Pluto Shaw

Appearance
I'm about as thin as a kid can get. Of course that's what I get for living on the streets. My shaggy, overgrown hair covers my eyes in a cascade of dark-brown that lands somewhere near my shoulders. My hair stays surprisingly straight all of the time. It's too bad though. I could actually style it decently if I had the money to go to that fancy salon I pass by on my way to the trash cans every week. I'm always pushing the hair out of my eyes. It's a nervous habit of mine.

If you could actually get through the multiple layers that make up my hair, you'd find a pair of irises of a shocking light-green-gray color. They're always opened wide, trying to take in all of the world around it. I'm pretty sure it's an adaptation to the vision loss I get from all of the hair, but surprisingly, I see perfectly fine. My eyes give off a strange aura of sadness and confusion to those rare few who get a glimpse. If you met me right now, it would leave you wondering about my story. But it doesn't have that affect on my fellow residents of District Six. Everyone in Panem has a story to tell. I can see it in their eyes. In their faces. The way they present themselves. I can even see it in some of those smiling faces of Capitol citizens. If someone on the street managed to notice my sad orbs, they wouldn't even stop for a second. For everyone living in this small country of Panem has a story to tell.

I managed to find a couple of unwanted shirts in the trash cans of a popular clothing store in the shopping district. I kept my favorites and threw out the rest. It's not like I have a closet to keep the extras in. Of course, if I still had a closet, I wouldn't be looking in the dumpsters of the shopping district anyways. The pair of clothing is in a fairly decent condition for a dumpster-find. The dark gray button-down is way too big and hangs down an inch or so past my fingers and hang just above my knees. it's covered in dirt and filth, but it was amazing when I first found it. You can barely see them hidden under my torn shirt, but my pair of light-blue shorts stop just below the knees. It has two pockets on sides. This insignificant add-on has just about saved my life in numerous situations. I can carry anything in there and not have to hold it in my hands all day. My small black sneakers are dirt and dotted with holes from a year of use. I usually have to wind up wearing a pair of shoes for two years before I can find another, so I try to get them a few sizes too large for growing room. Shoes are hard to come by in District Six. So, y'know, beggars can't be choosers.

Background
I grew up in a house with six kids. I'm the youngest. Do you know what it's like living in a house with that much expectation? All of my siblings went straight through school. My oldest sister even came up with a new medication to treat seasonal allergies that some Capitol residents are using right now. My oldest brother graduated top in his class at the academy and moved to District Five to work on perfecting his inventions. My second-oldest brother owns twenty percent of the District's plantations. Literally. And those are some of the biggest fields you will ever see. Do I have to list more? Everyone who grew up in my four-bedroom, three-bathroom "home" went on to do something productive and awe-inspiring within Panem. Well, I was known for my gigantic mouth.

I loved to talk. Talking was what I did. It was me. I talked all the time. To friends, to academy teachers, to my siblings, and even to the potted gardenias that thrive on the front porch. I did not waste a single second on silence. Silence is a waste of time. Silence is a waste of a a perfectly good larynx. Nothing good ever came out of silence. It's a shame that nobody agreed with me. But in the eyes of my parents, talking is a waste of a perfectly good, money-making life. They didn't go through the trouble of birthing and raising six children in a poor, underfed District because of their eternal love for each other. Oh, no! They did it for the free labor.

Each and every one of my five siblings were expected to pay their way into their parents hearts. That meant good grades and intelligence. Definitely not talking. So you can see, the people who especially hated my excessive need to project sounds were my parents. My father especially. On this particular night, he was situated in front of the television with a beer in his hands and money on his mind. I can still remember how mad this made me. He expected me to go grow perfect crops in his perfect garden at the perfect age of five. Insane? Definitely. My muscles were already tired from hours of plant-stalking and picking. But it was my night to clean the kitchen. Actually, every night was my night to clean the kitchen. I'm the youngest and the one with the least total earnings, therefore kitchen duties belonged to me. So I made the decision to take a night off. What could it possibly do?

I sneaked silently out of the font door, but my father and his eyes-of-a-hawk caught on instantly. He got up from the couch and walked silently towards me with a smile on his face. This smile was much scarier than his angry look. This was his infuriated look. Now, I know what you're thinking. He got this made over a few dirty dishes? Well, yes. My father got this made over a few dirty dishes. You see, skipping chores doesn't earn any money. The post-dinner cleanup gets chores done faster, which gets me outside and picking crops faster, which in turn makes him more money. It was somehow worse tonight though. Looking back on it now, it was probably his drinking that fueled the flames of his forest-fire of anger. He pinned my small, breakable body up against the newly-finished white paint of the front hall. I could smell the alcohol seeping from his pores and covering me. I felt like I couldn't breathe. He slowly raised his fists, then swung them directly at my face. I took a final look at my own father. My scared eyes were met by his fury-smile. Then the fists came down, and my world turned to black.

Episodes like this were rare at first, but they escalated with the drinking. I was always the stupid kid. Out of all the children he raised, I was the only one that was completely worthless. And he didn't waste a second of his day letting me forget it. Every time I opened my mouth, he would remind me of my stupidity. He wrapped me up, layer by layer, in a cocoon of silence. The alcohol which infected my dad eventually began to infect me. It infected me with something worse than pain. Hatred. Hatred for the beer. Hatred for my father. Hatred for myself. My young mind began to believe these remarks. My views changed. I no longer spoke. For what's the point in speaking if everything you have to say is childish and insignificant?

I was ten when I first left the house. The price of raising a kid is high in District Six. My parents didn't have the resources to care for a child who wasn't going to do anything. Like I said. They didn't raise kids out of eternal love. In a way, the streets helped me. They taught me more than I ever learned back at the house. That doesn't make up for hoe brutal a life it is. Nobody likes seeing the beggars digging in their dumpsters. Finding the best items is an art you have to perfect. By eleven years old, I ha it down. I still do.

I haven't been able to talk, though. That's one thing my parents took that I will never get back. Every time I open my mouth, the memories come pouring in. My brain is filled with the voice of my dad reminding me, once again, that I was worthless. If I walked into a doctors office in your day and age, I would have ben examined and most likely diagnosed with extreme shyness. If the doctor really knew their stuff, selective mutism. It's funny though. If I was going to a doctor's office with my normal family in your day and age, well, I wouldn't be silent if I had a perfectly normal family and grew up in your day and age.

Personality
You probably know me as that beggar in the shopping district. Well, you'd be correct. I'm pretty easy to get along with though, provided your parents allow you to hang out with me. What am I talking about. Your parents don't even know me. People just seem to sort of pass me by. Almost as if I'm invisible. They're already hungry and tired. Maybe I remind them of their situation.

You may find this hard to believe, but I do have a few friends. I just take a couple centuries to warm up to a new person. I'm not very trusting. You'll have to forgive me for that. You have to be skeptical if you live on the streets. If you give me a chance, I could become a best friend. I'm like a cup of water. It takes awhile to get it warmed up, but once it's hot, it starts boiling. You just have to give me time.

Likes

 * the colors blue and gray
 * noise
 * Capitol citizens
 * listening to the piano
 * the greenhouse
 * the great outdoors


 * dumpsters
 * tesserae

Dislikes

 * attention
 * school
 * alcohol
 * assorted fruit cups
 * things that are purple
 * slimy textures
 * money