.:one more time with {feeling} // Destiny

Stop these lies and start again,
Break through bone and cut through skin,
See just where your heart has been,
By the trail left behind you.

Darkness has swallowed our paradise whole when the Anthem plays on the night of Day Four. Even in the rain and after the sun has hidden its brilliance, this paradise is beautiful. The sky is just one long shade of chalky navy blue reflected perfectly into the still water, so that there is no horizon line. It just looks as if the heavens are reaching down and coming to lap up against the snow white sand, whispering promises that I have grown old enough to recognize as mistruths. Still, they tempt me. Belief in those lies is bliss, even if it is short lived. It would be so nice to just let my eyes fall closed and surrender myself to them, letting them wash over my like the high tide. But that momentary easement is always followed by drowning. Always.

It is my bad habit, my horrible addiction. I drink up falsities and illusions knowingly, hoping that they’ll somehow be able to heal the scars made only worse by the thing known as love. And they do, for a while. But it is a sad thing to be held together by lies, to have the seams of your very being be made up of threads of untruths. I started lying to myself the instant we entered the Arena, though. I told myself that I would be okay. I told myself that things couldn’t possibly get worse, only better. I told myself I wouldn’t make friends. I told myself so many beautiful things, so many pretty hopes and dreams, but none of them were true. They were all beasts in disguise, and one by one they were revealed. I wasn’t okay. Things did get worse. I did make friends. And that’s when my world began to fall apart.

The hallucinations stopped a few hours ago, the monsters and blood fading and finally disappearing altogether to leave me blinking my eyes clear and staring at the unsure faces that surrounded me. I saw my mom. I swear, she was standing right there. ...we didn't see anyone, Destiny. It was just us four. So none of that was real? None of it was real. We gave you some antivenom... you should be okay now. And I am, mostly. My headache has diminished and the nausia vanished altogether, leaving me feeling as if I have only a slight cold. But the memories of those horrible hallucinations and the feeling of losing control of my own body will never leave me. I never, ever want to feel like that again. It was like I was trapped in a nightmare, only I knew I was wide awake, and I could have sworn to Ripred it was all real. But that's just one more scar along my soul, one more dream to disremember, one more thought to tear me apart on the inside. It's a miracle I've held it together this long.

My eyes lift tiredly toward the Anthem, watching the Capitol seal. I know that there will be faces in the sky today because I heard the canon shots. The light rain creates a thin sheen on my face as I walk along the sand, away from my alliance. It upsets me to see those dead tributes, if only a little, but I don’t want them to know that. I know that every shot in the stillness that signals death is a victory, but that doesn’t change the fact that there is one more lost to us all. In the Arena, there is no right or good side. It’s all wrong and horrible in a way that people tend to try and say blooms from the Capitol’s own hatred because they are too proud to admit their own part in this ugly game. Crossing my arms tightly over my chest, I gaze up silently, the light spreading across the planes of my face and washing out my features into a blank canvas ready to be painted by hints of emotion. When I see those kids up there, it hints at the lies I tell myself, leaving tiny cracks in my armor. I hate it. I press my lips together as it flickers to the first dead. And then an all too familiar face fills my heart my soul my whole freaking world the sky, and the ultimate lie shatters before me. Pandora Woodards is dead.

Someone killed my best friend today.

It’s instinct to scream. To release my vocal cords and let it all pour out in one single howl of agony, as if someone has just struck me right through my heart. My hand finds my weapon and I raise it high, seeking to kill the source of the intense pain that has exploded like a firework within me, but there’s no one there to fight. I don’t even know the identity of Pan’s muderer – I didn’t even see it happen. There’s no one to kill. No one there to take down save a large crab that must have been awakened by my screech, for it is now scurrying away from me at top speed, stirring up tiny delicate dust clouds in its wake. My eyes widen and lock on it, fury shooting through my veins and needing some sort of escape. In one single leap I have brought the axe down on it, severing one of its legs, and the creature stops in its tracks. I stay there, blade buried in the damp sand, back heaving as I pant. And suddenly, myself and the crab mirror each other – two beings frozen in place by the shock of our loss. Injured by something behind us and terrified of the world ahead now that we no longer have what we so dearly loved and needed to support us. I stare at that crab – that poor, helpless, weak little crab – and I break down.

My grip on the hatchet relaxes slightly and I slide onto my knees in the sand, head bent downward as I sob. And it’s not silent tears that stream down my face. They are big, sloppy ones, and I start crying like a two year old, blubbering and opening my mouth to release strangled cries. “Pan,” my body shudders as I release the name, and then suddenly I can’t stop. “Pan! Pan, come back! Please, Pan! I – I c-can’t – d-do this – without you!” Where is Pandora? I need him. I can’t stand to think that I am now alone in the Arena. I don’t want to believe that I am now without him. Footsteps pad up behind me, cautious, and I turn my head in disbelief. But no, it’s not him. It’s Klaus, looking confused and uncertain. “Go away!” I shriek, reaching my four fingered hand back to claw at the air between myself and my ally. “Just get away from me!” To my relief, when I twist back around to face the crab again, I hear him draw away. Some distant part of me is vaguely surprised at my own actions. I’ve just been abandoned in this nightmarish place by my best friend – shouldn’t I want the comfort? But no. Right now, I just want to be left alone to fall apart in peace.

Pandora Woodards is gone, and he’s never coming back. The very thought makes me cringe in pain as the rain soaks through my clothes, encasing me in its icy grip. My sanity has left – he was my best friend, my crush, my one bit of normalcy. There was so much I didn’t know about him. What was his favorite color? What was his family like? I never got that one big long emotional talk in front of a campfire like they do in the books. I knew some things about him, but what about all the rest? Why couldn’t we have had just a little longer? We needed days, weeks, years, but we were only given minutes. Moments. Heartbeats. I flash back to dancing with him, my head resting against his chest, his arms like great barriers between me and the cruel world that kept trying to pull me back under. Never again. I think of laughing with him in the Training Center, goofing around a little and punching him teasingly in the arm. Never again. I remember kissing him, his warmth soaking into me, his lips against mine. My first kiss. Never again. Pandora Woodards was so much to me. He was everything I needed, and now I’ve lost him. He will never be again. “Ripred, Pan, come back.”

I can feel my heart burning. The onyx scars spread like a disease over it, encasing it in first a burning magma and then ice cold obsidian. Inside, it screams, shredding itself like a paper airplane losing its wings. It is a quiet pain but firmly agonizing, not letting me escape, pulling me back in like a puppet being jerked by its master. The darkness spreads outward and clutches it tightly, sneering to reveal surprisingly white teeth at me and whispering about how I’ll never get it back now. My good hand reaches for my chest, fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt in an attempt to make the pain stop. It doesn’t. Who knew that emptiness could hurt so much? I’ve only felt like this once before, back when my mother died. I didn’t know Pan like I knew her. I didn’t know ever line on his face, every angle of his jaw, every tone of his voice. Maybe that’s why knowing he’s gone is just as painful. Because he’s the best friend I never knew.

After a few moments more of letting myself feel agony, I take in a trembling breath, trying desperately to steady myself. The world stops spinning, and while the ache doesn’t diminish, I adjust to it. Pandora Woodards is dead. The thought strikes me, like a punch in the stomach, a knife through the heart, but it isn’t quite as hard a blow as it was in the beginning. My eyes land on the crab, then, and I can’t help but smile a little. It hasn’t moved from where it stood. Cautiously, I reach forward, but its claws shoot up in the air and begin to wave wildly at me, trying to fend me away. I sniffle pathetically and give a little laugh. “You’re just like me, aren’t you little guy?” I reach forward with my bad hand to show it my missing finger. It’s not impressed, and just waves its claws harder. For some reason, it feels suddenly as if someone is desperately trying to tell me something. Like this crab was their messenger. I frown. The crab can’t escape, so it’s trying to scare me away. It’s toughening up and standing up to me, even though I’m a much larger enemy. My teary eyes suddenly widen in realization, eyebrows shooting up in realization. The crab is trying to fight.

Maybe it’s time that I fight, too.

The Woodards boy is dead. He will never talk or walk or run or kiss or laugh again. I’ll never be able to kick him lightly on the shin when he cracks a rude joke and get that wide smile in return. I’ll never feel his protection or warmth surround me. I’ll never know who he was or who he wanted to be. My eyes flicker up toward the sky, where the Anthem has disappeared. I can hear them talking back in the Capitol about him like he was their plaything that suddenly fell apart or was lost. Too bad, they say. Such a shame, they say. And then they move on to obsess over their new favorite tribute until they die, and then the next, until they can fawn over the Victor and then wait impatiently for the next shipment of children to be slaughtered. They are despicable. Pan was more than just a tribute. He was a teenager, a living, breathing person with thoughts and ideas and hopes and dreams. He had a family. And I loved him, because he kept me centered in my nightmare when nothing else could. He was my last wisp of sanity, my last thread of hope, and now he is gone forever. Do they realize that? Do they realize that now he’ll be shipped home in a wooden box to a family that loved him more than anything in the world? Do they realize that somewhere in District Eight there is a little girl who has to deal with the fact that she will never see her big brother again? Of course not. They don’t think about those things – they just smile stupidly and forget all about the souls that were lost for their own sick entertainment.

And what about his killer? Does his killer realize what exactly he did when he stole away the Woodards boy? Maybe, to some degree. We’re all murderers in here, even if we won’t admit it, but some of us aren’t completely merciless like others. For the first time in what feels like forever, I remember Eternity. My sin is just as great as the mystery murderer’s. Because who says Pan’s life was worth more than hers? Maybe to me, she was just another tribute while Pan was my everything, but that’s only from my perspective. There must be people at home wailing and sobbing for her, shrieking for my death in burning fire or depths of endless blue. While none of us will admit it, we’re all selfish. I try to justify my killing her, saying that we’re all noble and just want to go home, but that’s not true. I killed her because she was in my way. I killed a girl because I valued my own life over hers. And I don’t care if Pan’s murderer is the bravest, kindest, most sympathetic person on this planet. They killed my best friend, and that is unforgivable.

It seems like all my time in this Arena has been spent in fear. Every movement was met with regret and shame, and terror became commonplace in my blood, burning and icy and always present. But now I have stumbled upon a new emotion. Rage. Because Pandora is dead, gone forever, and someone in this Arena is to blame. Someone must be punished. And I will hunt them down until I have answers. Until this hole in my heart is healed, if only partially. Until Pandora Woodards is avenged. And there will be no questions – he is gone, and every single person in this Arena is of fault in some way or another. They stood between him and going home. Even I have some blame in his death, though I don’t dare admit it or else lose what final scrap of sanity I have left. And I don’t care if I am committing the greatest of crimes in taking their lives. I’ll admit my own selfishness. I want someone to pay for his death, and I want to go home, and quite honestly, in my eyes, their lives aren’t nearly as important as mine. They can go ahead and call me horrible things – it’s not like the same isn’t true for them.

I dig around in my bag and pull out one of my empty water jugs, filling it partially with sand and then nudging the crab inside. It hesitates a moment before cautiously entering the new home I have made it, obviously favoring it over the cruel world behind it that does not treat creatures missing a leg kindly. I could probably kill it and eat it if I really wanted to, but it’s smaller than half my palm and probably wouldn’t make a very good meal. Besides, it could be poisonous or something. Screwing the lid back on, I place it carefully back into my bag. I’ve always wanted a pet. When I was younger, I begged my mother for a dog. I wanted a golden retriever that I would name Belle, and we would be best friends forever. Well, the crab isn’t exactly a golden retriever, but it’ll do.

Tears are still streaming down my cheeks when I rise, but I have a new purpose. I’m no longer the scared little girl who tried to pretend to be a Career. I’m a warrior seeking revenge for the death of her first crush, of her best friend. Things will get harder from this point forward – I can feel it. I’ve seen the Victors. They were hollow shells of their former selves, trying desperately to fill the void the Games dug inside of them and wash the blood of their hands, even though they know better. They are scarred, and scars don’t heal. They only mark us as weaklings, beings that have been defeated by life. I have a feeling that what I have seen is nothing compared to what is to come. But I’ll be ready. I have Belle at my side and a hatchet ready in my hand. And if I fail?

Then Pan is waiting for me in the afterlife.

So tell me when you get here,
Tell me when you hit that ground,
Tell me when you get here,
Tell me when your plan breaks down.