the pointy end {sam} / blitz!

I never saw my father die.

The thought clouded every single spot in my head making it nearly impossible to do anything else, moving became nothing but a struggle, and even conversation was completely out of the window. Thrown into a train, forced to ride about on chariots, there was no time to even talk had I wanted to. The Games were fast paced and waited for no one, and they especially didn’t wait for grief – there was still tons of that to come, whether or not I supplied it. The distraught faces of the other tributes were enough to acknowledge that fact. But yet as the days passed, it became easier. A dry mouth that hardly forced out a single syllable no matter the effort, simply disappeared with time. Eagerness to move forward, and anger, and interview prep only forced the talking.

The water helped, the juices, the fine array of drinks that came at the drop of a hat should one ask. There was no excuse for my mouth to be dry, and my unwillingness to talk. At least, not in Carmel’s eyes. The frilly escort had been nothing but unpleased with the unease of her career tribute, having been assigned the best District was no small matter and not wanting to talk was not something she was allowing on her agenda. Despite an unwillingness to talk, a harsh grip of reality that had me wanting to hole up into the depths of the comfiest bed I had ever wrapped myself up in, and the thought of impending doom that seemed to blanket over the entire training center, I had to wake up that morning.

Harsh light hit the windows and the shrill voice of Carmel, hollering down the bedroom hallway quickly roused even the drunken fools from their beds. Forcing through the walls that had built themselves up brick by brick in my mind, the desperate cry snapped me to attention, well, as much attention as one could have in the days that were to follow. It was hard to say if I had actually even drifted off into sleep that night, I spent no time watching the clock, watching each minute strike, each number change indicating another second, minute, hour gone on without my dad, Zircon Myler, living and breathing.

There was no time for dilly dallying, these were the games after all. It didn’t frighten me. No, the idea of surviving in the arena, the idea of taking out other children was nothing but a lesson imprinted so heavily in to my mindset that it had become out of the question to shake it off. And perhaps even, it was better to think of a dying father, than ones impending doom. Was he prepared to die? Was I?

I never heard my father’s dying words.

The training center filled up quicker than ever, tributes branching off left and right to take a stab at what they thought they were worst at, some clearly avoiding stations that their eyes longed after, trying not to show off their strengths despite how much their body wanted them to. Being a career had its advantages, there weren’t any stations that were needed to be avoided, I could show off any particular skills that I wanted and not be judged for it. I could clean slice a head of a dummy and watch at the awe filled faces and laugh, it was something hard to believe that people lived in places that had no one who tried as hard as we did, the careers that is.

There was no making up for the years of training, a certain sense of experience just seemed to exude from each of us, coming from District One, Two, or Four just automatically seemed to make you a monster, a killer, someone to avoid at all costs despite how good one of us may be – I may be. But that was really the question, was I a monster? I hadn’t even bothered to learn anyone’s names besides those from the career districts. The Dempsey girl, Kiera, psycho as ever, skulking about the training center like a lion on the hunt. There was Atlas, from District Two, a career, and his partner Demeter who spent an awful lot of time with knives. Learna, Penelope’s sister, who surely hadn’t trained but had a reputation that exceeded career status, and Mason the boy, career, but nothing really there.

That was five names in a room of twenty-three others, and there was no propelling force within me pushing forward to learn anything. Was I a monster?

No. No I was not a monster. The first aid tutor babbled in my ear about applying pressure, and doughnut wraps, severed limbs, stitching up wounds, but none of it really clicked. Despite years of training, first aid had never really been an area of specialty and despite the fact that maybe I should very well take the time to listen – I was clouded by thoughts. I was clouded by my father. How long until my clock would tick away too? How long would my mother last after the both of us had left our earthly bodies? Stitchingwasreallyeasyallyouhavetodois Was it my fault that my father died? Areyoupayingattentionidon’tquitethinkyou’re When my name was called did it finally push him over the edge? Hereyouknowwhattakethisifyouwon’tpayattention Was it really the curse that the parents were supposed to die before the child? Justsimplystitchitupgotitillbebacksoon.

Forcibly trying to push a needle into fake flesh, it quickly slammed into my fingertips, a drop of blood escaping, already injured and we weren’t even into the arena yet, that was a good sign. The small point wouldn’t stop shaking, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking, the room wouldn’t stop shaking, cringing, my body wouldn’t stop fighting the urge to wail and scream and escape out that window up high maybe if I climbed high enough it would or maybe just maybe I could unlock a door with the needle or “Shit.” The needle went through my index finger again, a large red drop escaping from it, maybe I just needed to bleed to know I was alive.

“You're supposed to use it with the pointy end." A smaller girl. What District? I didn’t even know. She was the cripple’s sister, the sibling tributes. How cruel fate was to such small kids, especially her, small and fragile and yet snarky. Sarcastic as hell, how dare she? How dare she how dare she howdareshetryandundermine me.

“Thanks.” I flip the needle over in my palm, the silver point shining quickly reflecting off the gym lights. “Aren’t you supposed to be with your cripple or something?” And the stinging kept going, and the monster kept raging, and slowly but surely I kept on dying.

She’d said it. Whether or not it was a slip of the tongue, an accident, or a purposeful blow, she had said it. My father was dead. There was no beating around the bush; there was no avoiding the topic at hand. When a man died during the reapings, not in the actual arena himself, there was bound to be talk about it. It was a wonder, maybe, perhaps, every harsh look, every silent whisper, and awful glare had nothing to do with the status that I’d clung to so hard since my arrival.

I was the kid whose father had died nothing more; I was not a career, a killer, probably. Despite that title that clung to me for my years of training day in and day out, it was the fact that the person closest to me in my life – the man I’d lost so suddenly, was my identifier. “Yes, I do.” There was a funeral somewhere, sometime, but there were no details for the dead man walking. “And I’d happily stick this needle in your throat if I can get there sooner.”

And just like her blow, I nailed one right back. Words hurt more than anything that could possibly happen in this arena, there’d be numerous times where I’d received a blow to the head, numerous days where I was quite sure that I might blow up, but there was never worse a time than when I was publically humiliated each and every day. “But we all know that isn’t happening.” The words escape my mouth before I know what I’m saying, there was no way I was going to my father’s funeral, the only way I was going to it was if I was being buried side by side with him. The likelihood of my death was so big, that my mother was probably waiting for my death to bury both of us at once. Less cost, less mourning.

The thought of my mother standing above both of our corpses being lowered into the ground was heartbreaking, scary, and impossible. Impossible that a woman so strong for so long losing both of the men in her life, so quickly. Every inch of me welling up, feeling like exploding, blowing up, but all there was was me and a girl from District 8. “I’ll go to yours instead, waiting for the hovercraft to pick you up.”