some minds are better kept apart [asha, day 5]

{So, I pray, I pray that it won't feel the same, and
Don't think that I can't see it in your eyes
Darling yeah, we both knew it from the start
Some minds are better kept apart}

Madness; I left my axe resting on the ground meters away from me, handle facing the opposite way.

Wounds slick with black, skin burning brighter than a forest fire, I crave a silence that remains fragmented in the pelting rain. The charred spot of the truth that I could not perceive remains in the corner of my eye; paranoia is well known to me anyway. The thought of a truth that won't stop changing does not strike fear into my heart, but it makes the blood in my veins run hot and the ice encasing my heart thaw quicker than the concept of blood lust itself. I grimace and wince in my bed of blood; not a single ally in sight and I'm still mad enough to remain calm and prod wounds clumsily stitched over next to a shattered truth.

Nine fingers - I can count the number of tributes left on two bloodied trembling hands through bloodshot eyes and smile despite blood trickling down my chin from the corner of my mouth. Hand pressed against my heart and the unfamiliar thudding is foreign but numbing all the same. Eight tributes left to kill until I can don a hollow crown on my head and carry victory on my shoulders as if I am some sort of god or king.

But I'm just Asha and I am bleeding and alone.

Jenoah's glaive cannot flash before my eyes and cleave another enemy in two, Desimae's ferocious fire cannot consume and melt another hollow mirror to my suffering. When I breathe and use rationale it becomes apparent that I should be glad that they're gone; perhaps the storm was a blessing in disguise. In truth, the three of us were a ticking timebomb waiting to detonate and whoever dared to shy away from the shrapnel would be met with a thousand bullet holes. We were an unstable concoction, one third insanity, one third ferocity and the final part desperation.

Even the mind of a madman knows a concoction weaved from desperation and insanity cannot possibly yield good results. It's almost like stories weaved from the callous hands of a writer; acquaintances hacking and slashing through the abyss. I did not dare spin the wheel and test the strength of our system; the Gamemakers tore through the fabrics with their beasts from the previous day.

Madness; I wish could have done it myself.

Seconds ticking town the train at a velocity that mirrors the final dregs of my fragmented sanity, I grow tired of watching the spot were the truth shattered before me in the corner of my eyes. Four fingers slick with rain and blood drag my axe towards me, I hoist myself up on tired feet and I'm dragging myself away. Madness; I turned my back to where the shattered truth lay. I lift five fingers to my heart for good measure and the familiar feeling is painfully obvious - I am empty.

I abandoned the remnants of the routine I didn't gnash my teeth at, I don't even miss the damn system.

('No one belongs here, Asha.')

If only that were true.

Carrying the weight of a thousands wounds and my colorblindness, not even seventy two hours into this damn game and I waited for one of the wounds to begin to tear deeper and wider. Black crevasses forming ravines in obsidian flesh that does not tremble when faced with the thread of a thousand bullet holes, not one could quite find the right point. Gears still grinding, rust still forming, I accepted the price of breakdown if it meant feeling something in a heart of ice that only melts when given the promise of blood.

Truth sent by the Capitol twisted and turned in an attempt to throw me into a predicament and systems into a turmoil matching my insanity. However, the bittersweet truth is unchanging and the bittersweet truth is that I do belong here. By myself, hunting, stalking, watching. Monochromia. Colors can only be distinguished by varying shades of grey but excitement can be found in the blood lust.

Madness; my wounds only just stopped bleeding barely a few minutes ago but I still refuse to sit and acknowledge the truth in the corner of my eye for longer than an hour.

Strong rain, dying winds, tributes to be counted on eight digits-

Bang.

- seven digits and through the bloodshot eyes of a madman.

Stumbling through the forest of blinding rain, it is not movement that perks my up my eyes but an outline, the only question is whether it's a bittersweet truth or a truth that changes - I hope for the former.

Stumbling and slipping footsteps transform into a fast paced jog. The weakening grip along the axe handle turns to iron as I lift my axe and -

"Desimae?"

- blood lust transforms into failure.

Like the structure of the system I'd almost put my faith in, I come crashing down piece by piece. The axe slips from five fingers that do not tremble when you threaten the skin with lacerations and fire but fail in the face of a black and white corpse. Knees buckling under the weight of a bittersweet truth that's quickly transformed into reality, I collapse to one knee and two hands.

Porcelain skin riddled with gashes, spear producing from her body and pointing to the sky in mockery. I dare shuffle closer to a bittersweet truth I never thought would morph into a harsh reality. Black and white uneven hair, dead eyes, scars riddling her flesh.

Perfect flesh.

Madness; I do not touch the body.

But I trace it with my eyes, from toes stripped of their armor to thighs opened with red smiles all the way to black and white eyes.

Dead eyes.

"I- I won't fix this."

I can't fix this (madness; I wouldn't fix this even if I could). Not even my mother's gentle touch or final kiss can raise her from her bed of blood. Her bed of black. I never thought that I would see the day her porcelain skin would slowly but surely crack.

Now I'm left with the shards.

I swear, she was a supernova. Snakeroot, alcoholic kisses, the rooftop -

- me on death's doorstep.

Her porcelain skin burned brighter than a supernova but she was not fragile. She reminded me that death was a promise and tried to define me on a spectrum of absolutes. The death of a star is supposed to be bright and beautiful but all I see is black. Beauty cannot be found in shades of grey and neither can the perfect career son. I thought she could burn brighter than a supernova.

In truth her bright porcelain skin could never coexist with me. Not in this galaxy. One of two things would have happened. This. Left with the shards and a mess I do not dare try to clean for the thought that I will slip and slit my wrists; the destruction of this beauty is not beautiful. Two. I would have shattered her porcelain skin in the palm of my hands and happily sliced my fingers along the shards and drowned in my own blood. I could never just roll over and accept my predetermined downfall.

I was wrong when I said the destruction of beauty was always beautiful.

Tall waves, slain kings, giant corpses, ugly corpses, supernovas-

('You're just mad because I chopped off your favorite handle')

- a golden bottle in her hands, poison in her fingertips, her breath lingering and mixing with alcohol in my mouth.

She didn't belong in the world of a madman. Whitewashed walls, rotting corners, no method to the madness. I was forever rotting, slowly decaying in the corners of my whitewashed walls all the while being digested in the crevasse of insanity I had allowed to swallow me when I was thirteen. She had no hope of pulling me from a pit I did not care to escape, there is no cure for madness after all.

Galaxies, universes, alternate realities-

(green, blonde, color, golden rings, bells)

- empty space in place of my ring finger quickly remind me there is no commitment to be found in these veins.

('Don't lose your mind.')

How could I lose what was never found?

('You're worth protecting')

I wish I could say the same.

Trembling hand clutched to my chest.

Madness; I feel nothing.

Capitol mutations, snakeroot, beasts, malfunction, breakdown-

(Monochromia; the memories of color resurrected by a canon.)

Fire in her hair, red in her cheeks, hazel burning in her irises -

Restore. Grey hair, whitewashed porcelain skin, grey eyes staring into the clouds.

Dead eyes.

Asha Lumiere is not synonymous with a fairy tale ending. I was made to rip, tear, hack, slash, die. Undefined on a spectrum of absolutes, I blankly hoist myself up and stare over the corpse of Desimae Warble. No howls of agony because this isn't a story book were the ending can be anticipated. Tall giants felled, proud kings slain; it was always the essence of the grief they left behind that was remembered. Pride is not synonymous with the term legacy and my heart numbs at the first thought and my brain dismisses the second. Legacy never crossed my mind but I always imagined someone like Desimae would go out with a bang.

Madness; I should've anticipated that bang would be the song of canon fire.

Looming over her, I allow my hand to fall from my empty chest and my voice takes on a tone of confession. "Desimae... you almost made me human."

And I think I hate her for that.