Dark Horse [Patricia, Pixie, and Zeki]

♕ { p a t r i c i a v a l f i e r n o} ♕
victor of the 68th annual hunger games

i'll taste the devil's tears
drink from his soul
but i'll never give up you
i'll taste the devil's tears

I lash out, smashing my fist against the marble floor, not once but again and again. I'm panting, each inhale sharp, and every exhale raw and unsteady. Sweat beads on my forehead, hanging for a few seconds before dripping on the cold surface in front of my face. I stare for a good long while, my hands pressing against what feels like ice. My knuckles are bleeding, no doubt starting to swell. Might have broken a few. See if I care. I push to my feet, steadying myself. I stand breathing, just breathing. Eyes looking around desperately. No. My forearm swipes at the bedside lamp, knocking it to the floor as I let out another cry. Breathe. I stagger, pressing myself against the wall and edging my way across. My hand trails upwards and flicks the light switch, flooding the room with sudden visibility. I sigh and turn around, pressing my back to the wall and sinking down to a sitting position. I cry. Sniffles at first, but then devolving into weak, pathetic sobs that shake my entire body.

My left hand moves to gently touch the broken knuckles of my right hand. Blinding pain at the slightest of pressure makes my eyes screw up, like I want to shut it all out. Every breath. Every heartbeat. Another second closer to the death I fucking deserve, and another second further away from what I used to be. That's the paradox of time, you're never happy with where you are. You're always going somewhere you don't want to go - The unknown. The void. The fucking black pit of my sins and my regrets and I'm fucking punching the floor again with the same hand and screaming and can I even feel it?

Oh, but it's normal, Patricia. They said as they stitched up the stump where my hand used to be. They said as they treated the deep wound in my chest. They said as I cried and sobbed and screamed. They said as they injected me with morphine to shut me up, to stop me kicking out and fighting back. Their toy. Their puppet. It's all normal. The night terrors and the guilt and the depression is to be expected. Lethe said it was normal. Leon said it something all the Victors go through. Normal. Who the fuck decides what's normal, and what's not normal? Who has the right to declare to me the laws of what's okay, and what's normal, and what I shouldn't be worried about. Because I don't think anyone has that fucking right.

Breathing sorrow. Pain. Realization that I am nothing more than a fucking failure, even now. Even after winning and being paraded around like a thanksgiving turkey, and given a crown and put on every television screen for eight months of the fucking year. I never asked for any of this. At times I wanted it. At times I wanted to survive, not just for surviving's sake, but for a better life. But I wasn't ready. Not for this. Not yet. Not so soon, with all this expectation. And oh, how I bragged and looked down on Lethe, and said how weak she was for not shaping up the expectations she had placed on her. I said mentoring was easy, I said it was a duty. I didn't know what it was going to be like. I didn't want to have two more kids die because of me, because that's what all of this is, in all honesty. Just two more kids on the list of people who died because of me.

I dreamed of Pearl. That's why I broke my knuckles and busted the lamp. I dreamed of her, alive, and it was so perfect. It was like nothing fucking mattered, because I had my friend back. I had the one person who understood me without me needing to say anything. The one person who has ever cared for me, or looked after me. And in the moments I was dreaming, she was there. She wasn't saying anything, or doing anything, she just existed. She was alive. I was so alone for so long, and then she was there, and I was okay. I was okay. We were in her house, and Diamond was there too. Their parents were not. It was just the three of us. It was warm, it felt so warm even though it was a dream. Vivid pictures of pots and paints, paintings and prints. Hands on paper, passing between sisters, whispers and giggles. Smiles.

I don't remember how the dream started - It's always that way. We were just painting, and being with each other, which is strange. I've never known either of them in that way, not in a friendly way. Pearl was my blood sister, we put our lives in each others hands. Diamond was a rough consequence, but in her I found someone to grieve with. In the dream they were undamaged. They were pure. Not the people I know, but the people I wanted to know. The people I still want to know. I crave to know what Pearl was like. I got an insight on my Victory Tour, but it's not enough. Nothing I ever do will be enough, because I'll never know the real her. And that's imprinted on me for the rest of my life. When I close my eyes now all I can see is Diamond's concerned glance, like she understands my struggle. I wish I knew her how Diamond knew her.

My cheeks are wet, and my nose cold. I sniff, rubbing at my eyes. Get a grip. Relapse. And lapse. Running in circles, building myself up, gaining strength, falling apart, building myself up. That's all it is. Running in circles. Same on same. And when they told me this was how it was going to be, I said: No, not me. I said I was stronger. Grittier. Tougher. I said I wasn't going to be like them. I said I wasn't naive enough to fall into the guilty Victor cliché, but here I am, guilty as charged. Red face, red hands. Red conscience.

And time passes. Half an hour, the sun still isn't up. Outside is dusk, heavy and hideous. Deep skies stroked with purple clouds. Like something from a nightmare. I drag myself to the window and press my face to the glass, breathing heavy and fogging up the pane. It should be raining. It's always raining when people are sad. Not tonight though. It's just overcast. I don't even deserve rain. I used to be so strong. Nothing broke me, not even winning. You don't win by being weak. You don't win by being affected by things. But here I am. Delivered a baby. Failed to mentor two Tributes. Fighting to keep my sister safe. The Game is over but I haven't survived. Not yet.

The night is long and painful, and my chest hurts, and my arm keeps cramping, and I keep seeing Pearl's face projected on those cave walls and I'm on the floor crying again. Sobbing. Shaking. I keep my light on. I dare not turn it off. I can't go back. They can't make me go back into the dark, all alone. No friends. No family. Alone. Again. Leaving Rose, telling her lie after toxic lie. They don't love us any more, Rose. Screaming as she cried, I dragged her by the arm out the door and into the alleyway. Selfish, selfish, pathetic little girl. Fourteen years old and dragging your twelve year old sister from her parents, telling her that they didn't want them any more. Fuck knows where they are now. Who cares? They never came looking for us. How much did they even love us? They didn't come forward when I was Reaped, nor when I won. They could be dead and I couldn't care less. She cares. She's always cared. Stupid, naive little girl. What the fuck does Rose Valfierno know about the world. Nothing. She knows nothing. She doesn't fucking know anything about what I went through back then, nor in the Games, nor now.

It's so cold on this floor. All the floors in the Capitol seem to be made of marble, or stone. No warm carpets. No rugs, or pillows. Just stone, and corners, and edges. I'm bleeding like meat on a plate. And the darkness wraps it's fingers around my body, and I lash out in fear, but even the Victor of the Sixty Eighth Hunger Games has her weak spots. It claims me, in the end. As it does all things.

If there is a god, then he must be very quiet. God's a whisperer. These religious types tell to to pray, and be patient, and listen. Always listen. But I hear no god. Not of any religion. And maybe I'm clinging to hope that there is some greater force watching over me, having my back, but the harsh truth is that the only god I've ever believed in is myself. A lonely god. God of my own tiny world inside my head. Simple things, and simple tasks. Fighting, surviving, winning. Clawing at every second of life, like I'm walking along a cliff edge in pitch black darkness, not knowing if the next step I take will be on solid ground or a five hundred foot drop.

Morning comes, but I'm still tired. My eyes are raw, and my mouth is dry. My stomach is all twisted and open. I wrap my forearms around my waist, and shiver on the floor. What little sleep I got was broken and periodic, very much similar to those nights in the Arena. Slowly, placing a hand on the bed, I pull myself to my feet. I take a few seconds to look around, and take in where I am and what the fuck is going on in my life. Capitol, year of the Sixth Nineth. My mind immediately fixates on Pixie and Zeki. Shit, today's when they get their training scores. I groan, pushing against a wall and stretching out my legs. I need to freshen up.

I strip down naked, entering the on-suite bathroom adjoined to my temporary bedroom. I pass a mirror, making brief eye contact with myself. My injuries have meant that I spent most of the past year inactive. Whilst I haven't put on much weight, my fitness is way down. I no longer have a defined abdomen, instead it is covered by a thin layer of fat. My body, for the most part, is flat. I've never had a blossoming chest like Rose, or most girls my age, but it's not really something that bothers me. There's an electric white scar zig-zagging directly between my breasts. I trail a finger across it, finding that when once just a touch would bring the pain back, now I feel nothing. Just memories. Thanks Galaxy. I step into the transparent cubicle and let steaming hot water drench me.

I tend to think a lot in the shower, but after a long night of thinking and crying, I decide it's probably best to just think ahead. Think about what today has in store for me. Training scores. Zeki said he talked to the Gamemakers, said that they should be ashamed. I cringed at that. I told him to showcase what he had learned in training - Knife skills, firemaking, and the sort. He said he did, but his speech on morality will do him no good. I think back to mine. Causing a power shortage. They gave me a two. Pixie said she wrote them a message they wouldn't forget. Pixie's an odd one. She zoned out on the train, and pissed me off. I shunned her, almost immediately writing her off as someone without a killer instinct. But she reacted. She snapped at me. Ever since I won, people have either been afraid of me, or have been nice to me. I've never had anyone react, but then this is a completely different environment to a Victory Tour. Zeki and Pixie have their lives on the line. Maybe Pixie does have something about her.

I get dressed, pulling a technicolor sweater over my head, and walking barefoot into the living area. Apt, that it's called the living area, when it has two dead people in it. Maybe not two, maybe just one. The television is on, and breakfast is laid out on a table that stretches across most of the room. Worldlessly, I take a glass of orange juice and wander to the couch, sitting next to Pixie.

Pixie gets a five, which is pretty slap-bang in the middle of the road average. I screw up my face, staring at the shot of her face on the television screen. It looks so professional, like the headshot on someone's resume. I judge Pixie's reaction to be similar - Average. She knows that training scores only help with sponsors. Whatever she chose to do in front of the Gamemakers obviously didn't have a massive effect. I exhale slowly, my stomach rejecting the thought of sipping at orange juice. Zeki gets a two, and slumps to the floor in defeat. He looks crippled and broken. I look at him with no sympathy. A two is pathetic.

"It's meaningless Zeki." Pixie says, her words like steel. Sturdy, confident. She's growing into a Tribute that has a good chance. Zeki's chances are quickly diminishing. I lean forwards and put the full glass on the coffee table, and lean back in my chair. I exhale slowly, looking at Zeki's big bright two on screen. It quickly fades, bringing up the District Six scores. They both get eights, and I narrow my eyes in envy. Zeki eventually gets up, saying sorry, and sitting back on the couch again. For a while, we're silent. I weigh up what to say. I could explode at the boy, telling him that it's pathetic. What good would that do. After all, didn't I get a two too?

"What's done is done," I say, my mouth still dry, and my voice rough, "We just have to move on."

I look directly at Pixie. Thoughts of last night, and all the shit I went through to get to this position. All the very raw and human emotions breaking me down to atoms and building me back to this slump of a girl who clings to life by her fingernails. She's no different to these two kids, at a base level.

"We're only human and I am too: get over it." I risk a smile.

he said "i am the devil, boy,
come with me and we'll break many laws"
he offered me eternal life
but inside my heart there's a picture of a girl

word count: 2430, graphics: rook
theme: the devil's tears by angus and julia stone