Roizer Loudon

District 6 Male, 14
Train Rides, Night

I'm honestly not even sure if this is a dream or if this is truly happening. The darkness is almost suffocating, even as my eyes frantically go from side to side, in order to catch a glimpse of something, anything that might give an indication of where I am. Something above me is rumbling. It must be the bombs raining down on District 6. Or maybe it's below me, who knows anymore. It's like I am in the bunker all over again, the locks on the door sealed shut. The bunker. That's where I am.

I was born here, I remember. In this doomsday shelter where our family was supposed to survive long enough for the rebels to win. All I know, all I remember is this suffocating darkness and the sound of war above or below me. As I said, I couldn't ever really tell.

I panic, realizing my parents must have locked me in again. I am alone while they went god-knows-where, spreading fear and death. They are rebels and they are on their way to kill people. After all, their bloodthirst didn't end with ambushing soldiers. Every time they came back, the euphoric tone of their voices said it all as they instructed me to stand near the opposite wall of the shelter while they unlocked the door, lest I attempt to leave our safe-haven.

They brought a Capitol soldier helmet back once, as a trophy, with bits of brain still attached to it. I was three years old and I still remember the putrid smell and their smiles, followed by their reprimands as they saw that I did not share their enthusiasm. I was goddamn three years old.

The old memories stop playing on and on at the back on my mind, and I realize with horror and rising panic that this is the morning! They're on their way to kill those poor Capitol children, the collateral damage that is necessary to inflict real pain on our enemies, as my father put it. Somewhere along the lines, I became collateral damage too, it seems.

They're going to kill them! Kids just like me, five, six years old. They told me all about it. They slapped me when I cried, when I sympathized with kids just like me who didn't know what was coming! They locked me in, and there's nothing I can do to stop them!

The rumbling, the heavy sounds of metal, crushing, tearing through frail bodies, the fire roaring… I cover my ears and try to breathe. It's almost impossible, so I run up to the door and reach for the locks that I know are too high-up for me to reach because I'm only five years old.

That's strange. I couldn't ever reach them before. Now, my hand locks around something protruding distinctly from what I guess is the door. The locks were so much higher and no matter how much I tried, I couldn't unlock them. I couldn't unlock them. I see the locks and they are at eye-level now. I'm not a kid anymore.

I frantically push off the covers, bolting upright as I wake up. The darkness no longer threatens to choke me. The rumbling is definitely coming from below my bed, the covers are plush and comfortable, nothing like the hole-riddled fleece blanket I had in the bunker.

That's right, I remember, I'm on the train, on my way to the Capitol. I got reaped. I am no longer in District 6 and I said goodbye to my parents. Raleigh and Cabster, that's their names. They're not Axel and Carmen. They're not the ones who locked me up during the entirety of my childhood, committing atrocious acts against innocent bystanders in the name of war and justice, even though the rebels had already lost.

I am not in the bunker, in that hellhole six feet underground, where no one could hear my screams when I understood how trapped I was, what terrorists my old parents were.

There are tears at the corners of my eyes that escape as I blink.

I am not five, I am fourteen. This is real-life now. I just got confused by the noises, and the stress of this entire situation.

Axel and Carmen Lowhill. Those were the names of the murderers that raised me from birth in a tiny room that barely fit two cots and a waste hole. I loved them, in the beginning, when I didn't know any better. I believed in the fact that I was a "bad disobedient naughty boy" for wanting to escape the prison they built under the pretext of protecting me from the war. I believed in their fool-hardy endeavors to free themselves from the clutches of the ever-oppressive Capitol.

I never got attuned to their need for violence though. Even at five years of age, I was not duped into believing that bombing an entire school full of Capitol children on a Monday morning was somehow warranted, in the grand scheme of things.

That morning is something I think about a lot. My parents successfully carried out the attack, and I will remember their faces when they came in, having smuggled alcohol and recreative drugs to celebrate for as long as I live.

That was the day I escaped, too.

My new parents, Raleigh and Cabster, they put me into therapy because of how traumatized I was by the whole ordeal. At the time, I didn't realize just how abusive, delusional and violent Axel and Carmen were. All I knew was the animal-like impulse to get out of the enclosed space, no matter the cost. To escape the people that rolled around disgustingly on the bed near mine, laughing, hiccupping and congratulating each other about the heinous act they had just participated in.

My adoptive dad said it wasn't a good idea to repress those memories.

It's almost nine years since these events, and I still can't completely shake myself free of the shackles that hold me. I still feel guilty too, sometimes, for ratting them out. When I escaped, I ran as quickly as my weakened legs could carry me. It wasn't very fast, but it was enough to have a Peacekeeper find me.

I told him everything when I was brought to their central station.

I told them about my then-family name, the explosion at the Capitol earlier that morning, the location of our doomsday shelter. They brought me along, as a witness, when they dragged my parents out of that hole. One of the Peacekeepers vomited on the scene, appalled at the poor conditions in which I had allegedly been forced to live in.

My parents' faces are what I remember best though, before they were put on trial and executed like dogs. The shame, the rage, the unrepressed disappointment. It's funny how it's not even their actions, their deeds that haunt me. It's their faces reacting to something I've done that I can't let go of.

I can't stop thinking about all of this. I don't even have an audience and it's replaying like a defective video tape. It's awful how all of this resurfaces whenever I am stressed or upset. I guess getting reaped into the Games is pretty upsetting, but still. I'd rather be thinking about anything other than my past.

I drum my fingers on the edge of my bed, fidgeting a little too much for my liking.

I realize what I need. My notebook. Even though it's late and I know I will be dead-tired tomorrow, I have an itch to draw, to create, to write stories.

I search my room frantically, humming a little tune as I do it. It's nowhere to be seen.

That's really odd, and in an attempt to reconstruct the events of the past few hours, I replay the steps of my reaping, the goodbyes, the hugs I received from my parents and Spooky, my adoptive brother who tried to volunteer for me. The advice my homeschooling teacher Windy gave me as she patted me on the head sadly, and told me I was her most special student. Toyota, my homeschooling mate who broke down and admitted tearfully that he didn't have any other friends. That I was important to him, even though he did make stupid jokes that annoyed everyone around him including me.

I replay it all, and the notebook did not leave my hand through it all. It was the one constant thing in this absolute ramshackle of a situation. I find myself repeating "ramshackle" out loud, feeling it out in my mouth. It's a cool word, and I'll have to use it in one of my stories.

In the process of reconstructing these events, I realize that my notebook could be in one more location.

I might have left it in my attempt to hurry away, as dinner with the Capitol escort and Daisy got progressively more awkward and tense, until I couldn't bear it anymore. Until I felt like I could no longer reign in my tics and incessant fidgeting. Until I felt like I could explode under the escort's gaze.

I ran away to my room and I must have forgotten it near the dinner table.

Way to go Roizer, I think soberly. You're not even ten hours into this whole mess and you're already losing your stuff.

I breathe in, breathe out, and set out to find my notebook as my brain reels with ideas, storylines and wonky characters. I tip-toe down the hall, hearing coughing and what sounds like constricted sobbing coming from Daisy's room.

And then I peer into the main lounge and see our escort Melchior, who is miraculously still awake, watching television tiredly. Goddamn it.

I really don't feel like interacting with people right now. I start clucking my tongue on my palette with my mouth closed, to minimize the noise.

I creep up behind him, shuffling my feet at the last few steps to make my presence known.

He jumps slightly, and clutches his heart.

"Oh, Roizer, you scared me."

He squints, suspicion tinting his wide blue eyes.

"What are you doing up so late? You should get some sleep before tomorrow. It's the Chariots and you need to look your best."

"Can't," I mumble. "Forgot my book here, after supper."

He sniffs.

"Fine."

He was probing us about our life in District 6 during the meal and got increasingly frustrated when he couldn't get anything out of us. As though I'll admit that my real parents were Capitol-children murderers, and that the only reason I survived is because I essentially became the world's worst snitch. And don't even get me started on whatever the hell is wrong with Daisy, to want to volunteer for this ordeal.

That's the worst part of the Games for me right now. I can't talk to Daisy at all, because of my social anxiety, coupled with the fact that she rebuffs any attempt anyone makes at connecting with her. I get it, I don't judge.

The issue here is that ever since I escaped the bunker, I've meticulously been trying to become someone worthy. Desperately, I built my own little circle of friendly faces. These people who I worked so hard on being accepted by… they're all gone, back in District 6. All my human connections have been ripped away at a moment's notice.

Even as inept as I am with interacting with others, I know Daisy will not fill that gaping hole, not in a million years.

I can count on my fingers the number of people that I consider dear. Raleigh and Cabster, my adoptive parents. Spooky. Windy, my teacher. Toyota, my friend. Wright, my therapist.

It's sad to think of it that way, but nine years to form connections with six people is like…less than one-person-per-year average. And I wish I could be optimistic about this, but I doubt I'll be connecting with anyone here, before the Games start and I die.

We don't even have a mentor, District 6 hasn't gotten a victor since the beginning of the Games. I just don't understand why Melchior is so antagonistic towards us, why he doesn't at least pretend to like us. I gather up my courage and ask him.

"What's to like? No offense, kid."

I shrug, my social anxiety starting to get the best of me. Goddamn it, I'm leaving, I don't want to talk anymore, I don't want to hear Daisy's coughing and I don't want to think about how no one cares about my life out here.

Without another word, I find my notebook, clutch it nervously and spin my pen in my other hand, twirling it with ease through my fingers. Melchior just looks away, ignoring my presence. I use that opportunity to skitter back to my room, sprinting the last portion of the corridor in order to distract myself from the pitiful noises coming from Daisy's sleeping quarters.

I open the small bed-side lamp, jump into bed and settle myself comfortably, flipping open the pages. Then, even though my stomach flutters with anticipation to create new content, I perform my little ritual by going through the previously-filled pages.

My book is separated into two parts. One part is a bunch of sketches I make from my own life. This is something my therapist told me I should do, to come to terms with the things that bother me.

There are crooked drawings of my tiny scary bunker, contrasting starkly with the spacious and beautiful house I have been living in for the past nine years.

There are drawings of the factory with a huge red bright sign reading "Loudon&Yu inc.". I drew this one when visiting District 6's most important factory which creates various pieces related to vehicles and transport. Cabster partially owns the factory, and I remember him saying business was booming, with the new energy-efficient train underway.

I flip some more pages, seeing Raleigh's smiling face, cartoonify-ied to a point where I'm the only one who could probably recognize her. Then it's Spooky dancing in his room, with a speech-bubble coming out of his mouth. I never filled up that speech-bubble because Spooky just says so many things and they're all hilarious and I couldn't just settle on one defining quote.

There's a drawing of the four of us smiling, in our best clothes, as the mayor gives Cabster a medal of distinction, for working intimately with the Capitol to boost District 6's production and economy.

Then there's Wright. When my parents adopted me, I could barely speak, I was terrified of my own shadow, I was unable to adapt to the outside world. Raleigh insisted on putting me into therapy and I have been Wright's long-term patient. I've never transferred. He's always been good to me. Alone in my room, I can't help but touch this drawing, because I miss talking to him and having him explain to me how I can get better. I won't have any of that over here.

A few pages later, I get to my stories, the really good stuff. Some are fantasy, some feature characters inspired by real life. They're all fairly recent since I've only gotten into this a couple of years ago. There's hundreds of tiny comic strips, adventures, stories and notes.

I find a new page and start scribbling ideas with my pen. My drawings have never been amazing, although the people I've shown them to have always insisted they were. I think my strength lies in my imagination, in my ability to spin stories out of thin air.

It's ironic that I have the hardest time putting words together while talking to someone, but once I get a paper and pen, the craziest things come of it.

Tonight, I am making a comic strip about a superhero, with a cape and all. He's been recruited by a fictitious government to infiltrate a villainous base, where world-destroying chemical weapons are being kept.

I write the dialogue, making it as witty as possible. I imagine myself in the shoes of this all-knowing, talented, charismatic hero who can take on any challenge, get any girl he wants. Or any boy.

I let my pen fly, drawing feverishly the characters, the bombs, the train-wreck victims who thank the hero for saving them at his own peril.

And it seems that time flies by at the speed of light when I create, because as soon as I finish the first part of the adventure, ending with the hero whose name I tentatively decided was Roy, strapped to a rocket headed for the Moon, I see light shining through the window. It's already morning.

The rumbling of the train comes to a halt and the entire machine jolts only slightly, jerking me out of my creative stupor.

We are in the Capitol now, I realize.

I must have stayed up all night.

I throw down my pen and hurry to the window, pulling up the blinds. I am greeted by one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.

The sunrise paints the entire scenery in a rose tint, the glint of the sun bouncing off the skyscrapers which litter the horizon.

There are industrial cranes, lots of them. But even in the midst of the intensive construction going on, the city somehow looks majestic, beautifully elegant and extravagant. I don't even think have enough words to describe this view.

Quintayevo, the imaginary city which is my hero's final destination located on the Moon, is already being formed in my head as I hungrily absorb every last detail of the Capitol skyline.

The engine starts up again, at a much slower speed, and I lean my forehead against the window. This is one of those moments when I wish I had more colors at my disposal and more talent, so I could really convey the beauty of what I'm seeing. I wish I could show my parents.

Roy's adventures, potential plot lines, interesting quotes… they all melt away gradually as I watch the sun slowly go up and I can't help but think that even in District 6, this phenomenon has never looked this …intensely majestic?

I know I've been distracting myself from the real task at hand, which is essentially preparing myself for the inevitable death that comes with being reaped into the Hunger Games. I'm not particularly scared of dying, not right now at least. It might sound weird, even as I think about it, but I've always known my life wouldn't have a happy ending. Not with the way it started. Not with the way that every memory clings to the very fabric of my brain, eliciting the awkward physical responses, the tics and the fidgeting. Not with the years of self-hatred, doubt and guilt making me grow up beyond my years.

I don't particularly want to die though, not anymore at least. But that ambivalence is exactly why I didn't let Spook volunteer for me. He lives for the social gatherings and the parties, he loves life too much, whereas for most of mine, I've been actively fighting to stay interested in it.

It's kind of sad to think of it that way, but it's true. I'm only staying optimistic because I know I've got a handful of people rooting for me back home.

I just hope that before I die, I'll be able to come up with a few more stories, a few more comic strips that will eventually make their way back to my parents. Back to Spooky. So that they understand that they've done a good job raising me and taking care of me.

I wonder what the other tributes will be like. I know Spooky insisted during the goodbyes that I review the Reapings to watch out for potential allies, before getting to the Capitol. After all, it's common knowledge that these trains have universal television channel access. That's even more channels than what we have at home.

The idea is great, in theory.

The problem is, that's all Spooky. Getting to know people, charming them, interacting. I'm not sure I can do it, so I didn't really bother starting.

Maybe it's a mistake.

I look at the time on the digital clock and see that I have another hour or two to kill before Melchior comes calling us to eat breakfast.

I get a slightly crazy idea, just now.

Maybe I can watch the recaps, and sketch the tributes. Not the mean or scary ones, but the nice ones.

I reckon this is a pretty good use of my time, considering the objective is two-fold: I'll be observing my competition, looking out for potential allies and honing my drawing skills.

Yeah, I'm too jittery to sleep anyways.

It's a good idea.

I turn on the television in my room, mute the volume so that I don't risk waking anybody up and let my pen fly.

Notes: This sweetie-pie was a pleasure to write! He's awkward, he's genuine and he's a ball of sadness sometimes, but here's Roizer from District 6! Let me know what you thought of him. Do you think his difficulties interacting with others will end up hindering him during the Games, or will he get over his fear of socializing?

Once again, thank you to all those reviewing and reading, it means a crap-ton.

In other news, I have finalized arena-plans, so if anyone of you wants to start going ham on predictions, be my guest.

Next up, Daisy Jackson. While Roizer came from a very well-off adoptive family, she's going to offer a completely different perspective. Keep in mind that this is our first Victor-less district, so things are bound to get disorganized and you'll just have to wait and see how these two tributes fare.

Peace and love.