Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games.
A/n: This is a series of oneshots. Each oneshot features, in order, a person from the character list on this site as well as a few i felt should be there (Boggs, Coin, Caesar, Cashmere, Gloss, Marvel and Maysilee) each with a randomly picked prompt (or as random as i could manage without throwing actual darts at my poor old dictionary!). Updates will be one a day (hopefully) though when i go back to uni, this might change. Anyway, i hope you enjoy! As always, any criticism, just shout it out. Any advice on law, shout it out louder!
5) Brutus – Easel
It was funny, he thought, as he stood in his Victor's House. He had to have a talent and this easel was what had been provided for him by his family. He could remember drawing and painting things almost as soon as he could hold a brush or pencil. And he could remember his father taking his paintings and ripping them up, in front of his eyes.
He was to be a victor, he was told. Not some artist who could bring no money or honour to the family. No dreaming away his life and ending up in the mines. Do something useful. Train for the Hunger Games or at least work to become a Peacekeeper.
Every time he was caught, drawing or painting, he was beaten and his work destroyed. Until, one day, he simply stopped. His parents had never been happier with him and that, in turn, made him happy. He threw himself into training, looking for more ways to please his parents.
Eventually, he volunteered for the Hunger Games and won by being the strongest and most cunning tribute. Maybe there was a time when he would have been ashamed of what he had done in the arena; but that person had disappeared with the painter inside him. When he looked back on his Games, he was nothing short of smug. He had outfought everyone and put on a show. Six kills to his name – impressive. And now all the money he could want.
But he needed a talent!
He looked again at the easel which his sister had left for him in the entrance hall. A frank suggestion. They all knew he could draw so he should just get on with it and start painting since there was obviously nothing else he could do. It would save time and effort and if he kept it to a minimum, no one would care. Besides, he'd loved to do it as a child. Consider it a reward. That was what they were saying.
He looked at the paper, laid ready, and the nearby brushes. Slowly, he picked one up and dipped it in the paint.
He put the brush down again.
There was no way he could do it. To start painting was to bring back years and years of beatings and unhappiness that he couldn't do what he wanted. Years of disappointing his parents. This was his way of being stupid as a kid. But he wasn't a kid now – he was a Hunger Games victor.
Mindlessly, he took the easel and broke it.
He'd just have to think of something else.