vengeance is { s l e e p i n g } // Rook, blitz

can you hear my heart
beating like a hammer
help i'm alive
my heart keeps beating like a hammer

I can't do anything with my condition. For the past few hours I've been at the close combat station, trying my hand at swords and axes. It's infuriating, trying to get a grip on them when my hands are shaking this badly. More than once I dropped the weapon I was using, to the laughter of other Tributes. I am a joke. I tried throwing, and I was okay at that, even with my trembling hands. It's like darts back home, more or less. I tried playing darts sober once or twice, and although I missed the dartboard completely on several occasions, I was sometimes able to get a dart where I wanted it to go. No comparison to how accurate I am with a steady hand.

I suppose it's the same with the throwing knives. I missed the targets more often than not, but sometimes I was able to hit a dummy in the hip, or on the leg. I find myself depressed at the fact that I won't be able to drink in the Arena, because my accuracy is the only positive thing I have going for me at the minute. My accuracy could save me. Too bad they don't scatter Vodka and Whiskey around the Cornucopia.

I have trailed off to the dining area, fed up with attempting to master any kind of weapon. There is no alcohol on the tables, that is reserved for the Gamemakers. How unfortunate, for I would love to take some shots of rum and show these 'Careers' how to throw straight. Instead I am picking at sandwiches - Small white-bread triangles filled with crunchy green cucumber, or globs of yellow-white egg. Healthy, sure, but tasty? I much prefer Bear's cooking.

"I've heard rumors," Her voice startles me, but when I see it is just the girl from Eight, I relax some. She oozes confidence, I have seen her in training on more than one occasion. She probably knows how to survive out there. She probably has more of a chance than any one else from the middle districts.
"Willis Keeni, famous by name and infamous by some rather disgraceful habits involving the bottle. I also hear you've got aim that's to die for." She smiles, almost threatening to laugh at me. Go ahead, laugh, it's true. I'm an alcoholic, but not for the reasons you think.

Who told her about my skill when it comes to throwing? Sure, it's obvious that I like to drink, that much was clear when I turned up to training the first day pissed out of my face. I don't think anyone knows about my throwing. Rumors. The Capitol loves to gossip, and it's no secret in Eight that I'm the Keeni with a keen-eye. It wouldn't take much for the media to find out about my talent, and I expect it's been all over the television. Savannah Carey seems the type of girl who wants to know everyone's strengths and weaknesses, and it seems she's found mine. Strength, accuracy. Weakness, alcohol. She's read me like a book, and I'm impressed.

"Enjoying the party?" She asks, and I don't even attempt to answer. She may be enjoying this but I sure as hell am not. I want to be home, with my family. Even if they didn't visit me in the Justice Building, or even speak to me the morning I was Reaped, I still love them. I'd do anything to be back with them, and not on death row. What irritates me most is that she probably knows all of this, and she is taunting me - playing with me.

"Don't pretend you know things that you clearly have no idea about, it just makes you come off as arrogant." I pick up a tiny triangle sandwich filled with tuna mayonnaise, and eat it in two small bites. You can fit these things in your mouth, they're so damn small. I stack a few more of the small sandwiches on my plate and move on to the other foods - Pastries and cakes, all made here in the Capitol. I don't really have the appetite for something sweet.

"If you had been watching me at the knife throwing station, you'd already know that my aim is nothing special." I say, sticking my thumb in my mouth to suck up a blob of tuna that had dripped down from my plate. The less she knows about my aim, the better. I want people to underestimate me, because that may just keep me alive.

if we're still alive
my regrets are few
if my life is mine
what shouldn't I do?

can you hear my heart
beating like a hammer
help i'm alive
my heart keeps beating like a hammer

I can't even look at her. She acts like she knows everything about me, and that really gets under my skin - Not even I know everything about me. I know I am two different people, interchanging when I let the wooden taste of bourbon pass through my lips. I have natural confidence anyway, but that's been somewhat knocked down a peg by my condition. I think when I'm drunk I go to an all new level of confidence. I'm rash and blunt, sometimes rude. Makes me no different to any other drunk in the world. Still, I feel like I have an alter ego. I'm not even sure how true that is. Am I really that different when drunk? I'm pretty rude anyway, and I never hold back from telling people how I feel. I think, like anything, it's just an exaggeration of my personality. Why does any of this matter anyway? I'm daydreaming again.

I release a heavy sigh, feeling a little better for it. It's barely lunch time and I'm already exhausted. I could hop in that lift and fall straight onto my bed. It'd be so easy. Savannah doesn't even look like she's broken a sweat today, even though she's probably been hard at work. She looks like the kind of girl who wants to win, even though the odds are severely against her. I can respect that. Having a chance is better than having no chance at all.

"It's called Darts." I say, trying not to roll my eyes. If I had a dime for every time someone called it something other than darts, I'd be rich enough to get someone to have volunteered in my place. If I wasn't such a trembling wreck, I'd be playing darts at a national level, and wouldn't have even been in that Reaping. Catch 22.

"And sure, I'll teach you some basic darts technique somewhere in between running for my life and getting stabbed in the stomach..." I say dryly, biting angrily on an egg mayo sandwich. I'm so done with these people. People think it's a game. How can they be so lighthearted about it when we're being sent to our deaths? I think back to what I said to Lyric on the train. If we can't laugh at death, what can we laugh at? I should make that my catchphrase, it may just make me less of a grumpy bastard in my final hours.

She introduces herself properly, which makes me realize that she's just being nice. I shouldn't be so uptight when I need all the friends I can get. I already have Eye Saw, maybe I can get Savannah on my side, too? I'm not sure if they'd get along too well though. Eye has a thing for being the dominant guy in the conversation. Would Savannah threaten his ego complex? That could turn nasty - I don't want to be in the middle of that. I turn to her and return a smile, trying at least to make it seem genuine.
"Willis." I say, but she knows that. I don't bother telling her I'm a Keeni either, because everyone knows that. I'm always associated with those fucking pyromaniacs.

When she offers to find us drinks, I can't hold back my expression of desire. My hands have been shaking for days now, and a drop of alcohol would bring such relief. I've become so dependant. Look at me, I'm a mess. I have become so reliant on getting drunk that I can barely survive a day or two without alcohol. How the hell am I going to survive in that Arena?

"No thanks, I'm trying to cut back." May just be the most difficult sentence I've ever had to say.

if we're still alive
my regrets are few
if my life is mine
what shouldn't I do?