that would be enough { gaby } blitz

I step out, taking a breath of the fresh air outside. It reminds me of simpler times, where my brother and I would lose ourselves creating stories in our treehouse. We would be courageous and we would be heroes, and the swords in our hands would be nothing more than two sticks bound together with a long blade of glass. Nowadays, we lose our minds playing with weapons sharper than confessions and wishes from the lips of tributes desperately trying to finish their life and justify their death.

Scout did, Justice didn't, Pillar did. 

The blonde girls catches up to me from behind, her pace matching mine as we stride away from our second home. I look to our feet, before slowly following her body with my gaze. She's muscular and toned, but is built with a pinch of salt. Her voice rings out.

"Hey." She says, to which I respond with a perky smile. "You did a great job with an axe back there today." Her face lights up. "I'm Aloes. And what is your name?"

She speaks her name, Aloes, and the pieces fall into place. Slender build, blonde hair, light eyes, a name beginning with A—She's a Lumiere.

"Thank you, Aloes." I say with a calming tone, an understanding one. "I'm Peggy." There's silence for a few seconds. "You're a Lumiere, right?" My head tilts, hoping I've pieced the pieces together correctly to save myself from embarrassment. 

Now that I am out of the training centre, I revert back to my normal setting. The fun Peggy who enjoys watching the night become day, who loves the company of her brother and her family, who just wants to be seen as 'another girl'. My surname gives great power but it comes with great expectations; whatever happened to fitting in?

Justice became a victor, that is what happened.

"Yes, I'm a Lumiere. And you are a Fray, right?"

So we are similar. And if she is anything like me, she's conflicted about what her surname brings. She doesn't strike me as the type to strive towards glory and gold, unafraid of the gore that comes before. The Lumiere boy died recently, and she has no victor to find peace in. Perhaps she is the one who has the right frame of mind and I really am just another heartless career.

"I am. My family doesn't define me, though. I'm sure you can understand." We continue walking away from the training centre. "Do you have a favourite weapon..?" It's an attempt to make conversation. I don't want to talk about my family; one mention of Scout or Pillar's name and I'll fall into reverse and lose my iron shell.

I guess that it's the same for her, now that Asha is dead.

"A bow." She replies. It's a decent weapon for range. There have been tributes who have used them and abused them, and others who have only been abused by them. I wouldn't hold my breath with a hope of hitting anything with a bow; I'm more hands on, more physical. 

One swing in that training centre and I'm there, in the games. One swing of the axe and I'm ready for blood.

"What about you?"

"Axe." I respond quickly, the image of a girl becoming a walking horror story playing on loop in my head. "It's always been my favourite, it's the first weapon I ever picked up." My head tilts to the ground, my eyes concentrated on the tips of my shoes which cause a small plume of dust to rise with each step. "I guess—I guess it's special to me, huh." 

A lamppost passes us on our right, the first sign that I'm almost home. My mother used to tell me to wait by it if I were to ever get lost somehow, but I've grown up since then. I know this place like the back of my hand, I know this place like I know my axe. And boy, I know my axe.

"I don't really have a favourite weapon, you know?" I don't, but I nod anyway. "I'm just better at shooting than everything else. I don't think any weapon is special for me..." Her words fade away like how the stars do into the day. She's a smart girl, I like her. I've always been far too dedicated to the axe to invest time into a sword or knife or anything else. She is a girl who is keeping her options open, a girl who has versatility above all else.

I suppose that means she has something over me.

"That's good. You're more rounded that way, you're open." Although sometimes, being open can lead to tragedies. Honesty is a murderer, and it murders in cold blood.

Footsteps pace away behind me, time ticking on as we walk. "I'm almost home. Where do you live?" I ask her, the small talk hanging on for dear life at this point. I wonder what's been made and is waiting on the dinner table—a hero's tea is all I can wish for, although it's most likely two potatoes, shredded cabbage and a rasher of bacon. That's the norm. Routine is a coping mechanism, and I don't dare to question it.

We all have our places and things that make us feel safe.