~ Alexithymia ~ (Curtis Day 5)

A quiet beckoning filled the auditory void. For half a moment, Curtis Grant thought he had perished; died and gone to join the ever watchful guardians of the arena in their quiet vigil. Breathing shallowly, he refused to move; or perhaps his body refused to listen to his mind's plea's to run as far as his legs could take him. The only sound that echoed in the quiet was the soft splash the droplets of his blood made as the snaked their way down from the wound on his leg to spatter the dusty ground. A few moments passed before he was sufficiently satisfied that they wouldn't move to attack him. Under their baleful gaze, Curtis sat down stiffly in a clearing and tried to collect himself. There were many questions that needed to answered, chief among them; Why couldn't he remember how he had gotten to where he was? The last thing that was clear in his mind was taunting the girls he and Bran had run across after having critically injured one of them.

And then... here he was. Back in the statue garden where they had faced off against a pair of diabolical chickens. What had moved him? A geological event? The whims of the Gamemakers? An act of God? Did the public opinion really want Bran to be left defenseless? If anything, he knew that they desired death. Shaking his head, he got up and started walking. It wasn't a good idea to make oneself a sitting duck and being off on his own gave him time to think without the need for posturing. It was relaxing in a way, to be able to be himself with no one watching but the cameras. It meant no social stigmata. No false bravado. No over the top machismo. Though he did rather enjoy mouthing off to the career pack, his venomous words had not changed the fact that he had been scared witless at the time. District seven did not have a good track record when it came to the games. Most years, one if not both of their tributes had always died by the start of the second day.

Then there were his own experiences. Part of him had fully expected to die during the bloodbath, and it was nothing short of impressive that he had managed to make it this far in such a battered condition. A pinging noise sounded nearby and he looked up in surprise to see a silver parachute winging its way down to where he was. Opening it excitedly, he was pleased to find medical supplies. Putting his sword through his satchel, he deftly used a needle to patch up the gash on his leg, grimacing as he did so, and placing some leaves on top of it before wrapping the whole thing in bandages. Once more, fortune had smiled upon him, and he couldn't see it as anything other than a direct result of his efforts to protect Bran. Judging from the career girls words, not everyone appreciated sentiment, least of all the higher districts. But that bothered him little. An age old adage claimed that there was no such thing as bad publicity, for whether people were praising or condemning you, the fact remained that they were talking about you in the first place.

"I'm coming for you Bran."He remarked loud enough for the cameras to hear as he set off with renewed vigor. When he had been patching himself up, he had come to accept his role in the arena. The role that set him apart from all the others. He knew he was no Hero, for his motives were not pure. But nor was he a villain, for it wasn't in his nature to intentionally screw people over.

The simple truth was that he was a survivor. and in a place where everything was attempting to kill him, that's all he needed to be.