[D1] 75th Hunger Games Volunteering Thread

{I remember laughing, to take that away from you
To take that away from you, I remember laughing}

Riptides; there's a disturbance on the crown resting on my blonde curls and a tear in the fabrics of reality. Light pries open my eyes and destiny laces up my thighs from my ankles. My parents always wielded the hilt of authority like a gem encrusted golden sword, an opal for a heart, glory in their minds- ('do you know why we decided to call you Atlas, son?) And they held the threads of fate in their hands, fulfilling the impossible task of entwining their will with destiny - I can hear their white gunshots against deaf ears. ('Because we knew you'd be strong enough to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders if you wanted to.')

For a man who's supposed supposed to be so strong I am someone of so few talents, I narrowed down the purpose of my existence to powers of three long ago - fight, fuck, kill and stayed strapped onto the righteous path, never daring to stray further than a meter.

God-serving spear to spill ichor from his neck, not even the canon of a family can put the puzzle piece of an existence narrowed down to a list of three. 'Asha was not made to carry the weight of the world, but you are Atlas.' But they never told me what it took to carry the remains of a family name molested by a madman with not a drop of humanity to his name, who spoke in his sleep and made everyone bleed so he could look into the face of another shadow.

Equilibrium is so fragile- there's a disturbance on the horizon and the stitches across my head and a stain in my throne room; what kind of kingdom is so small it doesn't even stretch beyond the confines of our manor? And somewhere between succumbing to the chemicals of the streets to remain blinded to reality and sobering up long enough to face the reality that came with the gravestone of fallen kin I erased the answer to that question from the front of my mind.

He was the darkness but we are golden, he was the monster we tell our children to scare them to sleep but we live to reflect the beauty of the sun in broad daylight. He had no place on the scales of my fragile equilibrium but I still gasped when a god-serving spear spilled red from his throat. I saw his bones shatter, his skin split, his arrogance and his finger sever but he still managed to strut around his desolate wasteland like he was sustained on ichor running through his veins.

I could never be that strong, give or take the weight of the world.

But they still insisted I was the magnificence I wore like a mask to hide the parts of myself unseen by the light - ('Oh Atlas, please don't try and delegate your responsibility to our family name to a madman.') But for a man of such responsibility I have very few purposes, even Asha could count them without needed to exhaust his nine remaining fingers.

Riptides; I feel equilibrium tip when I let the shower water run over me, when I comb hair and lace up my boots and come down to two parents that hold the threads of fate itself. I could never stray further than a meter from their righteous path - my purpose can only ever be defined in black and white, like carving thoughts and analysis onto fog on a glass or an impressionable surface.

Black and white- to take my turn and dance on the reaper's scythe.

And somewhere between ignoring my siblings for fear of emptying the contents of my stomach and finishing my breakfast I break from the rest of the family and tell them I will be heading to the reaping alone, my father's send off words on loop. "You've been a magnificent son, Atlas, we truly, truly love you." With the final puzzle pieces of my fragile equilibrium buried and marked by a cousin's tombstone in mind, I do not dare try to piece together the meaning. His words cannot even blur into background noise as long as mother and father hold the strings of fate somewhere along their fingertips.

And behind the mask of magnificence there has always been some semblance of truth- I am a son but magnificence only serves to hide the women and the lust and the drugs along with the constant partying. I am a lost liar just waiting to be found. Just waiting to pay.

Riptides- I've been staring down the barrel of the gun and waiting for regicide's final flash to pass.

Just Atlas, a liar lost and waiting to be found. Lost behind his own mask of magnificence hidden within his fragile house of cards, despairing when his last hope of a final puzzle piece turned out hidden under a deep crevasse of insanity and stained with ichor and buried with a tombstone. Just Atlas. Just constant.

"Who will volunteer as tribute, for the honor and glory of your District?"

Silence for a split second and-

"I VOLUNTEER!" But the voice is a female's, not mine, just another white gunshot against my black ears and the Frays have the reaper's steel against their throats for the fourth year in a row.

Just Atlas, a liar waiting to be found but no longer another face in the crowd. It plays in repeat, on loop louder than a white gunshot wound in the center of my forehead. "Atlas Lumiere!" But there is no slip of paper with letters in that specific correlation to force me to hold death's hand for one last time.

Riptides; confidence running through my veins, white gunshots against deaf ears and crimson instead of gold weeping through my stitched heart, and I feel the threads of fate twist and turn against my limbs- ("Because we knew you'd be strong enough to carry the weight of the world if you wanted to.") I manage a smile, a wink but with the glares of my parents burning into the back of my mind it comes out ten times louder than a whisper and three times louder than a proclamation. "No! Stop! I volunteer!" Hand raised high, I step from the crowd of eighteen year olds as just Atlas. A liar waiting to be found but managing to glare through the mask of magnificence slowly cracking.

Riptides await on the horizon- I close my eyes and stare into the barrel of the gun one final time with my equilibrium waiting to shatter, regicide waiting to pass.

This isn’t going to be good.

The night before the Reaping at home is almost a peaceful one; nobody wants to hurt anyone else in the family when there's so much hope for glory. Still, my peaceful night is shattered by a chaotic morning, what with everyone scrambling around the house in their finest clothes, arguing over jewelry and hairstyles and the best way to look for the cameras.

This is the one day of the year that my parents actually give a shit about me, but not in a good way. I know things are going to go wrong because my dad pulled me aside this morning. He gripped my shoulder tight and started out by saying “Son…” and that’s how I knew I was Royally Fucked Up.

First of all, I’m not their son.

Second of all… I can’t remember the last time this man talked to me.

“You know what you have to do today,” he told me. Not a recommendation. More like a threat.

I played the fool. “What do you mean?”

He gripped my shoulder tighter, pressing so hard I was sure his fingers would leave bruises.

(Man, fuck these people.)

“Don’t pretend with me,” he said forcefully, a hint of impatience behind his eyes. “You’re going to volunteer today.”

(Is it really volunteering if you’re threatened?)

Anyway, fuck District One and fuck this whole situation.

My fake parents shove us out of the house like dolls. They set me up in a suit I’ve never seen before in my life, and my annoyance crawls ever higher as we make our way to the square. They waltz up with their heads held high like they own the place, but I’m too busy trying to wrap my head around my imminent demise to do much of anything.

They’ve taught me how to keep a straight face, how to look like I’m on top of the world when I’m crumbling. In truth, the weird part about fearing for your life all the time is that the Grim Reaper himself could take me on reaping day and I would be none the wiser. Fear moves like a slug, and that’s why I don’t feel anything in particular when the Capitol people shove us into our normal arrangement and present the usual bullshit.

Except – oh look – it isn’t the usual bullshit.

"Who will volunteer as tribute, for the honor and glory of your District?"

What a lovely thing, dissociation.

(There’s a threat. I can see it in my father’s eyes when I see him in the crowd.)

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“Me, I guess.”