CAIUS SIMMS - {D9} - FINISHED

[Raseri]

Name: Caius Ethan Simms
Age: 17
Gender: Male
District/Area: District 9
Appearance:

Personality:

k so I'm like this guy with a big family and I could work in the factories like the normal people but thats not what I wanna do bc omg you guys I wanna be free and stuff because for reals how much freedom can you get in hunger games world and male prostitutes ftw thank you

History:

so like my parents decided to have seven kids bc they're geniuses and we don't have lots of money and I'm the oldest so I get to help them make moneys so I get paid by the all the rich womens to do naughty things
And also my sister is my favorite on account of she's cute but sometimes I think we should sell a few of my brothers into slavery bc I have lots of them anyways and that would be more moneys so thats good

Codeword: odair
Comments/Other:

[Raseri]

::NAME:: Caius Simms

::AGE:: 17

::FACECLAIM:: serge rigvava

::AREA:: District 9

as I stand on the river bridge, silent on this thirsty ridge
no more birds will sing for me on this desperate day
I’ve walked far to make it here
I know my path is plain and clear
I will take to rest a final time on that clay

A bell chimes merrily as you open the door to the shop, cutting through the lonely silence of the nearly deserted room. You wipe your feet on the mat, though it doesn't seem like a little more mud would make much difference in this place. The tiled floor may have glistened white in its glory days, but now it's only a sad shade of light tan. A woman, maybe in her twenties, looks the whole seventy inches of you up and down expectantly from behind the counter, puffing indolently on a half-finished cigarette. If she's happy to have a customer, she doesn't show it. But you, Caius, you beam at her just like you do every other person you meet, showing off those pearly whites you're oh-so-very proud of. "Can I help you?" the woman says, with a tone that tells you she'd rather not have to. Before you answer, your dark brown eyes scan her shirt for a nametag. "Sure, Mel," you say, finally finding it despite the dim lighting. "I'll have a cup of coffee. Black, no cream or sugar." You notice the annoyed look she shoots at you as you fish all that loose change out of your pocket, but you pretend not to see it anyway. She doesn't know how long it took you to save that much money just to buy a cup of coffee.

The polystyrene cup warms your hands as you sit down at a booth in the corner of the room. It's a wierd feeling, buying something that you don't really need. That loose pocket change could've been spent on meat or flour, but instead you chose to buy a single cup of coffee for yourself. Mom would call you stupid, or even selfish, but she isn't here. Both of your parents work in the factory until five in the afternoon. But you earned this money. You may not have acquired it in the most ethical way, but it was earned nonetheless. You tilt your head back, lift the cup to your lips and tip it slightly, letting the scalding hot liquid trickle down your throat. It's bitter, just the way you like it. Anything too sugary would feel unnatural, not real; nothing in your life stays sweet for long, there's always a nasty aftertaste left behind by the good things. Bringing your wrist to your thin, chapped lips to wipe off the excess coffee, you place the cup on the table and trace the rim with your little finger. Your other elbow rests on the table as your thumb smooths out a bushy, dark eyebrow, a habit you've had so long that you don't even know where you got it. Maybe it's just because your hands have to be constantly occupied, whether you're picking at a hangnail, cracking your fingers, or fiddling with the change in your pocket.

take me back to where I wanna be
when you’re young there’s a melody
winds that blow from over in the west
all the trees shake like they bow and pray,
like they all know us by name
will they call for me once more before I go?

When you've drained the last drop from your cup, you toss it into a trash can and push on the door to let yourself out. The bell chimes its farewell to you, but the sound is muffled as the door closes, drowned out by the sound of your shoes against the dark pavement. It's so cold you can see your breath. Each puff of air that escapes your lips turns into a cloud of steam, blowing away in the wind before you can look at it for very long. You pull your arms into your chest, hugging yourself tightly, imagining a thick winter coat in the place of your grey hoodie, but it doesn't matter. You can't fool yourself, Caius. There's no way your family would ever be able to afford that kind of thing, not when there are six little demons mouths to feed. Even though it doesn't itch, your fingernails reach under your beanie to dig at the roots of your dark brown hair, right where that ungodly, brown birthmark starts. It looks like someone dragged the point of a knife down your face, beginning at your right temple and trailing along the edge of your pronounced jawline to your chin. They say that birthmarks are supposedly places you were wounded in a past life, but you don't believe in that sort of thing. No, the man upstairs gifted you with this ghastly thing just so he could sit back and watch as it bothered you. He was probably up there right now, laughing.

Although it's late in the evening, you can still see the house from last night in the dim light flooding from the streetlamps. It's a large house, two stories with a nicely-sized front yard and unnaturally green grass, but that doesn't surprise you. You'd seen how fat the woman's wallet had been as she'd forked out the money and handed it to you. She'd paid you a hell of a lot less than you deserved, but you'd folded the bills in half and stuffed them in your pocket anyways-- you're not one to complain. Don't bite the hand that feeds you, as Mom always said. Any money you could get was better than none when you had to help feed a family of nine. You don't particularly like this job, but it's not the worst career you could have. It's better than working in a plastic factory, where the Capitol gets more profit than you do, and where there's a set schedule to follow every day. You can't stand routines and schedules--you want all the freedom you can get, and that's why you turned to prostitution. You're a handsome young man, so what's wrong with using it to your advantage? Mom and Dad never ask where the extra money comes from, and if if they know, they don't say anything. But Caius, you'd prefer it to stay that way.

lay down, lay low
they say it’s quiet there
lay down, lay low
I want to finally fall down
fall down

After walking a few more minutes, your house comes into view. Why is it, you wonder, that a woman with two kids who cheats on her husband can live in a two-story building with a nice front yard, when your family has to live in this? Why is it that, even though you have hard-working parents and three times the amount of kids, you're the one stuck in a small house with a leaking roof and dirty siding? Well, Caius, it's because there's no such thing as fairness--not for you, anyway. Of course, it's not your fault your family's so big--your parents did that. They were the geniuses who decided to have seven kids while living in a relatively poor part of Panem. Mom and Dad could've stopped at a reasonable number, like three, four, or even five, but no, they had to stretch it to seven. You'd asked your mother about it once, a few years back, and she'd told you that seven was her lucky number. You didn't press her further--she'd always been the kind of person to believe in those sorts of things, luck and superstitions, and probably even the thing about birthmarks, too. But you know she was wrong; the number seven hasn't brought anything to your family but misfortune, and it certainly didn't help put food on the table.

A small, huddled form sits on the steps in front of the door, shivering and clutching onto a blanket for dear life with tiny, pale fingers. You break into a jog as soon as you see her, and in a few seconds you reach the doorstep. "Phoebe," you sigh, sitting next to her and scooping her up in your strong arms to shield her from the cold. "You shouldn't be outside, you're going to make yourself sick." Her big, shining eyes, brown just like yours, smile up at you as you rock her back and forth, hugging her close. "I was waiting for you," she says with that soft voice of hers, like a hundred tiny bells chiming. "I missed you very much a lot." You can't help but chuckle at your six-year-old sister, she's so darn cute. If only your brothers were this easy to deal with all the time, life would be so much easier. "I missed you too, Feeb," you tell her. She pokes your nose with a sweaty index finger, the way she always greets you. "Boo," she says, and you chuckle again before returning the gesture. "Boo." She lets out a few giggles, bringing an automatic smile to your face. It was better than her voice-- her laugh could even melt a stone heart. "All right, let's get inside, 'kay?" Phoebe lets out a squeal as you lift her up and carry her into the house, letting the warmth of the fire melt away the chill in your bones. "Sorry I'm late, everyone."

[/blockquote][/blockquote]

don’t believe everything that
you hear about angels drawing near
but I hold onto a ghost who knows my name
mornings take me by surprise
these are dreaming open eyes
we make miracles every moment of every day

::CODEWORD:: Hi-O-the-Dair-eee-ooo
::OTHER:: I hope this works, it's my first time trying to do a bio like this. The ending is bad but oh well. Tell me if I need to separate things better. Coding isn't entirely done yet, but I'll fix it later.

as I stand upon the river bridge, I recall this barren ridge
west winds blow for me a melody today
I’ve walked far to make it here
I know in time I’ll see it clear
some things are gone for good, but instant in your mind

song: lay down lay low

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[Raseri]

finished bio is finished

[Raseri]

Bump

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

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