me and my demons [Soap vs Willis - Day 8]

The most intimate thing I’ve ever done with a girl was watch her die in my arms.

I’m sick. I’m so so sick. It’s like.. it’s like my mind keeps jumping back to the moment my axe struck her in the back, and I felt relieved. For a split second, I felt like I would be safe, that I could breath for just a few more hours, that nothing and nobody could ever bring me down. For just a moment, I saw a future for myself that wasn’t paved with sideways insults, calloused hands, and gaunt cheekbones.

And then reality hit.

I saw the way she stopped in her tracks, saw the sudden flash of pain etch its way onto her face.

I did that. I did that.

Back home, I couldn’t even look at a girl without blushing. I’d always avert my gaze somewhere else – the floor, my feet, the ceiling, you name it. Back then, I wouldn’t hurt another human being, not with my own hands or an axe or even a cruel word.

Now I’m crueler than any of them. It’s like I’ve spent all of my life being crapped on by the rest of my District, starving and working till my hands bled while wise-ass old farts called me Soap, and now.. and now everything bad and evil and terrible has leaked out, and there’s no good left to hold onto.

On Reaping day, they called my name:

Colgate O’Leary.

It sounds like the name of a president, or a soldier, or a wise old man who spends his life wandering around, praying and feeding the hungry. I always thought it was funny when people called me that, especially teachers. They’d call on me in class by saying ”Colgate,” probably in a bored voice or an annoyed one, sounding for all the world like they didn’t really care at all. The thing is, though, I wouldn’t turn around. A teacher could call out my name for ten minutes and I wouldn’t answer to Colgate; I’d just keep on doing whatever I was doing, lost in my own world or counting the number of tiles on the ceiling. Only when my teachers yelled out ”Soap!” would I finally respond, because that’s what the kids called me, even when I was young. At home my family just called me Col, and for a few years before school started I thought it was my actual name.

I feel like Colgate now. I feel regal, and strong, and cruel.

The truth is, despite everything, I feel like a Victor.

And I try to forget everything Lyric Woulf said on her deathbed because it only makes my chest hurt, but her last words end up rushing back anyways, living and breathing things that almost make me forget that the girl who said them is no longer of this world.

"But... as shitty as I am, I'm all you got, Bubble Boy. So you better make it outta this. For all of us."

With her words still in my head, I walk away from her burned and battered body and let the Gamemakers take her away, thinking about everything I've done and everything I've yet to do.

I would have been alerted by now if I were the last one left, so clearly there are others still prowling around the Arena. Will one of them be Claude? Yes or no, either answer to that question is unfavorable, because now we've reached the point in the Games where all bets are off. I don't know if I could send an axe through his back like the way I did to Lyric, but I don't want to find out.

I also don't want him to be dead.

I'm all you got, Lyric said to me. Maybe she already knew something I didn't - maybe she killed Claude herself and I just didn't notice, or she sent him off to die while I wasn't looking, or -

No. Lyric wouldn't do that. Would she have killed him? I don't know. Obviously she wasn't hesitant to defend herself against me, but if Claude made a move against her life? They were.. well, together, at least before they entered the Arena. I don't know what that means to them and I don't know if it affected anything, but they had to have cared about each other. I saw the way Claude looked at her. I just.. okay, I can't pretend to know anything about romance or love or whatever they had.

My mind drifts away to other things, and after hours of walking (away from Lyric, away from the Cornucopia, away from all of the blood) the sky - already dark and ringing with the sounds of thunder - becomes dim. No stars peek through the clouds, but I don't mind much. I like the way the lightning looks, all violent and bright, crashing through the sky like nothing else can. The only problem is, I kinda worry I'll be struck by it, especially now that I'm out in the open and the tallest thing in the area except for the piles of rocks and boulders scattered across the dirt. I hunch down and lay my head against my bag, hands resting on my chest as I look up in wonder at the sky.

It's so beautiful, I forget where I am. I forget that I just killed a girl I've lived and talked with for the past few weeks, forget that Savannah isn't with us anymore, forget that I murdered the nameless tributes on the first day, forget that I ever felt powerless.

I feel the thunder in my chest, and the lightning bounds through the air even as the anthem begins to play.

Fuck the anthem.

I turn over to look away, but I can't help looking up at the faces when they come into view.

A Career boy. A young girl.

And then - oh no.

I guess I knew.

I feel the same way I felt when that axe went into Lyric's back - like an awful weight has been lifted off of my shoulders, except my stomach churns as if I'm going to throw up the contents of my stomach. I turn over to retch into the dirt, but nothing happens. With nothing to do but lay there, I curl up into a ball, all 6'7" of my giant frame wrapped up tight like I'm bracing myself against the cold of a gale-force wind, limbs wrapped around each other in a lonely embrace.

Lyric was right. I am alone.

It's silly to feel like this, I know. Nobody pulled my name out of that bowl - nobody forced me into this. I put myself in this situation, and now I've got to face up to the decision I made.

I am alone in this Arena, but I've got so much to fight for. My family, my life, the people I killed in order to live. What would all of this mean if I were to die?

Answer: my family would just starve faster than usual.

Fuck it all.

I need to fight.

I need to kill the rest of them.

I need..

I need..

...

I need to sleep.

----------------

When I awake, it is because I'm being nudged.

I don't notice anything else but the rush of adrenaline as it fires into my veins. I gasp and throw my legs out in protest, trying my best to scramble to my feet before I realize that.. that it's not a person who's touching me. It's a thing, a muttation.

It's not even one thing. It's a whole horde of creatures with their weird, white arms pressed up against my legs and my back, lifting me into the air like a human sacrifice, as if they mean to take me to their leader to be gobbled up.

They're kind of adorable, though, and upon closer look I recognize them from another Games. I don't remember what they're called, but they're a kind of mutt that never attack people. In fact, they don't do much at all, if I remember correctly - they just kind of sit there and.. stare.

Except now they're carrying me deeper into the area with all of the dirt and giant boulders, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I try to fling my legs down to release myself from their grasp, but they surround me. Every time I make a move to get away from them, they just shift gears and move a little to accommodate my movement so that I remain in the middle of the pack. A few of them are even carrying my bag and my weapons - which is very nice of them, considering - and the only thing I can do is stare up at the sky or turn my head to watch them.

A part of me should be concerned about where they're bringing me, but these creatures are so calming that I don't even feel worried. I find that I'm smiling as they carry me along, and I think my sister would like watching this. Mutts are terrible, awful creatures.. but these things? They're like pets. Better than pets, even, because dogs bite and cats scratch, but these creatures don't hurt.

After a while, I pull the bottle of bubbles out of my pocket. I haven't touched the bottle since one of those first days, and now I wonder why. It's so much a comfort that I smile even wider, untwisting the cap as the creatures carry me through the morning. I dip the bubble wand into the bottle and breath, and they float up, up, and up, greeting the sky like old friends. After a few rounds, I turn my head and blow bubbles in the direction of the white creatures. One bubble in particular sticks to the side of one, and it sorta turns to look at it, all confused. I can't really tell if they're happy or sad - in fact, their faces are a tad creepy - but I keep blowing bubbles in their direction nevertheless.

Time passes slowly, and I'm not sure how long we've been traveling before the creatures finally deposit my feet into the dirt. They climb over top of each other to push me upright and drop the items by my feet, but they don't leave when they're done. They stand behind me and turn their gazes forward, as if waiting for something.

Nothing is there.

The adrenaline kicks in again, even in the face of a threat that hasn't arrived. I take action and cover my axes in tar and set them alight, facing forward as the gentle muttations stand behind me like a silent, useless army.

He sees me before I see him.

Before I can react, a knife glides through the air and lodges in my thigh, and my breath pulls sharply inward.

My smile's long gone now, but I can feel the happiness resting somewhere safe in my chest. When I look up and pull my arm back to throw, I hesitate, looking at the face of my attacker.

The same boy who killed Savannah.

Just the thought of her death makes me hurt, but I remember those words she told me, remember everything about what she thought of I was.

She said to me: "You're amazing. You're bloody amazing, okay? No matter what you think or what anyone else has ever said, you're a handsome, caring, incredible person."

And you know what? I fucking am.

I can be all those things, and I can be a killer.

[attacks Willis, throwing axe]
luI24J|fthrowing axe
10094 -- Severed Finger -- 8 damage
(Thrown Axe)

Lights axes on fire w/tar
1-50
Moderate burn +4

And when I've hit the ground, neither lost nor found,
If you'll believe in me I'll still believe

I pull the knife out of my gut and toss it in the dirt, cringing.

The armored vest isn't there to protect me anymore - the boy's blade sailed straight into my torso and lodged itself in, and I almost didn't expect the pain. I expected the protective cover to block the pain away, as I've been doing this whole time, but too late I remember that the vest was destroyed beyond repair, ripped and torn to shreds from the constant barrage of attack.

Blood quickly begins to run from the open wound, but I press my free hand firmly against my skin, as if that will keep me from bleeding out.

My mom once told me that the human touch is a pain reliever in itself - that if you gently put your hand over a cut or bruise or touch your head if it aches, the pain will ebb away.

I wonder if it works for stab wounds.

Too late, I realize that the knife wasn't my only worry. In an instant, fire slowly begins to crawl over the cloth of my uniform, burning a patch of skin near the site of my wound. I take my hand away from the bloody flesh and stamp out the flame as quickly as I can, but it eats at my skin with a pain that feels like a bunch of tiny needles puncturing me wherever the fire touches.

In my preoccupied state, I almost didn't notice what the blonde boy with the messy hair did to cater to his own wound - a severed finger on one of his hands - by.. gross.. he must have pulled what's left of it off of his hand completely, tearing away the attached bit of skin. I can see the way the blood pours out of the wound, can see the way he tries to keep it from bleeding.. but he's paying attention to me, not his hand. Or at least struggling to pay me his attention; pain flickers across his face every few seconds, and I need to strike in those moments when he is vulnerable.

I wait for a few seconds, wait until his mind drifts back towards the pain. We stand across from each other, poised to kill, searching for the right moment to strike.

In my wait, I recall the words he said to me, words that don't mean anything. They're cryptic and pointless things ("I'm g-gonna tell you what I did...") and others make even less sense ("You killed Eye") and all I can do is shake my head and force out a laugh.

(Who the fuck is Eye?)

"I don't care what you did," I say, grinning at him circling around. "If you think the things you've done are awful and evil and worth my time, you've got another thing comin'. Nothing terrible is ever going to surprise me, not anymore. Believe me buddy-o, I've done worse."

And if he thinks he's gonna kill me, he's wrong.

Standing strong and tall, even with blood slowly dripping out of my gut, I spring into action.

QH5MJP3Xthrowing axe
10168 -- Shallow Cut on Back -- 4 damage
(Thrown Axe)

Fire 2/6
1-50
0

And when I've hit the ground, neither lost nor found,
If you'll believe in me I'll still believe