why must we { fight } // arrows, blitz!

shadows hanging over this town
dreams gone to waste like broken bottles
what goes up, must come back down
when karma comes around, my dear

She dreamed of blood, red and sticky and warm and splattered against her face and her hands. She dreamed of a headstone, cold gray against summer green grass. She dreamed of a wailing family, hands reaching for one who would never again reach back.

But none of it was hers. The blood belonged to Aiden.

She woke up tangled in fine sheets and sweating, her chest heaving as she struggled to get a grip on reality. Her fingers scrambled, searching for her comforter, but she'd kicked it onto the floor. They changed their course and moved toward her face, feeling for the bloody nose that usually woke her up like this in the middle of the night. They found nothing but smooth, dry skin. After a moment she exhaled, trying to blink the images away. Aiden was still alive. And it felt so strange, so twisted and bitter and odd to find that being a tribute was a preferable reality, that she swung her legs over her bed and pulled on a sweatshirt. She'd only been asleep a few hours, but there was no chance she was getting another wink anytime soon.

She needed a drink.

Danny wasn't in the mood for avoxes and their mute company, so she sought out the alcohol by herself. It wasn't nearly as difficult as she thought it would be, but then again, tributes were always getting drunk before the Games, weren't they? Hell, it was practically all the commentators talked about in this pre-Games phase. What was startling, though, was that she wasn't alone. And she knew exactly whose company she was in.

She supposed she should be begging for favors, but she wasn't in the mood for that, either. "Well, well, well. If it isn't the famous Miristioma himself. Seems your family can't stay out of trouble, huh?"

these empty streets i walk around
i feel reality hits you stronger
i feel the pain has brought me down
i can't hold on to it much longer