i'll get by {riven fowley} day 1.5

My hands are tainted red

Not literally, I suppose. His blood never touched my skin. But I spilled it. I held it in my hands, I toyed with it, and then I tripped and it went spilling everywhere and now I've made a huge mess of blood. I remember painting things red. Deep shades of scarlet and crimson, soft dots scattered across paintings. They were in the flowers, the sunsets, the reflections on the waters of an ocean I'll never actually get to see because all I know is fields and cows and horses and occasionally some more fields. Red used to be all over my works of art. My worlds I created, the ones I pulled from the margins of reality, they had hints of red. But now there's too much and I've ruined the painting and it looks more like a murder scene than anything else.

It is a murder scene. How could it not be? I killed the boy from Eight.

Well, I try to convince myself it wasn't actually me who did it. It was someone else. Some other version of me, some strange being that came forth and now I am forced to bear the weight of her guilt. It pulls down on my back, causing shoulders to sag, my eyes drifting vaguely across the tiles passing beneath bare feet. There's blood on my toes and I feel my stomach churn at the sight, so I look away. If I look away, i's not here. Not really, anyway. It doesn't exist if I don't let it exist.

A flash of silver catches my attention, and I glance sideways, mildly surprised when I focus in on a small parachute floating down from...I'm not really sure where. I'm not even outside. It's almost as if the thing sprouted from the ceiling of the mansion itself. Or the floor, or the stairs, depending on which way you look at. The place is a twist of reality and it's hard to pinpoint exactly what's what when gravity doesn't follow the rules.

Small, childlike hands reach up to catch the thing, but my hands are so shaky that I fumble, and it clatters noisily to the floor. If I die now, it's my own fault. But I guess that wouldn't be so bad. Then perhaps I could forget that my conscience is tainted with the blood of a boy.

I kneel down, fiddle with the latch, and eventually unclasp it. The lid flips open. The whole thing fits nicely in the palms of both my hands, pasty fingers wrapped tightly around it, and inside, seven different colors shout loudly at me. Bright, obnoxious, jarring. Too different and too loud and too...at least it's something. They're useless to me, I know, but they could keep me busy. I could color over the guilt bearing down on me like Death itself. All dark and tall and sweeping black robes, wrinkled, cracked fingers just aching to wrap around my throat and squeeze till there's nothing left.

I reach in and pull them out one by one. Six in all. Seven, after I pull out the faint brown one from my bag. I shuffle into a sitting position, my legs crossing together like they did in my Private Training Session, when I went home for a short time. Maybe I can go home again.

I surprise myself when my first choice is the red crayon. Simple, bright, murderer. It's a part of me now, I suppose. I can take it out of myself, if I can create something good out of what I've done. Shaky hands create shaky lines, and I pull forth tiny, crimson flowers from the floor beneath me. Four petals each, simple, not exactly perfect. I can do better, but not right now. And then, suddenly, they sprout. Not like I always imagine they do, but they actually sprout, growing up from the tiles and becoming real objects. I stare in wonder. Excitement courses through me, and I think about drawing myself a world that will take me back home. A place where I won't have to worry about the things I've done, the crimes I've committed.

But then I think again, and I realize: I can't. If I want to go home, to my real home, I need to get out of this place. Really, truly, get out of this place. And to do that, I need to survive.

Hands drift to the next crayon, an orange one, the next color in the rainbow. I wonder silently who sponsored me, of all people. They should know I don't stand a chance. Perhaps it's because they've seen me kill? The thought twists inside of my and I shove it back as hard as I can, slamming the doors of my mind against it and shutting it out. Boxes and tables and chairs are shoved against it, and though it shouts and screams and bangs against the wood, I ignore it. Instead I focus on my creation.

My hand steadies itself this time, and I sketch out the shape of a bottle. Bright orange, like the tongues of a fire, and small enough that I'll be able to hold it properly in my hands. Shaded sides so it looks cylindrical in shape, perhaps the length of my forearm, with a screw-on top attached to the side by a short string. I don't want to lose the lid.

Yellow is the next color in my pack. Joyful like the sunshine, all smiles and laughs like daffodils back home in the spring time. Childish, really. How ironic. I take a deep breath, lean over the floor, and use the back of the crayon to create the sharp, smooth edges of a blade. It's thick and comes to a deadly tip, a long, straight pole growing out from the back of it. I sketch a grip for my hand, a small one that probably wouldn't work well for anyone with normal-sized fingers. I etch my name into the pole and make sure the blade appears to be attached properly. I lean back and feel sickened at the sight. A cheerful, sunshine-yellow weapon meant to bring about death.

A sigh escapes my lips and I reach for another two crayons. I'm reluctant to use them, considering I'll only have three left, but what does it matter? I'm going to die anyway. I turn my gaze away from the weapon I've created, and look down at my suit. I could draw armor on the floor, but I'm worried it won't fit, so I decide to draw it on myself instead, hoping it will work. I take of the red jacket of my suit and set it aside, focusing instead on the white shirt underneath. It's difficult, but I manage to form some green lines around myself, tainting the white fabric, creating a sort of vest around my torso that I hope will protect me. But who am I kidding? Nothing can protect me here. Perhaps I'm a fool to put my trust in a child's plaything.

I take a deep breath and reach for another crayon, this one a deep blue, and draw around my pant legs to create the shin guards I've seen former tributes wear in the Games. Thick guards in the front, straps that hold it firmly in place at the back. I have to twist my neck around to see properly, but thanks to years of sketching on every single paper I can get my hands on, the final product doesn't look too bad.

{Word Count: 1247}