im -> pressions (ethan)

She can't see the landscape anymore
It's all painted in her grief
All of her history etched out at her feet
Now all of the landscape, it's just an empty place

Sparky had begun to get quieter and quieter as time went on, by the second she seemed to slip into a hushed tone. Staring less and blinking more, her skin was not nearly as pasty as it was. I'd had a few conversations with her on the Train, and as much as I hated to admit it, I was beginning to like her. If she had to skip a meal to meet with the Gamemakers or something of the sort, I found it the food to be a bit bland (but that's not saying much, the food was some of the best food I'd ever eaten, regardless). I, on the other hand, could tell that I was beginning to blossom. My muscles were not nearly as tense as they were, and although I still maintained a good effort to carry my head high, I begun to feel not so Ihavetokillpeoplesoon but more Enjoyitwhileitlasts.

My feet feel heavy after a long morning's training, various knots and reading about leaves had left me with a heavy everything. Heavy mind, heavy hands, heavy heart. The first day of Training had ultimately brought my back down to reality. Or at least, brought me down as much as I would come down. I had decided that I'd never be the person I'd used to be. Even if that person wasn't perfect, even if that person had thief's hands, long and slender and quick, it was still me. If I did somehow survive (I'd moved on from the original "I'll do whatever necessary"), I would never return to me. I'd become sort of out of body walker, knowing that my real self was exactly where'd I'd left it: in the District Square. Even if it was invisible, it was there.

There's another hour before we get our meals, proven by a countdown clock projected on a clear wall at the front of the room. My body was bare, all hair ripped off except for the hair on my head and my eyebrows, but even then, they'd taken quite a bit off. If I were to put on a Capitol citizen's outfit, I'd be less than distinguishable to be from District 3. And I'd contemplated it before I'd warmed up to Sparky -- knocking her out while she slept and tossing her out of the train during the night. But it took about 3 seconds to realize that it'd never work.

My hands grip a machete, and I know it's called that because I'd seen one near my house once. Rusted and on the ground. I was younger, and a man on a bench told me "Don't cut yourself, that right there's a machete. See that rust? It'll mess your insides up." But only this machete was clean, a white handle with a long, slightly parabolic blade.

I pick it up and sling it, unconscious of how sweaty my hands were. It dropped and with a thud against the rubber mats, landed near another tribute. A quick look at his left shoulder let me know he was the tribute from District 6, the massive but stunning lunatic. On the way to the Capitol, we'd watched the Reapings one by one, and the whole reason District 6 stood out was because of the obnoxious roar that he'd let out before dry humping the boy in front of him. "Oh! Oh.. I'm.. I- I'm sorry!" I say in a hushed sort of tone. I pick up the machete and give it to him, realizing that I'd probably just given my life away.