desolation {h o p e : d e a t h}

[/td][/tr][/table][/i][/color][/center]

Do you ever feel apart from yourself? If I had to describe how I am feeling in this instant, I'd probably go with that.

The world around me is spinning. Orange streaks blur my vision, leaving me half-blinded and confused. The sound of metal clashing against metal screams over the grunts of desperation, whilst a cannon cracks overhead, adding to the vociferation. Who's cannon? I look around for a body, but everyone is still very much alive. My breaths grow shorter and faster, with panic. I grip my sword tighter and try to focus on who is my enemy and who is my ally. The faces around me are all blank and gray. I stand heavy, eyes blinking and confused. Disorientation is normal, at least that's what they said in the Training Center. I have to focus on what is real. What is real? What is right? What I once viewed as the right thing to do has become distorted. White has turned black and my moral compass is broken. I once thought that because I had volunteered in place of Andorra Constantine, good things would happen. Karma, right? But everything has gone against me. Everything has been so unfair.

Nothing we try is working. I watch in desperation as Shadow and Cassie half-heartedly swing their over-sized swords at Iago, trying to find away through his layers of hard leathered armour. My own attempts to drive back Emery Moreno have no effect, and every time I lunge forwards I have to dart back again to avoid the scalding threat of her brass knuckles. Her fists glint orange in flames, and it makes me wonder what kind of material her gloves are made of to not catch or burn her hands. I have no such fireproofing. If I get too close, she'll brand me with them - I already have a burn on my shoulder because I got careless, next time it could be my face.

The flames on my own sword begin to die down and so I take the time to shake out the flame and apply more tar. I don't have a lot of time before Emery and Iago turn to me again. Frantically I unscrew the lid of the jar and lather my blade with the thick, black, oily substance. I glance up briefly to see that the others are occupied and uninterested in me. Matches. Where did I put the matches? I search my pockets, still holding the heavy jar in my right arm. Where? Then he hits me. His glaive drops, trying to take my head off my shoulders. Instinctively I move the jar of tar in the way of Iago's blade to save myself. With a horrible clatter, the terracotta smashes. As I fall backwards, tar rains down on me. White has become black, literally, as my clean white clothes are dirtied with the flammable substance.

And this is the moment.

calling out: father
stand by and we will
watch the flames auburn
on the mountain side

[/i][/color][/center]

I know it's going to happen before it happens. I lie in the protective shadow of an apple tree, out of the sun's reach. A cool breeze happens to float by and tickle my face. The smell of fresh grass and sweet apples takes me back to when Rubik would take Pan and I up to our lonely hill for picnics. For the quickest of heartbeats, everything is quiet.

As I push myself to my feet, tar trickles down my arms and smears my face. It drips from my skirt and drools down the back of my neck. I stand as tall as I can and accept my fate. Emery Moreno's fist full of fire drives forward and I raise my own hand to block it. It isn't much of a hit, but it's enough. It's enough to catch on the tar that plasters my sleeve. It's enough to spark the flame that runs up my arm and leap onto my shoulder. With a scream, I drop my sword and stagger backwards. The fire consumes me in a matter of seconds, eating at my clothes and my hair and my skin. My screams are lost in the roar of the flame. It isn't long before my legs give way and I fall to the floor.

I roll desperately, trying to smother the inferno, but it's no use. There is too much tar. I have never known pain until now. It hurts so much that I want to die quickly, but this is no quick death. This is a death that will eat away at me until I am nothing but a charred corpse. I roll in agony and desperation, begging for mercy with screams and cries that are lost in the panic. I begin to asphyxiate, choking on the smoke around me. I am being suffocated by my own decay. I roll and roll until the grass around me is black or gone completely.

Do you see me now, Rubik? For four years I tried to get your attention. I tried to get you to snap out of your grief and your depression, but all you ever did was ignore me. All you ever did was run off to that Senalia Livery's house and cry on her shoulder. Did you ever once think that you weren't the only one who had lost Pandora all those years ago? Did you ever once think that you weren't alone? You're selfish. You used to call Pan' selfish, but he gave his life so that his friends could go on fighting. He refused to let you volunteer at the Reaping. He gave all his money to Hitch in secret, to look out for us after he was gone. He was the most selfless person I ever knew. I wish I could talk to you now, Rubik Woodards. I wish you could hear me.

[/i][/color][/center]

Oh, but I bet you're watching. You wouldn't come see me when I volunteered for Andorra Konstantine, on that cold Reaping wednesdae afternoon, but I know you can see me now... And aren't I just the flaming beacon of hope that you always wanted me to be? Aren't I everything you expected? In the fire, the smoke and the agony, I am cursing him. The fire fuels my rage, and that itself is what is consuming me. If I am going to burn, then you're burning with me Rubik.

What did Pandora feel when he was dying? When the muttated crab latched itself onto the leg of Cyrus Malloc, ripping from his leg in an almighty explosion, was Pandora this angry? When the shrapnel dug like daggers into his back, was he this conflicted, or was he at peace? I've watched the footage of my brother floating out to see more times than I care to admit, but his face was always so vacant. I can't ever know what he was thinking. I can't ever turn to his council. He's dead, and so am I.

The fire is all but gone. I have smothered most of the flames and the tar is all but gone. I lie in the dirt, clinging onto life. I can't scream, I can't move, I can barely breathe. Boiling tar eats at my skin, devouring what is left of me. My eyes move to look at my arm, and I can see the bone, black as charcoal. All my wounds are cauterized and throbbing, and I can't feel my legs at all or even move my neck to know if they're still there.

A shadow casts over me, blocking the blinding sun. Blinking, I focus on the face of Iago Izar-McClaine, and if I could cry, I would. I just want to die. Why can't he leave me to die? I see the way he's holding his glaive, like he's going to be precise with it. Why is he holding it like that? "You’ve got pretty eyes, you know? They’d be perfect to cut out of your pretty little head, little girl…" The words return to me too easily. They haunted my broken sleep. I realize that he's going to cut out my eyes and panic takes over. More pain will come to me. Hell isn't done with me yet.

[/i][/color][/center]

Karma is a lie. It's a dirty, fucking lie. I can remember way back when Father came home on a thursday evening with a glint in his eye and a bottle in his hand. He'd talk about how Mother had died giving birth to me, and that I was the reason she was dead. I'd cry, of course, and Pandora would call him a shithead, or something along those lines. Father never liked being called names, especially not by Pandora, who was a hot-headed teenager at the best of times. He'd smash the bottle against the table and point it at one of us, and he'd whisper, "Karma will get you...".

The amount of times he'd bottle Rubik or Pandora in a drunken rage is mad. He'd never hurt me though, because my big brothers were always there to protect me, right? It's not like that though, is it Rubik? 'Cause once one of my brothers died, the other decided that he didn't care anymore. In Father's last days, he could get his hands on me because no one was around to save me. Rubik was with Senalia, he was always with Senalia when I needed him. He'd talk to me about karma, and how the world is balanced. I remember that night so vividly, but I'll never forget it. He said that if you do good things, then the world will be good to you in return. He said sorry to me, for all the things he'd done to Rubik and Pan', and how much fear he had imprinted on our lives. He was drunk at the time, but not how he was usually drunk. In a way, he was peaceful. He was so convinced that Pandora had been Reaped because of his bad parenting. It was his bout of karma due. He killed himself the next day.

I don't remember it because of that. I don't hold myself responsible for my drunken excuse for a Father topping himself over his bad decisions. I remember karma, and I remember Rubik always telling me to be a shining example. I volunteered for Andorra Konstantine because it was the right thing to do. I volunteered because I'm a nice person... But everything that's happened to me has been a disaster. I look up to Iago, and to the blade clutched in his hand. Is this my reward? Is this what I get, at the end of it all? It's not fucking fair. None of it is fair.

[/i][/color][/center]

"Do it," I scream at him with my shattered voice, "Else it’s just empty words…"

And he does. He carves my eyes out with the point of his glaive, sending me into a world of pain and darkness. I hear them talking, their voices fading into the distance. They have left me, and that's the worst part. They haven't killed me, they have left me to die. I try to cry out, to beg them to have mercy and end me, but nothing comes from my broken voice box. I'd cry, if only I had eyes. I'd scream, if only I had a voice. I'd die, if only I could.

Iago has no such mercy. He's ruthless, and he'll go on to do greater things than cutting the eyes out of Hope Woodards. He's the one to beat, and I hope that someone will cut him down before he can get a hand on glory. Maybe that's why I died. Maybe I was too full of mercy to kill. No that's impossible. Killing is mercy, Eden taught me that in the training center. She picked up that rat and crushed its ribs, killing it instantly. That was mercy, she had said. A quick death is better than a painful existence. I lie in pain wishing someone would crush my ribs, but no one does.

My mouth opens and lets out an empty scream. It takes all my remaining strength to conjure up the whimper of a noice that I exert, but it is consistent. I scream until I can no longer scream. I scream until I have given up on everything around me. When I am eventually done screaming, I finally die, and all hope is gone.

What a fucking relief.

[/i][/color][/center]


[/color][/center]

[/justify][/color][/size][/blockquote]
[/td][/tr][/td][/tr][/table][/center]

[/td][/tr][/table][/td][/tr][/table][/center]