was watching Brutus now. He couldn't make out everything. But he saw the words 'Cato' and 'sword,' and then he made a horrible gurgling noise as the people around him roared with laughter and that was enough.
Woof picked up a crystal goblet of wine, stomped over to the clique and threw the contents in Brutus's face.
There were screams of horror and gasps and Avoxes rushed in to hand Brutus towels. Woof just stood there and glared.
"It's alright folks, it's alright!" Brutus laughed as he mopped himself down. "Poor old man doesn't know what he's doing any more. Probably thought he was back in the Thirteenth Games! He didn't mean anything by it."
"I did," Woof muttered, although he wasn't sure if Brutus understood him. "I meant it."
Brutus, good-natured as always, winked at him. "I'll get you back for that one, old timer." He turned back to his adoring fans and Woof stalked out into the night, alone.
He was eighty, and he was stepping out of the water onto the beach, gasping for breath, collapsing onto the sand and clutching his chest.
Brutus's face appeared above him, still smiling. He was holding a spear
"Told you, old-timer," he said. The spear came down.
"Nothing personal, old friend," he said as he pulled the spear out. "Had to do it, you know? I didn't mean it."