Having fun? [Jack + Little Wolfe Intestines || Day 5]

Jequirity Eckhart

feelin' it, i'm feeling a change

Rodrick Benstaloe is dead. I killed him. The fire in his eyes that smoldered hotter and brighter every time he swung his axe at me had gone out. I extinguished it. Never again would his lips part to form curses in my direction. I silenced them. I wiped every smug grin off his face, ripped every maniacal laugh from his lungs, and took the revenge I so deserved. I took his arm. For Leo. For Saxton. For me. I took his life. And you know what's crazy? I don't regret it one bit. My fragile heart has clearly hardened into something inhuman; I have no doubt every Capitol citizen is chalking it up as the drive of bitter rage and uncontrollable bloodlust.

("Haven't seen revenge killings this good since the 57th! Tell me, Caesar---Did you kill Enigma Lane?")

I can hear their voices and laughter ringing in my ears as if I were sitting right next to the two of them. ("Yes, except this time revenge has been had, my dear friend, and who knows who'll be next?") Next, next, next. As if I were a Career actively seeking blood. As if my soul purpose in life was to kill anyone who dared to breathe near me. As if everyone was on my personal hit list simply because they existed in this hell hole alongside me. And maybe for a second I thought I could be that person. Strong, cold, poised, and ready to kill and fight with as much ferocity as the best Careers in history.

It felt good, getting what I wanted, serving justice as I saw fit. I won't deny it. But killing him sure didn't fix my broken heart. In fact, I've never felt emptier. I took the life that I deserved to take, but... I stare at her ring, run my thumb over the cool gold. Every single one of them—Saxton Hale, Leo Everitt, Odile Quintinilla, Hannah O'Leary, Paige Hope, Taurus Hawk, Neptune Liefde—they're still gone. And all I did was add Rodrick Benstaloe to the list. If I kept up the game everyone in the Capitol no doubt wanted me to play then Heather Tenley and Ruth Foster would have to be added to the list as well.

I need to go home. But damn am I so fucking sick of playing. Hatred is hard to hold onto; I lost mine the moment I killed Rodrick. It was as simple as kill or be killed for me now. Watch death or be dead. I glance at my stubby arm and foot. Clearly neither option agreed with me. It would be a miracle to get out of here with any limbs at all. It would be a miracle if I got out of here at all. Twelve more cannons and I go home. Twelve. Just. Twelve. More. Twelve faces lit up in the sky and I could go home to my sisters, my Moms, my home, my Rio, my Tempus, my everything. Twelve and I win. Twelve and this was---

"What the fu--!"

I raise my arm to cover my nose, the stench of something rotting hitting my nostrils just as soon as I've hopped my way around a rock. My eyes sting, my mouth waters. It was worse than that pit I fell into a few days ago. I feel what little is left in my stomach toss as my eyes shift to find a mangled, torn ball of fur and claws laying before me. I jump back, tripping over a nearby rock. And that's when I see it.

The intestines of the slaughtered creature stick out against the black rock, the duct tape that holds them in place creating the large glaring question: Having fun? Not far below, smeared in blood that has long since dried, a response. I am. The bit of food that I had managed to choke down rises in my throat, the stench becoming all the more worse now that I know where it's coming from. Who...?

But the question dies out as quickly as it came. I know perfectly well who. Or at least I have four very good guesses. I try not to let my mind dwell for too long on the grinning faces of the only tributes I deem truly nightmare worthy, but even as I avert my eyes the words burn in the back of my skull.

HAVING FUN?!

...was I?

No...

I AM!

I'm not.

(But you killed Rodrick Benstaloe—and enjoyed it.)

No...

(Time to fess up, Jequirity. You enjoyed it. It was...fun, fun, fun—having fun?)

NO!!

I slowly pick myself up off the ground, brushing away the rocks that stick to the back of my legs. I run my hand across my face, a useless attempt to rub away the encroaching migraine. I hear them whispering in my ears, their voices singing a haunting chorale in unison. I haven't seen them since the Bloodbath, but still they fill my heart with fear.

I try to picture them as a barbershop quartet to lighten the mood. I put Someith in a red striped suit, picture Beretta with a handlebar mustache, imagine Kitty adjusting his bright red garters and a bow tie, and visualize Annora tipping a boater over her eyes and twirling a cane. They sing—girls the bass notes, boys the high notes—and dance in mind. Having fuuuun?

But even that idea doesn't hold in my mind. It falls apart when they all pick up a pair of scissors. Doesn't matter how I dress them, they are still fucking terrifying. I hop along as quickly as I can, trying to escape my own thoughts, my own fears. But there really is no running from your own demons, no matter what face they claim.

i'm feelin' it, in the air