the colour of our lights {atlas oneshot}

The supposed sweet nectar of blood on my hands is bitter.

I never expected it to last for very long, to linger behind an ever thickening smokescreen that only knows to expand at terminal velocities at a rate beyond the confines of human comprehension. The strings of fate stretch and tickle the back of my neck like an icy tundra ('make it quick, Atlas') and my sister's hand is a whip against my cheek and her words sharp enough to cut through blizzards.

My left hand twitches, aching at the memory of the spear in its palm.

Trust for the Capitol fades like constellations at the sight of a rising sun, I almost call it fitting because there are no stars tonight, the television stays in the center of my peripheral vision. I suppose I should be thankful the screen is oh so bright and the sound is five pegs above background noise - every tribute they announce before branding each name with a number to mark subjective skill instead of region is a reminder that perhaps everyone is expendable in one way or another.

The man in white was expendable, I never expected him to stay for long. Behind my wink and bright smile there were eyes that could only see people for what they were, not the layers that make us unique. A network of veins and arteries, a kill point to mark each milestone of weakness. I never expected him to stay for long because the moment I saw him I marked him as expendable, passing judgement as if ichor ran through my veins and not even red could weep through the loosening stitching in my heart.

Callous hands, callous eyes - his screams are white gunshot wounds against porcelain skin but I do not dare motion for a needle and thread to staunch the bleeding. I never expected him to stay for long because I'd written him off as expendable, another man to break beneath the weight of my burdens.

"Now to reveal the private training scores!"

They all see glamour but I see gore when the smoke and gunpowder clears. I am unfazed because I've been poisoned since five - polarized to fit my purpose.

Ash, smoke and mirrors; I define my morality with three words and don't skip a beat when the truth is crystal between shards and a clear conscience. A training score, I did it all for a training score.

Left to tatters, I never expected it to last for long anyway.

Especially not when every time I held the handle of a weapon I was playing roulette with a silver gun loaded that I did not dare glance in the reflection of. Every thrust was another click of a slow turning chamber and underneath ash, smoke, mirrors and thin air.

When every time a hatchet I held touched the surface it wasn't just the blade that blunted.

Killer of conscience, this red smokescreen thickens until I can close my eyes taste nothing but bitter gunpowder - (”just make it quick, Atlas.”) All of a sudden I am just another fool with a red cheek, not the exception to prove the rule.

("because we knew you'd be strong enough to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders if you wanted to")

When tensed, my finger no longer trembled against the trigger when he couldn't bear to stare down the barrel of the gun - I didn't expect it to last for long. When the trigger was pulled, the flash left me blinded and white, instantaneous like spontaneous combustion but diluted with shades of red.

It was quick: a thrust, an artery, red mist -

(game over)

- no needle and thread to close the bullet hole, no thought to defy the threads of fate. Every thrust of a weapon was another gunshot wound averted, but this wasn't piercing the thigh of a training dummy nor was it pressing a blunted blade to my opponent's chest and proclaiming "dead" and holding bragging right over them until their blunted blade found its way into my ribs. This was broken cries and timelines snapping beneath immeasurable pressures, this was red and this was Asha.

A training score to brand upon my back; red was not how I imagined my mark upon infinity would look.

"Atlas Lumiere," I freeze and my bleeding heart weeps, "scoring nine!"

And it heaves and sobs. I still smile and laugh because it's a reflex.

"Why am I not surprised? It's not a reflection of my true potential of course."

But I wanted to be alone in my room when the judgement of my skill was branded on my back; there is no one here and there is no one to convince but myself.

Blood, strength, judgement - pieces of myself shattered on that stage for these three keys to the vast world of survival and I was three pegs from the perfection I dreamed, one peg below the madness bearing my family name that probably slept in this room a year prior. I swear, when I close my eyes and inhale crimson gunpowder the ghost of his gaze is somewhere, madness and monochromia waiting reveal its deadly mixture.

But I witnessed the god-serving spear spill red from his neck over a year ago, he was only human after all.

(as close to human as madness could get)

Bathed in the bitter nectar of crimson, my hands refuse to tremble with guilt for a name I never knew and a damaged moral compass I overlooked. My humanity wasn't built to last long enough to see the end of this astral nightmare and I never truly expected it to.