todd capaski {d4}

[Sampson]

Name: Todd Capaski
Age: 16
Gender: Male
District/Area: District 4
Appearance:

Personality:

History:

Codeword: Odair
Comments/Other:

FC is Graham Phillips.

[Sampson]

[atrb=border,0,true] A turning tide Lovers at a great divide why d'you laugh When I know that you hurt inside? And why d'you say It's just another day, nothing in my way I don't wanna go, I don't wanna stay So there's nothing left to say? And why d'you lie When you wanna die, when you hurt inside

todd capaski

[atrb=border,0,true] NAME todd capaski

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GENDER
male

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AGE
16

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DISTRICT
4

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LOOKS

I sometimes forget what I look like, you know? It just slips my mind. The lack of mirrors around my home limits me to

warped reflections in cups of water—sometimes the ocean waves—and bent silver that's lost its luster. Looks don't appeal to me and, seemingly, mine don't appeal to others. It isn't a bother. I'm quite used to being ignored. But when I do recognize myself, in those rare reflections that hold my face for short moments, I'm reminded that "Hey, that's me! That's Todd." It'll floor me, really, when I see my own chocolate hair and piercing green eyes. It makes me wonder why my face, out of so many others, remains invisible to the eyes of others. But then my mother will remind me, with a few well-spoken words, that I am special and that no one can make me otherwise. She means well, I know it, but sometimes even her compliments don't pull me from my sullen stupors.

There is nothing more that I'd like than to be noticed. There is also nothing I'd hate more. It's not like there is anything physically wrong with me that makes me so insignificant to others; it's just I'm hard to notice. I blend in, well enough to go unnoticed. But when I am seen, maybe for the first time in weeks, it's normally a bad thing. A rough hand will crash through my wavy hair, acting as though it belongs to a person that's my friend. Yet, when my green eyes find the gaze of the being that has just acknowledged me, I never feel the warmth of friendship. Instead, deep in my hollow stomach, a knot will twist up so tight, I think I might just hurl.

"How are we today, pretty boy?" the brutish boy, who's so much taller than my small form, will ask. I'll only tremble in response. What are my thin arms in comparison to his? When practically everyone in District 4 has been sculpted, either by the hard tasks of fishing or by Career training, I'm no comparison. I'm not skeletal, yet I am no behemoth. Normal. Average. Ordinary.

[/i] That is what I am. And I'm hopelessly content and frustrated with it all at once.

It's a rare occurrence—being noticed—so I don't mind these few scenarios nearly as much as others believe I do. Most of the time, I'm practically invisible to everyone. They'll even speak with me, if for only the briefest moments with commands like "[/color]move" or "scram", and not realize who I am. As their eyes pick apart the slight spatter of freckles that riddle my cheeks, they still won't see me. I guess there is always something better, something more interesting, to look at instead. [/justify] [/color][/size][/blockquote]

PERSONALITY

People pass me by as though I don't dwell in their same realm. Like a ghost that lingers beside living relatives, I'm so close, yet so far. I blame myself most of the time. My dad said it was because I blend in too much. After hearing it so many times, I don't doubt its truth. I've always gone out of my to stay under the radar, to avoid both the joy and danger of being noticed. "Just put yourself out there more," my mom always tells me the same thing and I'm never able to fulfill her little request. It's such a small wish, such a small hope, but I'm even smaller. I'll tell myself, "Do something. Say hello. Say anything." Beginning with a weak voice, quiet as the volume I speak, my thoughts eventually burst into a roar. A sound that matches my father's voice, the one he used to rouse icy fear in my veins when he only wanted something—anything—from me. He wanted a noticeable son, not me.

But even if I'm not noticeable, I notice. Sometimes people are the most interesting things in the world, more so than the beach or the ocean's darkness. Who better to watch them than the one who they refuse to acknowledge? For this, I take a small sliver of pride. It's not enough to bring forth anything other than my submissive disposition, but sometimes it gives me hope. Like a flash of lightning against the backdrop of a stormy sky, I see good within people when I watch them. Almost everyone, actually. Not a living soul has ever dispelled my theory that good lies in every heart. I know—I really am such a fool sometimes—but for now, I'll just keep waiting on that one person to prove me wrong.

Even as I cradle the tiny fire that burns with the hope for humanity, I feel myself suffocating the struggling flame. It will flicker so violently sometimes, when I see someone do something that really changes my perspective, only to burn me later. This horrible cycle of me believing that maybe—just maybe—that guy gave my sister flowers because he does actually care for her, not just want to sleep with her. But then he goes and messes up that one chance I gave him and I get so angry.

My anger, that little monster that has buried itself so deep in my core, scares even me sometimes. It's so violent that I tremble with its aggression, my body quivering as I attempt to keep it within. When my hands tingle with the desire to hurt, I go so far within myself I swear I'll never return. Everyone always says they wish they could escape, wish they could see who they were as a person, but me? I already know. I've stared into my core and seen a monster full of hate that salivates for freedom. I've closed my eyes and departed from the world I live. Sometimes I think I'm so unnoticeable because maybe I never fully returned. Somehow, I left that little piece of myself—the thing that makes me stand out—back near my core, back near the beast that begs to see a world it has only encountered once. Maybe he has eaten it already.

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HISTORY

Being neither the eldest nor the youngest of four children, I am, once again,

nothing special. I was actually born third, so my rank among the family kids falls on the younger portion of the spectrum. Born first, the title of eldest goes to my brother Keane. At the age of 20, he's one year older than my sister Spencer. Then there's me at the awkward age of 16. Following not shortly after, my younger sisters of 13, Bee. We're an odd bunch, each uniquely different than the other, but we normally get along well. Or, what I mean is, we kind of stay out of each others way. All of us have our own goals, own lives, and I don't intend to break the fragile balance we have ever again.

I did once. Not too long ago, actually. And, even though it wasn't entirely my fault, I'm still trying to repair the damage. While my parents could never really juggle having four mouths to feed, it wasn't until things got really bad did I ever feel tension between my family. Coexistence was essential. In the sink or swim economy of District 4, where far more people drown than those that float (even if we are considered a Career district), my family's small fishing operation was everything to us. It provided food and money and a place where we all could meet the ocean with open arms. But I'll never forget when the ocean tried to collect its dues for all it had provided over our short lives. That was the day I crossed the lines that separated all of us from one another, the lines that kept our family's equilibrium in check.

All four children had been called to service aboard our parent's boat the day the ocean lurched with illness and groaned with pain. A storm had corrupted the waves, leaving our small boat at the mercy of the sea. "One more haul, guys," my father's voice was insignificant as it tried to overcome the screech of the wind and slap of the water, "Just one." Keane had been working the hardest that day, his toned arms tugging up nets and throwing them back. I'll even admit, he'd done most of my part as well as his own. On the rain-slick deck of the ship, I had stuck to trying to keep my footing while making sure to watch out for Bee.

The waves were relentless as they crashed time and time again against the hull of our ship. It wasn't until when Keane let out a snarl of both pain and determination as he threw one of the last nets over the side that I moved to help. "Let me get the last one," I offered to finally take on the end of the job with a loud voice that still barely made it over the sounds of the storm, "Watch Bee for a sec." My fingers wrapped around the net's rope and let my eyes fall away from my little sister. She was dancing in the rain, her little boots slapping on the deck as she giggled with childish delight that I no longer experienced. Keane stood not too far away, breathing heavy as the cold droplets pierced his sore muscles. Mind consumed with the task at hand, tugging the final net from the ocean's grasp, I let them fall away from my attention. It wasn't until I had finally pulled the last remains of the mesh up did I realize it was a mistake to let Bee leave my sight.

"Where is she?!" my voice was a snarl against the storm, a roar that made me shake with anger. I was frantic, consumed with panic as I stared at the space where Bee had just been.
"She was just there," Keane's voice was heavy with the same chaos I felt and mixed with the exhaustion from the day's work. The words barely reached my ears above the wind and rain. Turning away, I lunged for the railing of the ship, my body colliding painfully with the metal. Against the darkness of the waves, I barely saw the fair hair of my sister's head before it was consumed by the water.

I remember hitting the water hard, the cold shocking my form as I reached blindly for Bee, for air, for the ability to swim. Gripping the still arm of my little sister, I burst to the surface and pulled her from the sea's grasp. We were so heavy together. I remember that the most. Combined, our forms weighed more than the nets or the fish we pulled in with them. I don't remember much else, besides waking up on the sand with Keane leaned over me. Mom was crying. Spencer was too, her body shaking as our dad held her. Bee was holding my hand. I could feel her trembling, either with the cold of the water we had just survived or with emotion. "You saved me," her voice was so quiet I still swear, to this day, that I imagined it. I've never had the courage to ask her for the truth.
"I told you to watch her," my voice came out rough with the stress of having engulfed so much saltwater. Keane withdrew almost instantly, but not fast enough to avoid my fist as it drove into his nose. My body depleted from the rescue of my younger sister, I had a horrible time rising to my feet. It was even harder to hurtle myself at my older brother, to raise my exhausted arms and repeatedly strike his body. I remember Spencer screaming for me to stop. I remember Bee's silence. I remember my dad's roar. I remember my mom's sobbing. I remember the pain exploding in my head as Keane hit me once.

That was all it took for us to never be the same.

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[atrb=border,0,true] FACECLAIM Graham Phillips

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LYRICS
Nothing in my way - Keane

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Don't know what you lie for anyway
Now there's nothing left to say
A tell-tale sign
You don't know where to draw the line
And why d'you say
It's just another day, nothing in my way
Well for a lonely soul, you're having such a nice time
For a lonely soul, you're having such a nice time
For a lonely soul, it seems to me that you're having such a nice time
You're having such a nice time

[admin kay]

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ACCEPTED!