^Lorene^Avox {FIN!}

The swooping wind dashes across the dirt, sending waves of dust into the air and into the fresh wound that leaks crimson in streaks across my light skin. Stings like a bitch. I lunge back at the monster that stalks me just a few meters away.

I've slashed through scales, fur, and flesh; each tearing with the same strange ripping noise. I've teared off limbs, I've slashed throats, I've stabbed chests. I've killed dozens, I've lost friends, I've done it all.

I've lost myself in the arena.

I used to be an innocent. We all were innocents once. Our eyes used to be bright. Even evil bastards were once infants whose laugh could bring a smile to their gentle faces. And even I was once an infant in District 10.

My eyes were sapphire. My nose was crooked. My eyes were large and uneven. But I was a baby, and my mother loved me, large ears and all.

She danced with me. Waltzing around the house as she sung gentle tunes into my ear. I held her tight, a small girl clinging to her mother while she still could. Her flaxen hair fell in clumps from her skull, leaving behind a shiny scalp, and a sick woman. As the hair disappeared so did my mother. By the time it was gone, my mother had faded. She coughed and spat, voice no longer beautiful, she lay in bed, unable to waltz with me, and she no longer hugged me, too weak to love. She died a different woman.

My father watched with blank eyes. His meaty frame watched over our small ones. He died with my mother, in his place he left a corpse with a black mane and dark eyes. I held his hand during the funeral, the thick paw limp as we watched her buried. His eye leaked a single droplet that plunged down his face in silent acceptance of death.

We stood together looking at her grave after her burial. He stood over me, coughed once, before speaking to me quietly. "Come on Lory, Mama is alright. She's just fine." His words bounced around my teenaged ears, just fine... just fine... just fine.

Death was nothing to fear.
Death was okay.
Death was just fine.

I grew quietly within the livestock district. My frame didn't widen much, but my head climbed upwards, determined to reach my mother in the sky. I ended up almost 5'10" taller than most the girls in my class. I was painfully quiet, even at 17 my mothers death was a fresh wound. 

I met him on a Monday.

The peaceful day that was accompanied by the dread of returning to classes. The girls danced from one friend to another talking about their weekends, while the boys formed packs that watched the girls with lusty eyes. I walked with my head upon the ground, listening to a friend discuss her boyfriend. I wasn't one for parties, always seemed to be a rather obnoxious ritual. I watched over my father during the weekends, made sure he had his meals, and that he was actually working at the slaughterhouse. He had picked up the nasty habit of skipping work to spend hours with my mother's headstone. It was upsetting to see a man unable to move on, stuck in a past that he alone could see. 

As my friend blabbered beside me, I felt a slight tap on my shoulder. With caution I turned and gave the boy a quick hello. His name had slipped my mind that morning, but it is now burned into my head like the branding we used on cows. Christof Galloway. 

His voice was so soft. A gentle breeze in the humid air, "Lorene?" I let out a strange sound to clear my throat before answering, "Yes."

"Do you want to do something after school?" He smiled, his freckled face revealing a row of bright white teeth. I nodded quietly, and he let loose a joyous laugh before whispering, "I'll see you in the field at 4." It was my first date, in 18 years of living no boy had ever asked me to go out with them. I was the ugly duckling, with sullen eyes and an uneven face, what sane boy would ever want to be with me? 

I watched him silently from the back of the room. He walked with grace, his eyes were kind, and he never said a cruel thing about anyone. He was the model of a gentleman, he was the Romeo of my dreams. He was perfect.

As the grain swayed in that large field, I walked with my nose jutted forward, a broken compass leading me towards the boy with tender grey eyes. As I approached he stuck his arm out, with a breeze in his voice, he cooed "Right this way, my lady. Onto our journey we begin." A shy grin painted itself onto my face, his words so different than the blunt ones I am used to.

"Very well, my good sir." My voice attempted to replicate his playfulness, but failed dramatically. Still, I clung to his arm and we walked in timid steps throughout the district. He talked for most of it, telling me in between cautious paces about his family. By the time the sun lay its head upon the horizon, we arrived in front of my house. A pause, before I headed into the house to avoid his ardor. I wasn't ready just yet for might happen.

The next day we sat across from each other playful glances casted. We were connected by quiet glances and gentle touches. For once in my life I was more than just a friend, I mattered. I was important.

The next few dates were more of sitting upon the gentle slopes, something I was more than content with. But his demeanor was shifting, he became more forceful than usual.

It was our fifth date when it happened.

He lead me into his family farm, I walked arm and arm with him, blissfully unaware of his intentions. We sat upon a stack of hay, and began discussing his horses. A lone white horse watched from within his stable. 

As we talked, he turned quickly and kissed me. It was my first kiss, and I welcomed it. I tried to welcome it. But a flutter began in my chest, and I began to push him away. My long hands pressed against his chest, my breathe was gone as I gasped a small no onto his slender face. 

He pushed on. He pushed on.

His body pressed against mine. His hot breath enveloped my face. The fabric of my pants ripped. And an explosion of anger and pain.

When I opened my eyes he was dead.

With plank eyes he stared at me from the ground, pitchfork deep in his back. I do not remember reaching for it, or lunging at him. I only remember the pain he caused.

From his stable, the white horse stared back, and all I could focus on was the black spots that dotted his mane.

***

They found me guilty of murder. My testimony fell upon flat  ears. See, the Galloways had money, and lots of it. They made damn sure I was going away for a crime that was committed against me.

They looked at me with unforgiving eyes as I was sentenced, and smiled ever so slightly when they heard the word "Avox" mentioned. They knew in that moment that their dirty secret would be kept, and that I was never going to speak of that night again.

I woke up with a hallow feeling in my chest... along with a newly emptied mouth.

Being soundless was almost a rebirth for me. Servant suited me fine. My master treated me well, his young daughter liked to play pretend with me, and his wife was always too intoxicated to care. The black sheep in my story was the son, who was quickly turning into a problem.

The boy took a sick glee in the pain of other. I found the remains of animals underneath his bed, cut and ripped apart. His dark eyes sent chills down my back, they seemed to be black against his bright white skin. 

On his 18th birthday he demanded he get a servant, some one he could call his own. We lined up silently, each praying that he would glance over us, and onto the next. I could feel the slight tremble of the girl next to me, younger than I at twenty. I saw her around the house, she was mostly in charge of cooking. It was my understanding that she was the daughter of a rebel, punished at a young age while her father was hung. As we stood in line, the boy walked along the line, taking notice of the girls fear.

He stood at one end, and carefully pointed... but not at me. The girl shook heavily next to me, and after a moment of anguish, I stepped forward.

Perhaps he would have made the error clear, if his father hadn't been watching so carefully. That man knew of his sons dangerous endeavors, but did nothing out of fear. When I stepped forward, he clapped his hands loudly, and dismissed the others to the dismay of his son. As he strode out the room, my master cast me a longing gaze, one that sent fear straight to my heart, for it was a look of despair and mourning, as if I was already dead.

I never saw that girl again.


The boy was cruel, black and blue began to become my most natural skin color with streaks of a yellowish green of less recent wounds. I do not remember how long he had me, perhaps it was a week or maybe a month, but I can't be sure. Those memories left almost as many scars as the beast of the arena did. Sometimes I imagine him standing above me, belt in hand, his eyes locked in a cool hatred.

I suppose he gave me away because I never fought back. It seemed like his kind of thing, but I found no need. The words of my father from years ago found their way back, Death is just fine. I think it was one of those nights that I began to beg for the end, with his dark shadow overhead, and the ache that ran throughout my body, I found the potential of death to be more welcoming than anymore pain.

When the light finally came, it came in its cruelest form. He handed me over in a shady alley, where my useless gurgle did nothing but irritate him. I was whisked away, sent to the land of dust and blood, where death danced around the stadium looking eagerly for his next meal.

When I first arrived the arena was a much smaller spectacle. There were only three other Avoxes playing the games, we danced together as we faced smaller mutts that gradual increased in size as the arena gained funded from those questionable means. I suppose it was those first few fights against less threatening opponents that allowed me to adjust to fighting, allowed me to understand just how fucking much losing a finger can be, and how fast scars can heal when its life and death.

My fruitless quest for death ended shortly in that arena. The first of us to fall was a girl older, but smaller, than me. She fell the a terrifying beast whose claws dug into her chest like a knife through butter. The gore was simutaneousy fantastic and horrifying, a display of pure power and rage. I murdered it in a revenge fueled rage, red streaking across my eyes and armor. 

As she lay there soaking in an ocean of her own blood, all I could think was that the girl is not just fine. Death had not been graceful, nor had it been kind. Death had slashed her down and dragged her by her hair into a realm of darkness unlike any other. My father was wrong about Death. It was not something to take lightly, to dismiss as a natural occurrence. Death was a cruel beast, it was inhumane and painful, and it was stalking me in its own home. The arena shifted suddenly that day, no longer a place that maimed, but became an attraction, a Hunger Games of some sick sort. The people began to flock there, eager to get their fix of gore between the long months between the Hunger Games.

It shifted from simple gladiators to showmanship, those who were showman became the main acts. I had met them all, one of the few who lasted. Each time some one fell I could feel the freezing breathe of death upon my neck, yanking a friend from my grip.

The others began to become fixated on gathering attention, pulling outrageous stunts to gain viewership, while I watched silently, ensuring their safety while they were careless. They never thanked me for the help, even if our tongues were in place they wouldn't have. But I don't mind, because while I'm fighting outlandish beasts, I can feel the very real fear of Death, threatening to take us all to his black realm.

I'm in charge of introducing the new warriors. I've learned what fear looks like in someones eye. Its a dull burn of anxiety and dread, something that cannot be hid from appearing. Each new avox that walks into the barracks is handed a sword or spear and pointed towards me. I give them a nod, and point to their bed, where I've hidden a small notebook. It's cover is torn, pages turned into a flaxen color, but it contains the most valuable information of our lives. Inside is a list of names, with x's next to many of them. I've taken it upon myself to ensure that no name goes unknown. While some, like myself choose not to put down their last name, others write everything. The standard is name, age, and district, so that some day when the end has come, at least one of us can see the history of this wretched place.

***

As I stand above the awful mutation, I can't help but notice it's bright blue eyes, still open after its end. My spear gleams in the artificial lighting, still red with its blood.

Our battle took place silently, but Death did not yet creep up on me. I put pressure upon the fresh wound, and look for whoever is having the most trouble. Spotting some one in distress I race to help.

Today we will persevere.
Today we have numbers.
Today
        Death
               will 
                    not
                         win.

Today we will live.

Tomorrow we will fight.

And the rest does not matter.