Triumph O'Brian, District 8 [Done]

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•TRIUMPH O'BRIAN•

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"I’m Seventeen…"

"…I grew up in District Eight…"

"...and I have a dick…"

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“People always think something's all true.”

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I don’t look like much. Not that it matters, anyway. Who have I got to impress? Everyone going around here, trying to look like something. We don’t even know if we’re going to live until next year, and people want to act like they have something to prove. I get that we’re the fashion district or whatever—we make clothes that people buy and wear and make themselves look good—but that doesn’t mean we have to buy into all that crap. You’ve got everything you need right here, as long as you’ve got some free sky and some place to roam, and maybe a few friends. Not like that ever seems to matter much to anyone, anyway. They all want to look like the capitol, they want to oh and ah at the kids that get paraded about for the games. It’s such garbage, looking like the way they do, all done up before they get sliced to pieces. It should be enough of a metaphor for kids to know what all of that gets them. Don’t they see the futility? Don’t they see that it doesn’t even matter what we wear if we’re all going to be dead some day?

I do want to look nice though, sometimes. I try to slick back my hair and wear some bright colors—things that I’ve dyed, sewn and tailored—in case it gets someone to notice me. You can’t avoid it, you know… everyone’s got to have a chance to look good, and to be noticed. You can’t go through life being a shadow, not even if you try. Because then people will just pick you out of the crowd, and they’ll tell you that you’re nothing or whisper about you. They’ll say that you’re a weirdo and you won’t even get a chance to fight back. So you’ve got to at least look the part, or play the game. You don’t have many decisions you can make, but you at least have to play to be able to win. That’s the difference between me and some other kids—they don’t even want to play so they just give up before the fun has even started.

I could be taller. I’m almost eighteen now, I don’t think that I’ll be as tall as my Dad. He was well over six feet, like well over, people always see him as some kind of giant. I think he was an anomaly in my family, since none of his brothers are anywhere close to where he is. Not that I'm short, I might hit 6'2 or so. Not too short, but though still smaller than my dad. I’m skinny too—I haven’t got much meat on my bones because, well, what’s the point? We don’t do a lot of heavy lifting here, at least, I don’t. Never saw the point in bulking up or being the one that was supposed to, you know, look like a stupid career. I’m happy with my body. I could be a little heavier, maybe a little stronger. But I’m happy.

The craziest thing I’ve done is the thing on my chest—the tattoo. Pretty sweet, right? They didn’t think I would actually do it, on account of the guys who do it around here are all shit. But I bit the blade and held myself down long enough to get one. Spent every last penny I had saved up for an entire year, just so I could have the tattoo across my chest. It’s the months of the year for me, my brother, and my sister’s birthdays. It looks pretty sweet, but it means a lot to me. People say something like that is stupid since it’s so permanent, or they’ll talk about how much they think I’m trying to be like someone from a higher district, or even the capitol. They aren’t even good etchings, single color—blue, like my eyes—but I don’t even care. It’s not what it’s about, and people just don’t seem to get that. They never have around here, and they never will. It’s why I only show it to people that matter… I cover it up if I can, I don’t want people to think that I’m some kind of freak. But if I care enough I’ll show you. It’s like a test with me.

I let my hair fall any old way I please. It’s freer in the wind, shaved at the sides, good to be tucked under hats. I have a lot of hats. They’re the best accessory to have, being able to tuck things away underneath and whatnot. I got a dozen or so—one of them is even too fancy to wear, I have it since I’ve worked so long as a tailor I had one given to me as payment. But I don’t wear it, why would I ever wear something like that? People don’t know what they want.[/font]

•••

“I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. It's awful. If I'm on my way to the store to buy a magazine, even, and somebody asks me where I'm going, I'm liable to say I'm going to the opera. It's terrible.”

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What’s it matter to anyone what I act like? People think that they know how everyone works, they like to pick and poke and prod until a person just keels over and spills out anything. Well I’m not just some bucket to be knocked over and emptied out; I’m not the type of person that cares what all the rest of these phonies think. That’s the real shade of it—there are lots of people who aren’t real. They like to talk like they’re something, they like to talk about what makes them them but they’re not much of anything at all. They say that everyone has a story, but why should you trust that what you’re getting is the honest truth? People like to make themselves bigger than they are. People like to talk about how much they hurt and how it hasn’t hurt anyone like this before—but I know enough to see that’s a load of garbage. We’re just a great big mess of things, kids, all of us. We got hurt and problems and all sorts of things rumbling around—no reason to fake it. But some people can’t help but being phony.

They want to grow up so fast—they want to get to see that day that they aren’t able to be reaped, because then they can be adults. They can be real people, instead of living in fear that something is going to happen. Except none of it is really real, none of it is anything but a great big illusion. They just prance around, acting like they know everything, trying to be like they’re older than they are… like they have the answer to why you hurt or why things are the way they are. Pathetic, really. They don’t give real answers, most of the kids around here, because they see everyone else cover up the way they do. They hide away from the world because that’s what everyone else—what all the adults—do. They don’t have to talk about difficult things because that’s just how they are, so fuck, why even bother? Yeah, life sure sucks when you get older. I hate it, too. I hate that I’m almost that age because I can see everyone around me is so similar, they’re all just rushing towards the exit. They don’t want to have to stand in the middle of the reaping and watch that little glass bowl. They’d much rather be working in the mills or sewing, and getting on with living.

But it’s all fake.

Kids have it best, the younger ones. They don’t see how bad everything is yet. The fucked up capitol and the terrible games—yeah, I said it. They’re terrible. But you see, little kids don’t know about all of it, they don’t care about how much time they have got left because they don’t understand time. That’s how I want to be. I don’t want to have to understand time, even if I already do. I don’t want to have to become a part of something I hate on account of the fact that I’m just too old. That seems like a shitty reason to do anything. And there’s more than enough people willing to do that, why should it matter? I’d rather help the kids stay kids—help them understand what it means to be free (now that’s a dirty word) before it’s too late. It all fades, but only because we want it to. You can have a choice of what you want and what you can do, but nobody ever says it. They’d rather fake being happy and do something they hate just to get by. But that isn’t me. It never has been and it never will be.

But I don’t have to be content with just hiding away. There’s something else out there for me. There’s no one for me to share it with, is the only thing. Sometimes I get so worked up, I don’t know what to do. I’ll act stupid or say the wrong thing… or be mean, because that’s what you have to do. I don’t like people who aren’t upfront with me. The phonies. They’re the ones I can’t stand. I’ll wipe the floor with the starry eyed and no-good idiots. They can fucking eat shit for all I care. I’d rather have someone be honest with me, someone that’ll tell me that I’m ugly or that my breath stinks, or that I’m not half as smart as I think I am. Because those are the people that matter, not the ones that just tell you that you’re nice. I’d rather be alone forever than have a million friends like that. [/font]

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“You'll learn from them - if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It's a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn't education. It's history. It's poetry.”

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We grew up in a big old house with plenty of space for all of us. My mom and dad have owned a clothing and hat shop for ages—it’s been in my Dad’s family for a few generations—so we never really struggled for money. Which was good because I could always get whatever I wanted, and we could get what we needed. Nice clothes, decent food, not a lot of worries. I have an older brother, Chipper, he is a real goldenboy. The type that set above the rest because he is handsome, smart, and all that jazz. You know, the type that makes you want to puke up your lunch because he was so fucking perfect? And he was always so complacent about everything, thinking everything was just fine the way they were. He wanted to help run the shop when he was old enough, and maybe even open up one of his own. And he had all these girlfriends—yeah, I bet they didn’t even know how much he didn’t really care about them. He was after one thing and one thing only. Sex. Yeah, he wasn’t a knight and shining armor, I tell you that. He always tried to teach me things, things about the world when I was a kid—because he was five or six years older—and he always tried to teach me these morals. What a waste that was. Now he’s running his own shop and selling his own wares and working with some bigshot—sold out, every last bit of himself.

My younger brother Algernon… he died a few years ago. The two of us got on… we understood each other. Just like brothers would, you know? None of that crumby, phony-baloney garbage you see. He got run over by a cart in the street when he was making a delivery. Just like that, almost cut in half. It was a huge mess. No one even saw it coming. But the worst part about it was that everyone was torn up about it, because of the type of person that he was. He didn’t give two shits about the grocer down the street but they bawled their eyes out for hours… like that meant anything to him. Yeah, that’s what being phony gets you. People will line up around the block, because they’re just as phony as you are. It’s something that he taught me, even after he was dead: that if you’re fake enough in life, after you die, people will return the favor.

I have a little sister, Melania, she’s good to me. I protect her when I can. She’s still young, just about twelve now. Head’s still in the clouds, thinks good for herself, doesn’t worry about the future. It’s good for her—makes me proud—she doesn’t mind too much what’s going on. She’s afraid of the games like all of us… but she doesn’t just want to be a dressmaker or something like that. She wants to be famous, and a princess, and all sorts of things little kids still want. Because that’s the way that it should be—we shouldn’t have to think about stupid empty dreams being nothing. Let her have this for a few years—I want to let her have a few years of this, as anyone my witness—I’m not going to let her turn into some phony. [/font]

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“What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be.”

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odair

Notes: Presenting "The Catcher in the Rye", in case that last quote didn't clue you in... this is for the D8 book plot. This character will be highly critical, often an untrustworthy narrator, self-centered, obnoxious, and downright rude. Angsty, grouchy, and always looking for a good time, Triumph is the embodiment of Holden Caulfield and the primary force behind his related novel. Hopefully I can do it justice! Also, if you need me to add headers I can, but it follows in the usual order of a bio. :3

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Finished!

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Here's how you know this bio is perfect: I didn't even know he was for the book plot, but the whole time I was reading, I was thinking "Wow, this kid reminds me of Holden Caufield." Then I got to the end and was like "Oh, that explains it." Great, GREAT job. I have a D8 and would love to plot with him sometime!