A/N: I have had SEVERE writer's block lately, and it's been so bad that I haven't been inspired by anything… So I've decided to work on this story, by making a second installment of the character's lives… Mostly because I'm looking for something depressing-sorta to get me back into the swing of writing. This is what summer does to me… Anyways, sorry in advance if this chapter turns out to be uninspired/boring.

Sylvester's POV

It was a little bit later in my life that I started to steal.

Ok, let me start over.

It was a little bit later in my life that my family got desperate.

Surprisingly, I'm not the only one who wanders the Victor's Village at night. In fact, I caught a 12-year-old back there who said his name was Charlie and that he lost his first crush in the Arena.

I've caught a good number of kids back there, but a lot of them were just there to play games or because they were lost. Every once in a while you encounter the drunk guys from the Hob, and they can get a little bit rowdy.

My Mom is the only one who knows that I go back there. Willow would probably have a panic attack, and I'll bet Caroline would spread it around the school.

It's a crystal clear midnight and I'm just making the same route I usually do: around, through the back door (which is always unlocked, by the way) and into the kitchen.

I'm pretty sure Abernathy saw me back there. More than once.

I'm almost positive he would've said something if he didn't think I was a vision he had with beer goggles.

I'd be lying if I told you I've never been drunk before. I know this should probably bother me, but it really doesn't. In fact, I really don't consider being drunk to be a bad thing. The funny thing is that I don't think anyone really noticed except for Willow, of course.

Turns out, I'm pretty much the same person, drunk or sober, and the only difference you can see is that my eyes get really cloudy… According to Willow, at least.

Anyways, I know what it's like to be drunk, and I know what it's like to think you're having hallucinations. So, if I can make it convincing, I'm usually off the hook. I can get out of the house with a loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese, or, sometimes when he's out, I can get my hands on a piece of meat.

I'll admit that I've taken alcohol from there, too. But I always drink it on my way home and end up throwing the bottle wherever it may land.

In all true honesty, I think this may have been the best idea I've had in a while.

The unlocked back door starts to creak open, and I hurriedly hold it still and think of what to do. I do the only thing I know how: I spit on it.

It works, and I'm able to slip inside.

The Victor's house is pretty familiar to me by now, and it's easy for me to find the kitchen and take something to eat.

That's when I hear footsteps. I think my heart skips a beat. I've never heard someone walking through the house. I immediately press my side against the side of the fridge and hope that he doesn't end up walking to the fridge. I close my eyes and focus on breathing, and when I focus again, the footsteps are gone. Now, I don't smile, but I think that moment was the closest I had gotten in a long time to it. Like a cat, I sneak back around, through the kitchen, to the front door.

But, my quest isn't over yet. The sky boasts a huge yellow moon, and bright stars. I could still get caught just as easily here as I could've inside.

I swallow hard and get to sneaking out of there. As quietly as I can, I tiptoe across the bushes and my heart practically destroys my chest. Everywhere I walk I feel like someone's watching me.

Suddenly, there she is: so fast I think I would've screamed if I actually screamed, which I don't.

She wears a uniform of white and a fresh scowl, "State your business."

Here's where the problem begins, because I already have trouble talking to other people as it is. Also, I have no idea what to say to justify this scene: a teenage boy with a hunk of cheese in his hands who is obviously not related to Abernathy.

I swallow hard, trying to figure out what to say. Or, what to gesture at.

Obviously, I have nothing to say that can possibly make this whole situation any better. I want to move but I'm currently frozen in fear.

"Try again. State. Your. Business."

I could probably make a break for it, if I tried. If I tried, I could run away and make it.

She smirks, "The time to rat someone else out would be now."

The problem there is that, well… I don't exactly have someone else to rat out.

She takes me by the wrist and I just can't make myself fight back.

"You're something else, do you know that? Are you mute or something?"

I shrug. That's all I can do nowadays anyways.

"I like you. But, unfortunately for you, we Peacekeepers really do have a job."

I gulp, and that's when I hear the ruckus. A whole group of Peacekeepers are swarming around, pounding on doors, waking up the whole surrounding area.

And I know that my family is in that surrounding area.

When they push me up the wooden stairs I squeeze my eyes shut and think of my family right now.

Caroline, shouting out a flawless string of cuss words.

Willow, alarmed and scared, probably running around like a headless chicken trying to find me.

And our Mom, the only one who knows the truth, taking them both by the shoulders and pushing them out the door.

When I see Willow stumbling out, I know that my mental picture must be fairly spot-on.

This is a nightmare… And the worst part is that the night is crystal clear and brighter than usual, so everyone can clearly see my face. My emotions. My pain.

Be strong. I have to tough this out. For my family.

And I know as soon as they all get a good look at me, because I hear the shriek, the scream, the awful squeaky noise of Willow when she cries out.

Besides the slight whoosh of the wind and the cries of my sister and mother, the night is silent, so quiet that I don't even realize how many people there really are.

I only hear tidbits of what was announced… I was already ready to pass out.

"Whipping…. For the crime of stealing….From a Victor… 60 whippings!"

I hear the sobs of my sister and wonder how large a number 60 is.

A part of me dreads that it's a high number, especially based on the reaction of the crowd. Soft murmurs and gasps rose from the audience.

I eventually can't stand to think of the numbers anymore, and zone back in to the announcer, "Hope this is all a lesson to you…. Peacekeepers…. Will catch you… Especially this new shipment…"

Everyone knows that, soon, the new shipment will hang out at the Hob and get drunk every night like the old ones do. Looks like I'm the only sucker that's going to get punished.

I squeeze my eyes shut and wait.

The impact of the rope on my bare back stings like you wouldn't believe. I bite my tongue to keep from crying out. I'm not letting these people hear me cry out. And I'm not letting my family watch me suffer. I can tough this out. The first time's always the worst, right?

Wrong.

With each new crack of the whip, the pain elevates and I soon end up blinking tears from my eyes.

I'm already weak and starving as it is, so each time the thing makes contact with my skin, the wind is knocked out of me.

I've only seen one other guy get whipped before, and he screamed out and cried the whole time. It takes everything in me not to do the same. I'm not letting them have the pleasure of seeing me even cringe in the slightest.

CRACK!

I end up hacking, but keep as straight a face as I can keep.

I wonder how many it's been… And that's when I feel the blood dripping down my back. It's a pretty horrendous thing when you think about it, but I'm not letting myself think about it.

And just when I'm positive I'll be dead with one more crack, it stops. That's 60.

It's all a blur. "Let this dirty criminal….A lesson to never… And that you can feel protected in your homes…"

And before I know it, the murmuring is over and the night is silent again.

"You don't belong here, creep," the man reminds me, yet again, "I don't know where you're from, but I think it's outer space, FreakyEyes." I think he kicks me off the stage by the back, and I can hear his smirking just in the way that he whispers, "Dumbass."

I have no idea what to do next, I honestly don't. I guess the next thing would be to try and get up, which I do. My whole body shakes, I can barely walk, but I'm standing, and that's a Victory in my eyes. In my freaky eyes…

I feel an arm wrap around my shoulder, and my mom helps me walk.

I hate the fact that her shoulder is wet.

She speaks in barely a whisper, "Sylvester… You couldn't have been braver out there…"

"I could've…"

"No. No, you couldn't have." She shakes as hard as I think I am, "And I couldn't be prouder of you," her voice is full of tears.

I frown. "Proud ? Why would you be proud? I'm a dirty, no-good criminal who was just humiliated in front of-"

She stops and wraps her arms around my neck, and I can tell she's still crying, "The fact that you will not stop fighting for us… There is nothing they can do to stop you or make you give up… That's courage."

I hug her back and stifle my own tears.

She runs a finger through my hair and looks into my eyes, "Your father was just like that, too… He'd be so proud of you…."

I sigh and we resume walking, "It's not that big a deal. Because I want you guys to be happy."

She nods and sniffles, and I know we should probably drop the conversation.

Big, red scars. That's what it's left, according to Willow.

But, I never want to see them. And she can't stand to look at them. And I don't think I'll ever let anyone see them… Ever.

Even though they all say I'm courageous, I'm still ashamed at the scars. I wish they'd go away.

But, that opened up the vortex to a whirlwind of problems.

My family, (after a while of arguing with me) convinced me to quit sneaking into the Village for food and to just keep working. We had entered desperate times, where there were some nights that left our stomachs empty. Mine was always empty more often than theirs, but I never really said anything about it.

And, as time droned on, everything just got worse.

Willow's POV

I'm really worried about Sylvester.

He never says it, but I just know he hasn't been eating. Why? He always offers his food to us. I never take it, but somehow he always makes me eat it anyways.

He's by far the most courageous person I know. By far.

Except, I'm really really really scared. Because, over the past month or so, I can see the life draining from my brother's eyes.

I have to say something to him… As soon as I get the courage to do it.

And I do, one night when Mom and Caroline are both out.

He holds out a cracker to me, "Take it."

"No."

"Willow-"

"No! Listen to me, Sylvester. You're starving for us! Please, eat it."

"I'm already dead, anyways."

I'm left appalled. "Don't you dare say that!"

"It's true!"

"I can't lose you! Not so early-" he puts a finger on my mouth.

"Let me make a deal with you, Willow."

"What kind of a deal?"

"Here's how it'll work. You eat this today, and I'll eat my own food tomorrow. Ok?"

"No stealing-"

He shakes his head, "No. Tomorrow, I'll eat, I promise. Deal?"

I make myself nod.

He puts a hand on my shoulder, "Get some sleep now, Will."

I hesitate, but reluctantly lay my head down.

It's a rare thing I'm ever awake before my brother, but I am this morning. He's asleep right here next to me.

"Sylver…" I poke him.

He doesn't move at all.

I sit up and wipe my eyes, and to my horror, he's not moving at all. I shake my brother desperately, shouting, "SYLVESTER! WAKE UP, PLEASE!"

I almost expect his eyes to flutter open and to say, "Just joking!"

If only we had been so lucky.

I hear the footsteps of my Mom first, then Caroline.

"Willow, what's the matter-"

"He's… He's…"

Mom's already there for me, and I collapse into her arms, in tears.

"I can't believe Sylvester is dead!"

And I remember the promise he made to me last night. It strikes me then that he knew it was the end for him. Somehow, he knew he would be dead when I woke up this morning.

The whole conversation flashes once again before my eyes and I realize that he knew exactly what was coming. And, in a way, I think he was indirectly trying to warn me.

But… He was so young. 18, didn't even get to find a girl to love… There are so many things Sylvester could've done, but he's so suddenly gone now.

And that's when I get an idea. Sylvester was the definition of courage. These 6 years, he worked so hard he was exhausted, he took 60 whippings without even making a sound, he starved himself to the death, and not once have I ever heard him complain. He had every intention of dying for us from the start. And I didn't even realize it until I see him lying dead before me.

I sit up and get our Dad's Medal of Honor from the drawer. We don't deserve to have it. But he does.

Even Caroline's eyes tear up, and my Mom stands up and tries to find words to say to describe what we were going through.

I let out a cry before choking out, through tears, "Sylvester is happy now… He's happier now than he's ever been here…" a tear slides down my cheek and lands on the floor by his head.

"And he deserves it," Mom says, "He deserves to be running around with Dad up there in the sky, without a care in the world…"

And I look up at the ceiling and smile ever-so-slightly, "He really does."