little talks {hbb} // blitz

Her eyes swim with the fires of a burning sunset, laced with the ice cold fingertips of a broken king, hands clasped in prayer. 

When she blinks, she feels the lights bounce against her skin, painting the canvas of her body, splattering dancing blues and purples and greens across her skin. They're like a mask, dripping down her face, covering her eyes and nose and mouth until she is gone.

Nameless, nothing. It takes her breath away when she thinks about it.

She worshipped Styx as if she was a religion, feeling the flames cloaking her skin, burning away any sense of self she had ever gathered. But she'd fall to her knees on the shag carpet of a rundown room, not the pews of a scattered glass church. Her hands would clasp around something but it was not the hands of a God, no. She never felt the touch of love, only Styx's fingertips lacing ice beneath her skin.

Her gospels were the sounds he'd make, moans imbued into her memories like a broken record player, knocking on the edges of her skull. 

Today, she received a rose to her door, its petals dripping in blood, scattered and broken against the black backdrop of the floor. She assumed it was supposed to be subtle, an act of dominance when the thorns pricked against her skin. Unknown, unwanted, a Peacekeeper's eyes follow her every move, worshipping her body, praying to press his skin against hers. She ignores him.

Gods don't exist.

Tonight, she received a note against her door. Her first instinct was to rip it up, let the ashes scatter into the air that taps against her windows. 

"Roof. 8:15." 

Maybe she would kill him, stain his snow white suit with blood as red as the finest rose. 

For all the fear she has tried to strike into her fellow tributes, to think she will fall so easily.

She walks the hallways with unrivaled confidence, shadows wrapping around her ankles, the sunset bleeding into the walls through the windows. In her pocket, her fingers twiddle with a shard of glass, stolen from a cracked mirror in her bathroom. She liked it better, when the cracks cut through her reflection.

But

The glass drops from her hands when she opens the door and does not see his vest standing against the dying sunset.

It is a girl. Her mind screams the name.

Percy Delacroix

"I have to say, I expected a much more threatening presence."