heart of gold {day 6 fight}

Solitary silence leaves the smoke in my lungs and the hatchet in my heart, hand upon my chest doing nothing to relieve myself of the fear that catches in the falling sun and fading horizon. Being afraid of the dark was not the problem, rather the intake of the idea that the next eight— six hours if I was lucky would be spent not staring at the back of Sue Tate or the girl from three, but rather staring at blank space and wondering who was to fill it next.

Friend, foe, fucking disgrace regardless— there were none of the first left.

A mental game twisted I cannot untie the knots that wind tight and threaten to cut off thought in its entirety. A half thought to let it be, for unconsciousness might be better than peril preserved. No back to focus upon it crosses my mind that alone is only temporary, an unwelcome fulfillment to that which I dreaded and I am wide awake, tracing letters in the dirt only to see what cleaves to the skin behind my nails.

Marks upon porcelain skin, a canvas no longer needed for display and left to be shredded by time and its faithful companion, playing the part of thief in night’s dullest moments. Body broken there was only so much left to be taken by prying fingers, missing skin and broken bones under a marred canvas— abstract art was only appreciated when it had turned out the way the artist had wanted. A simple mistake on smooth skin the whole body must be trashed, ribs and beating heart and all.

Bomb yourself to fix the bullet holes— I had already fucked up step one.

For the bullet holes remain and a single fuse to light was left, a last chance I did not desire leaves me wanting nothing more than to light it as a last campfire and tell a story while watching the flame flicker down in final moments. Death by light in full darkness, an ideal way to go when the score is stacked against my favor.

Last chances have never been my forte.

Practice may make perfect but dying has never been a standard to follow the rules, only once chance to get it right and the percentage of fucking up increases with the passing second of thought put behind it. The key to success in tight situations is the ability to act on instinct alone, to discard thought and rationale and stick to the incentive presented. But for a boy who spent the time it took to age from thirteen to eighteen methodical became the first word in my dictionary, instinct tossed aside my thoughts became the only standard I believed I would truly need.

Besides, look up victory in the dictionary and it’s stated that only the end result is what counts.

Getting from point one to two was a matter of the journey but also the casualties taken along the way, a status quo of what not to accomplish I had lost Maya and Noah only the third day in, only to watch Sue Tate and the girl from three fade as well. As good as gone they were I was left to scramble in the ashes of a fire we started and pretend that scorched skin did not scare me in the slightest.

From underneath the embers, I could not breathe.

When the sun rises, my chest tightens in the same manner.

There is no grace to be found in a tired body and aching bones, only last lifelines and chances that cannot be taken without the solid reason that is to be tossed aside. Steps taken in a seemingly sideways manner I’m left on a path less traveled for a reason I cannot pin to solid fact, instinct the only option I wish not to trust. There is no sympathy in sin, not for failed kamikaze missions and bullet holes still left untouched.

But the fuse remains lit behind a fueled fire, and I do not to wish to fade with a falling night and a fake horizon. 

Caught in the time between the darkness and the grace of light’s return I swing blindly, not able to determine whose skin my spear sinks across in the seconds that pass but determining that it is not Sue Tate—I know what his blade feels like across my skin and the opposite falls into play as well. His sword previously falling across my body in a shallow manner was only a memory trigger of two days prior. Accidental no longer believed to be in his dictionary a thought crosses my mind to turn in his direction, but time crosses the line of darkness and light erupts in the tunnel, casting shadows over myself, Sue Tate, and a boy and girl from two.

Death defied by the damned I see blood trickle from the arm of the boy, too fresh for prior penalties and the thought matches in my mind that it must’ve been him that I hit, considering the clean cut weapons they both hold taught. Fire dancing on the tip the picture of the cornucopia ignited by tar and luck alone crosses through my mind. Ignited by intuition Sue had finished it from the ashes I left behind.

Two cannons had sounded that day, that of Noah Bowers and Maya Xiaoping.

Ignited by insanity her knife falls deep against Sue Tate’s skin, drawing blood through the flames fueled by whatever marred thoughts lied between them. There was no saving grace in a bloody downfall, and as my attention flickers to the boy from two I expect his raised axe to fall against my skin.

Eyes closed to bring back the darkness that had shrouded an innocence that we had been deprived of I wait for an attack that doesn’t come, instead met by a symphony of silence only to be pierced by another cry from Sue Tate. Cracking one eye open I am met with the sight of another axe slicing through his skin. A change of pace for him he has not been cracked under the weight of five days dying in the same manner that I have. Few marks upon his skin he was left to patch up the bruises and pretend they are bullet holes.

I am not a canvas marred by marks upon smooth skin; I am a reality no one can face, myself included, for the truth goes further than skin deep and it seems that that the ninety-six scratches upon the wall did nothing to change it.

A life for waste I do not wish to do the same, a body behind blurred motives I will not watch him fall by fueled flames.

Cold metal in a shaking hand I take light as a grace and swallow the fear that catches in the back of my throat, eyes on the boy from two and my mind on the bomb that lingers in my bag. Detonation to Armageddon only begins when the time is started, but the trigger remains unknown and no one in the vicinity is stepping carefully enough to avoid it.

Hatchet for a heart the smoke screen has now faded.

Six days spent pretending it would shield us from the sound of either one of our cannons Sue’s bullets shot just hours prior had put the first detriment in that which had protected us both. Hatchet in hand I had spent three days waiting for the strike to fall upon my skin, leaving four day to turn my back with a loss of the idea that betrayal was a common factor in the minds of both that stood before me.

Ninety-eight, his sword upon my skin like fangs of glass shooting venom through my veins.

No method to the madness I had only flinched twice when he stitched my wounds, one eye on the gun sitting behind him the whole time—never once had he turned the safety on. Fitting as it was, for there was no security in insanity and with the passing time we crumbled under the weight of a world we could not predict, lost between improbable and impossible.

Swing the spectrum one way or the other, no one is left to stand in an area of grey.

Sweaty palm around the smooth metal of a bloody spear I watch fire ignite the corners of my vision, Sue Tate left to fuel the fire with sin and sincerity, both dangerous and biting in the nature with which they exist. No longer left with unmarred skin he stands in the wake of a sin I have suffered through much longer than the six days we have spent with our eyes turned to a sky that threatens to crumble with one last strike.

I hear my name on the mouth of the girl from two, “O’Connor,” followed by a call to step into a war I cannot win, even if the desire to formation was tempting in the slightest, “Did you work out the riddle you got? Game for another?”

Her name on my tongue I do not speak it aloud, eyes flickering on Sue Tate before focusing on the bloody mess of a girl who stands too tall to play leader of a war she will not win. “Narcissism is a dangerous trait to wear upon your sleeve.”

Cry for complacency my attention snaps back to the hatchet that’s slipping through the hands of Sue Tate, another shallow scratch against the boy from two lingering on a scream that does not come to pass in the following seconds that hint of its arrival.

Ninety-nine, he never turned the safety on.

Danger best played when played cautiously I see ninety-nine marks upon a white-washed wall, seventy-two cast in coal black realism I have already faced, twenty-seven caught in a grey fanatical sense of wistfulness I cannot bring to pass with death. Only defiance of the inevitable will bring about the relief that passes with time turned to the material hand pressed against the cool blade of a broken pocketknife.

Hatchet for a heart I can feel the drag of a blade against my back, slicing spinal cord and leaving me to stare down the chamber of a gun that’s never known the privilege of safety.

Bullet holes and broken bones are not the only definition of Wyatt O’Connor.

Never left to satisfy safety I watch the sword in his hand rise and fall with strained breaths, desperation lingering in lost lungs I cannot meet his eyes.

Coal black realism I train my eyes upon Sue Tate, spear in one hand and sin in the other I raise a hand to—

One hundred.

I fall to shaking knees, one hand letting go of sin to break an inevitable fall and the other grasping tight to the only thing left to hold, cold metal against numb skin there is no differentiating between what lies in ruins and what is left to be ruined by hands that do nothing more than the completion of a simple objective.

Riddled mind and ruined heart I see Circe Lyon illuminated though a darkness that was not meant to be defied. Fire fueled by broken betrayal I stand on quivering knees, hoping for Armageddon’s arrival I listen for the sound of a riddle on the whistling wind.

Narcissism is a dangerous trait to wear upon the sleeve, after all.