ruins } arx's victor au

arx
Retired Staff

2,426 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Apr 24, 2024 14:20:07 GMT -5

literally so gay, doing so many crimes

ruins } arx's victor au Oct 23, 2016 23:31:07 GMT -5

Quote

Post by arx on Oct 23, 2016 23:31:07 GMT -5

Sometimes love deserves
to burn in f l a m e s

Sometimes the ending
is your best e s c a p e

I've got a heart on the edge
and it wants to b r e a k

And I know that once I walk away, I won't return to the

r u i n s .

Last Edit: Oct 30, 2016 15:15:32 GMT -5 by arx

"I run on the road, long before I dance under the lights."

arx
Retired Staff

2,426 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Apr 24, 2024 14:20:07 GMT -5

literally so gay, doing so many crimes

ruins } arx's victor au Oct 23, 2016 23:32:36 GMT -5

Quote

Post by arx on Oct 23, 2016 23:32:36 GMT -5

justice fray

And all at once the world just--

Stops.

I stare into her eyes, struggling to keep my feet beneath me and my knees from buckling. Liquid suffocates me; I cough. Blood spatter appears against her pale skin, I feel it dripping down my chin. And we simply stand there like that—her sword through my chest, her small frame struggling to keep my weight from shifting one way or the other—staring into eachother's eyes. Infinity. She shifts, twists the blade. I groan in agony, my vision blurs, and then--Boom!

I failed. I'm not going home, I'm not ever going to get the chance to prove that I'm better. I can be better. I'm never going to be better. My story is ending and all I've ever been is an insufferable asshole. No. I can't. I'm not ready, I can't do this, I can't--

"I-Iris, plea-please, I--"

She pulls her blade free and all at once the world just--

"Dad!"

I sit up just in time to get tackled back to the ground. The grass tickles my ears and hair tickles my face. His hair smells like lilac. He giggles profusely, his heartbeat strong against my chest. I lift him in the air, spin him in circles, tickle his ribs as I stand. He protests in almost unrecognizable squeals—("No, Dad, wait--DAD!")—before finally resorting to a different strategy. He flails useless for a few more seconds before calling to his brother.

"AAAAA-ATLAS! HELP ME!"

And just as sure as night turns to day, Atlas's little head pops up from within the tall grass at the sound of his brother's cries. For a moment we lock eyes, his toothy grin nearly making my heart stop right then and there. And then he picks himself up, stumbling through the grass that tangles itself around his ankles.

Machaon continues to squirm in my arms, his long hair dangling in his face so that he has to spit it from his mouth so that he can breathe. I throw him over my shoulder quickly, turning to run from Atlas who is already claiming—("Don't worry, Mach! I'll save you!")—when I've already got a head start toward the house. I peer over my shoulder and laugh, out of breath but still able to smile.

And then I feel tiny hands tugging against my shirt. And then another pair, clinging to my pant leg. I slow to a halt, four boys too much to handle even for someone as strong as me. Atlas comes from behind, tackling me at the waist and I fall. The grass swallows me and I laugh, feigning defeat as the each pile on top of me, one after the other. First Atlas, then Machaon and Roger. I groan under their weight and lift my head to smile at Atlas who is suffering under the weight of his younger brothers.

"Got ya, Dad," he says, forcing his lungs to grab enough air for the declaration. I chuckle, as a the smallest pair of hands grabs at my ears, pulls my head back so that I look him in the eyes.

"Hey Stevie," I grumble with a smile as his sticky fingers and popsicle red lips press into my forehead.

"Love you, Dad."

I ruffle his curly hair as the other boys roll off me at the sound of Scout's voice from the front door.

"Love you, too, buddy."

I roll over, slowly make it to my feet as the boys—my precious, little boys—run through the grass to the most beautiful, intelligent, iron-willed woman I've ever met. Even from this distance I can see those freckles across her cheeks that I adore so much, can admire the crinkles at the corners of her eyes and on the bridge of her nose as she laughs along with our sons.

("Like sprinkles on cupcakes," I whisper, kissing her cheek with a smile.)

And all at once the world just--

How did I get so damn lucky?

I chuckle to myself, shake my head. Take a step toward home.

Must've been a good man in another life, I suppose.

[ s e v e n t y - t h i r d ]

"I run on the road, long before I dance under the lights."

arx
Retired Staff

2,426 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Apr 24, 2024 14:20:07 GMT -5

literally so gay, doing so many crimes

ruins } arx's victor au Oct 30, 2016 15:13:40 GMT -5

Quote

Post by arx on Oct 30, 2016 15:13:40 GMT -5

shayde truedhart

I hear the knock on my door, but I do not flinch. I keep my back glued to my rocking chair, my eyes glued to the television screen. Eventually they'll leave. Everyone always leaves.

"Mr. Truedhart?"

This time the knocking comes louder and more persistent. I roll my neck and my eyes, groaning as another headache begins.

"Shayde, we know you're in th--"

I shoot out of my chair so fast it topples. I yank the door open and the camera crew steps back as I snap at them.

"Go bother Colgate."

I whip around to shut the door behind me, but a burly man steps in, yanking the door from my grasp and wistfully pushing me away so that the crew can enter. I glare at him, but he doesn't seem to care. So I swing my arm and take a bow and snarl—"Right this way, your majesties."

They make themselves at home, setting up cameras and backdrops and microphones. I never agree to interviews. Not once have I agreed to any interviews. But they always find a way. Whether it's threatening to throw me in the Detention Center or to end my daughter's life—they always find a way. But I don't bother pretending to enjoy myself anymore. I just sit, glare, and answer their questions. It's a wonder the things even air.

My stylists fuddle with my hair, sprinkle foundation over my nose. They play up the burn scars across my face, a flaw that has become a sort of signature look for me. I still hate them.

"With the 74th Hunger Games underway, we're here with Shayde Truedhart, victor of the 59th Hunger Games, to reminisce and reflect on his victory 15 years ago."

She turns away from the camera to look at me with a smile I wish I could beat off her face.

"How are you tonight, Mr. Truedhart, on the eve of your 15th Anniversary?"

I fold my arms and grumble.

"Just peachy."

She laughs through her nose and acts as if she's here under jolly circumstances. You know, for the cameras. But I can see in her eyes that she's about to actually start enjoying herself. She pulls a slip of paper from inside her jacket. She turns back towards the camera.

"For the audience at home, we've prepared a few fun facts and figures in regards to Mr. Truedhart's career."

I furrow my brows, blinking as a flash goes off in my face. Facts and figures? What the hell sort of torture is thi--

"Did you know that had Sundra Wie made it home in place of Shayde, she'd have a 14 year old child, fathered by the late Aesop Bloom, the District 6 tribute of the 59th?"

My heart stops. I turn my gaze to her, to the very lengthy looking list in her hand.

"Did you know that Mace Emberstatt had brothers? Including the late Elon Emberstatt of the 61st? Perhaps if Mace had won, he could've brought his brother home."

I shift in my seat, anger beginning to boil my blood. Heat seethes within me and my chair creaks as I sit forward, clenching my jaw.

"Did you know that after 30 tributes, Shayde has only been lucky enough to bring home one other District 9 victor, Colgate O'Leary? Years later Hannah O'Leary was reaped, but unfortunately, Shayde was unable to save his fellow districtmate's sister. A tragedy."

From somewhere deep inside me I find words.

"Stop it."

But she doesn't flinch; she keeps speaking.

"Did you know that Rolf Parks is the brother of the late Chaske Parks, the 69th tribute? Hopefully Mr. Truedhart will be able to bring home this brother."

I repeat myself, louder this time.

"I said stop."

She turns to me, raising her voice to speak over me.

"Did you know that Percy Delacroix, one of last years tributes, was born during your Games? So young--"

I stand, screaming at her now, lunging for her only to be stopped by her burly bodyguards.

"She was what? The same age as your daughter, correct? And you couldn't save her."

I throw my weight against the brick walls holding me back.

"I SAID SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT THE HELL UP!"

She blinks up at me, sitting back in her chair.

"I wonder what her family thinks of you--"

I punch one of the guys holding me, breaking his nose under my knuckles. He howls as I tear myself free from the other guy, rushing forward with arms outstretched, ready to squeeze her throat shut and watch her eyes bulge as she suffocates beneath me.

Instead, a blow hits me in the back of the head and I fall.

My vision blurs as she stands over me.

"And I'd say that's a wrap."

It's only after they've left and closed the door behind them that I let myself cry.

[ f i f t y - n i n t h ]

"I run on the road, long before I dance under the lights."

arx
Retired Staff

2,426 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Apr 24, 2024 14:20:07 GMT -5

literally so gay, doing so many crimes

ruins } arx's victor au Mar 26, 2017 23:34:06 GMT -5

Quote

Post by arx on Mar 26, 2017 23:34:06 GMT -5

blythe godwin-seavers

"She your grandmother?"

Fifteen years and I'm still not all that used to the body bags. Seen plenty of kids come home that way—the tally I've carved into the floorboards at the foot of my bed counts twenty-seven. And that's not including Lorenzo or Pollux. I don't know why I even keep track anymore. I pretty much left the job to Patricia as soon as she got back; eight years was enough torture for me. I played it safe, tapped out. Probably why she doesn't like me all that much.

I nod to the coroner who no doubt is undercover from the Capitol. I don't have the energy to tell him to leave. I don't even have the energy to cry, let alone pick a fight. So I just nod my head even though it's a lie. He doesn't seem satisfied though, so rather than wait for the next question I just answer all of them at once.

"She was my grandma, been taking care of me since my mom died. I invited her to live with me with moment I won. Big house. I had the room."

I'd never tell anyone a ninety-three year old woman was the only friend I'd ever had. Sounds lame. Is lame, really. But after my step-dad died and my mom and my sister--

The games never really screwed me up until the 66th came around. I'd already lived a screwed up life. I'd been surrounded by dead people most of my life. A few more wasn't too big of a deal. And then a few tributes came close and-- I don't know. You connect with them when they come that close to coming home, hear them begging through a screen, see it in their eyes that all they want is to be home...

Can I be more of an ass? Pretty sure I should be mourning a friend, not a bunch of strange dead children.

"The rest of your family?"

I just shake my head, even manage to laugh. I'm not that out of it. That's one thing I'll make sure they never truly know about me. My family.

"Right, well, if you aren't gonna place nice then you can just leave," I say, gesturing to the door, grabbing the guy by the shoulder and shoving him toward the open door.

I shut it behind him because I don't much care if he had other questions. I've got another funeral to plan.

For the first time in 15 years I decide that the bourbon in my cupboard is something I need. I pour a glass and don't even bother with the ice—I just need a drink and the sunset to comfort me. I suppose the sun and the mouse hiding within my walls that I just can't seem to catch are the only friends I have left now. Cheers to them.

A knock at the door and I know it must just be another reporter, so I ignore it. Take another sip, revel in the taste. Reminds me of a time when I was a terrible person, when I was still a part of that wretched gang my dad used to be a part of.

I choke the drink down. Reminds me of my dead sister. Reminds me how it was my fault, reminds me that I have and always will be a piece of trash, a demon--

"Blythe Godwin-Seavers?"

I whirl around, nearly spilling my drink. A woman stares me down, face soft. She even flinches at my movement. I relax.

"That'd be me, but why are you--"

She cuts me off and pulls out a gun.

"Your father says, 'hello.'"

Last thing I hear is a gunshot, my glass shattering across the floor.

[ s i x t i e t h ]

"I run on the road, long before I dance under the lights."

arx
Retired Staff

2,426 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Apr 24, 2024 14:20:07 GMT -5

literally so gay, doing so many crimes

ruins } arx's victor au May 3, 2017 23:21:34 GMT -5

Quote

Post by arx on May 3, 2017 23:21:34 GMT -5

naveen casovnik

I see it in his face before he even speaks. I didn't need to hear him say it; I tell him not to say it—"Please, no, no--"

But it's part of his job. He's a doctor and it's part of his job. And I try so hard to ignore him, but still I hear him when he speaks. Precise and clinical, tired and sorrowful. It's not his fault, but I'll need someone to blame. So when I beat on his chest, he let's me.

"I'm sorry," he says, voice cracking just enough for me to know he cares. "There was nothing more we could do."

He wraps his arms around me, holding me upright as my knees completely give out beneath me. And this isn't his job; this is supposed to be my husband's job. And I know there will be consequences and I know people will talk and I know everyone will notice and I know, I know, I know. But it's difficult to think rationally when your every thought is filled with nothing but--

I didn't think I could do it. Be a mother. I was-- crazy. Broken and crazy and beyond help. My mother was useless, my father even more so, and how was I—the crazy victor who sewed her own lips shut—supposed to raise a child, a normal, healthy human being? How could I kiss a child's forehead without them noticing the pinhole scars lingering there? What would a child say when I screamed in the middle of the night? What would a child become if they watched their mother descend into fits of madness and anxiety and depression?

I never wanted kids. Never wanted to be a mother. I was just too fucked up. It was my responsibility never to be in charge of someone else, to be responsible for someone else.

And then I held her in my arms. Thirty-eight weeks of pure agony, panic attacks, and sleepless nights and the title I thought I didn't want—the child I said I'd never have—was all mine. She fit in my arms perfectly, like the last piece to a jigsaw puzzle. Her skin was the softest thing I'd ever laid hands on in my life. And when her tiny, chubby fingers wrapped around mine, I wept.

There was no way I deserved something as beautiful as Eleanor. But I knew in that moment that I would never do anything to hurt her. It didn't matter how I felt or what I thought—I had to be a good mother. I just had to. I didn't deserve her and I knew it. But who was I to question fate, right?

Wrong.

"What happened?" I whisper, so soft and broken and completely drained of all energy.

"Naveen--"

"Tell me!"

He looks into my eyes and I can see it—the pain. He's just as completely lost as I am. Tears well up in his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall. He takes a deep breath without looking away. His voice is soft, gentle, loving. Everything she was she got from him. I see her in the way the bridge of his noise arches, in the curve of his cheek bone, the dimple in his chin--

"Hypothermia. She was brought in with no pulse. We were unable to revive her."

And it's all my fault. All of it, I should've been watching her. Why wasn't I watching her? Why did I let her out of my sight ever? How could I have let this happen to someone so young, so brilliant, so perfect?

I stammer when I say it, pushing him away from me.

"Sh-sh-she just wanted t-to make a snow angel."

I was watching her from the window in the kitchen. I bundled her up in so many layers of clothes that she could barely walk. I only looked away for a moment. It was only 10 seconds, just long enough to keep scrub the wine stain from my husband's shirt. Ten seconds and she was gone. No footprints to follow, no sign of her anywhere-- How could I be so stupid? Why couldn't I have waited to to the laundry? Why didn't I just go out with her? Why? Why?

I push him away as more tears roll down my cheeks. He calls after me, but I'm already out the door, running as fast as I can. The cold air chills my lungs, freezes in the tears against my face and the snot in my nose. I run and run and run until my legs burn and my face stings and I can't breathe.

The snow crunches beneath my feet, then my knees, then my back as I lay staring at the sky. Overcast. Gloomy. Clouds filled to the brim with snow. I flap my arms and legs, the snow swishing around my eyes and melting against the back of my head.

('Look, Momma, look! I did it! I made a snow angel!')

"Yes, baby girl. Yes, you did."

[ s i x t y - s e c o n d ]

"I run on the road, long before I dance under the lights."