Chun Maccoy

Chun Petros Maccoy is a tribute from District Fifteen who belongs to CTOADURN. Please refrain from employing this tribute in your Hunger Games without his permission. If you wish to use this tribute, leave the owner a message. His district partner is typically Adrianne Saward. The two do not need to be submitted into Hunger Games together, or in a special order.

Information
Name: Chun Maccoy

Age: Thirteen

District: Fifteen

Gender: Male

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History:

Backstory=

I was born right in the middle of March in bland District Fifteen. Mom almost had me in the waiting room of the hospital, but a lady who was just in for an ultrasound let us have her room during her last stages of labor. They thought something was wrong, and eventually they did find something wrong - the reason why I had trouble breathing was because I had a respiratory infection. A dangerous one, for that. I wasn't expected to live past two weeks. But mom took a chance, and she stayed in that hospital room for almost three weeks due to the possibility of the worsening pollution of the District triggering a bad cold, and since I wasn't able to breathe out of my mouth yet, she couldn't leave the hospital.

But still, we finally left, three weeks after my birth. We lived in a big house. My dad was a movie star, so we had a relatively good amount of money. Not that much, but it was enough to pay me a decent treatment. But even still, we struggled with money during bad times. Because of this, my parents' relationship drifted apart, and they got a divorce when I was nine-years-old. My mother fought for my custody, but my father, being an infamous actor, got it. Well, mostly. I stayed with mom during the weekends and dad during the weekdays. During my childhood, the weekends were good, because me and mom did fun things like go to the amusement park and go to the store for toys. Weekends, though. . . were not the exact definition of "amusing". Honestly, they were awful. A few months before my parents got the divorce, my dad was fired from his job. Unemployed and having a troubled child to take care of, he wasn't able to cope with the pressure of his life and, well, he snapped. Turned into the monster he is today. Dad would beat me with his belt and treat me like a slave. He'd swear under his breath whenever I did not complete one of his chores, wondering why he even had "such a disgrace of a child". He wouldn't allow me to cry or weep, being wicked beyond repair, so I always had to suck it up and continue to work. He lived in an immensly small house, and all he would do is sit back and drink, assigning me more and more chores. Whenever the weekends arrived, mom would question the marks in my back, but we both knew we couldn't do anything about my situation. My respiratory infection was slowly coming back. I was not supposed to do any kind of physical labor so early; the doctors warned my parents multiple times. But that sick, twisted man did not care about that. As long as he had a couch and a cold beer, I could go die in a hole and everything would be fine for him. That needed to change.

I changed. I lost count of how many times I plotted my father's murder with a satisfied smirk playing on the edge of my lips. Somehow, the thought of my father's bleeding corpse on the ground made me happy. Not very healthy thoughts for a twelve-years-old boy, in my opinion. I decided I would have to do it. If he continued to force me into physical labor I would slowly languish. I could not allow that. I decided how I would do it. A knife to the back while he was not looking. I was prepared to do whatever it took to eliminate that psychopath from existence. But then the tides turned. My mother got pregnant. It was shocking, you see: Mom was not married, and did not have a boyfriend or whatsoever. The baby was the result of a one-night stand, something humiliating in District Fifteen. My mother worked in a hospital, but the money she received was not enough to support a baby. Thus, the possibility of the newborn having the same condition that I have was very high, almost likely. The nine months of waiting were pure agony. While no major problems were revealed during her pregnancy, the same happened to me, and I was born with the infection that affects me until this day. My murder plan had long since faded away, I could not murder my father at the risk of getting executed. That would mean my mother would have to take care of the baby herself. I could not allow that to happen.

I tolerated months and months of abuse from my father, knowing it was worth it. If I could see my sibling living a healthy, abuse-free life, anything was worth it. Then, the baby was born. A cheerful, carefree little girl named Jessabelle, with vivid crimson locks and a honest smile, brought light back light to my mother's eyes. Well, she brought light to anyone's eyes, in general. Helpless spirits like my father were broken beyond repair. And I needed to fix that. With my mother and Jessabelle in safety, there was nothing in my way. It was a common Wednesday. The chores for that day included basically cooking lunch and cleaning. Not that day.

I grabbed a kitchen knife. I felt its smooth, dark hilt in my fingers as I slowly approached my father. He was crouched over a box, picking up something. Not important. I needed to focus. I positioned the knife so that it's facing downwards, into his cranium. I had no qualms about what I was going to do. In one swift, fluid motion, I brought the knife down. It never homed on its target. My father rolled out of the way, laughing boisterously as I stood there, dumbfounded. Did he know I was going to strike? How?

"You're helpless, Chun. Didn't you even think I knew it? Your dirty murder plots?" No answer comes from me. My fingers looped around the knife's hilt. I was ready to end that once and for all. My father skirked, wagging a knowing finger at me. "You sure you wanna do that?" He said, the smirk still playing on his lips. I needed to take that oportunity. My father was distracted, blabbering on how foolish I am. Let's see who was really foolish. Without any warning, I launched myself forward. A surpised squeal had just left his lips before my knife cut through the skin in his neck, cutting his throat wide open. He fell down almost instantly. I could tell he was trying to scream, but the only sound coming from his mouth was a wet, sickening gurgle. Blood bubbled out of his throat, running down his chin and landing on the ground below. He was on his knees, thrashing wildly as life bled away from him. It wasn't long before he collapsed, landing face-first onto the wooden floor, dead and done for. By my hands. I don't know how I should feel.

Guilty?

Sad?

Afraid?

I'm not sure. But I was sure that I did not feel any of the emotions above. All I felt was a cold, primal joy as I glanced down at my father's dead body.

And that's why I have no regrets. Guidelines/Condensed Version= WIP

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