reconciliation of antitheses {speakers day two}

Some things are over before they can even be cool.

I blink, and just like Leticia Wheeler, my sword is gone. Great, I think. That's just great.

I was ready and raring to go; engines lit up like fire and my foot firmly pushing the pedal down into the ground—I am my own weapon, but by Ripred, my finger hasn't even touched my trigger. Eva Hope has been the definition of a saviour, but we didn't need saving.

We needed death, and though we got it, it wasn't like I was expecting. When my mother died, it was a drag. She was dying, she wasn't just dead. I suppose this is the reality of the games I have thrown myself into; no mercy, no justice, no second chances. This an arena where there is no room for failure because time is working hard against us.

Time is our crucifixion, and I refuse to become it's victim. It has taken far too many from me in this life: grandparents, parents, friends—Anton and Lorenzo had become nothing but memories sat on my shoulder whispering sweet nothings into my ears. I promised myself that I wouldn't forget them, building them up only to watch them burn like I did with my mother.

Rejection is a form of togetherness, I told myself. I wouldn't let them go that easily.

I recall Mum telling me on the train that nobody would ever be able to help me like her. She'd tell me that she was wise beyond her years, beyond her life and I'd ignore her. A voice inside my head was a burden and a burden only, and she was completely, utterly wrong. She has no back to protect mine with, no fists to fight fire with.

She was dead. She never really had me, I never felt her warm touch against my skin, never had her reassurance, I only ever had her opposition. She didn't care, and that is what separates Anton and Lorenzo from her. They had minds that were not broken, they were alive, and they were people that cared.

If only for a second or two, they cared. I'm not letting that go so easily. Not when time is working so very hard to try and mistake us, to take us.

We drift forwards, lost in our own fantastical Verona. No goodbyes are made to the girl who we cut down in minutes, no hellos are made when we trek forth. I think it's the shock sinking in; crippling vocal chords and tearing sentences into naked words. It's not like they would have any meaning, it's not like any of us would be listening.

Honestly, I've come to terms with this place. Death isn't necessarily something to fear; it doesn't have to be the end. If there is one helpful thing that my mother taught me, it was that. She haunted me for too long, never really dead but not close to being alive—I'm not scared of it anymore. Not like I used to be; where I had to have someone check under my bed and in my cupboard for some sort of monster.

I'm over it, I tell myself, iron words are my own reassurance.

But there's a difference between understanding the darkness and wanting it. I don't want to die, I don't think anyone wants to die, I just understand it isn't as cold and as brutal as everyone makes out. Call it me being childish, I call it a simple observation. It's like putting two and two together and finally coming up with four.

It just makes sense, now.

I figure that it is time to prepare. Lucas and I haven't come close to the end these past two days, it's like it's almost been—easy. As strange as it is to think, it feels like though time has been working against us, fate has been on our side. But this only means one thing, and this thing is cold, and it is a bit brutal, really, because it just means that something bad is going to come.

Something really bad.

Something that will not be over before it is cool. It'll be cool, for sure, but by Ripred, it's going to be bad. I know it.

Lucas is already taking precautions. It's just putting what we've learnt in the training centre into practise. I didn't learn much, though, I spent that time wisely. I made the most of what I had and enjoyed myself, I didn't dig myself too deep so that expectation would pile itself on top of me. 

I didn't want to bury myself alive, I wanted to have fun. And I did, and honestly, I'm proud.

But this isn't the training centre any more; it's the arena. I stare up to small parachute which grows bigger and bigger with every second, and it acts as confirmation. The people watching know, so I need to also.

In the tin, there is a small selection of crayons. Different shades of gold and red, I smile. Purple was my favourite colour, but change is inevitable. Especially when you are my age.

I take one of the crayons, a colour that remind me of the corn you see in the videos from District 11, and begin tracing the features of my face. The colour extends around my head in it's entirety; white becomes gold in the seconds that follow—and I smile. Protection, at last.

I take a shade of red and colour over my chest. I shade in a six pack of abs—the other tributes won't be able to recognise me. The armour is angular with my unsteady hand but manages to cut in all the right places. I shade around my shoulders, the red darkening with each stroke of the crayon, until it slowly transforms into a piece of armour that makes me look powerful, but most importantly, ready.

My back aches as I bend over to colour over my legs. They're going to match the chestplate; an illusion of muscles to build me up to something stronger than the buttercup that my mother used to refer to me as. I push harder to create detail in the drawing, and though I've never seen myself as an artist, I think it looks it pretty good.

The next two crayons fill in the blanks. My hands and feet become different shades of the same gold; when they come to life, I exhale a breath.

I'm ready now, I'm ready to play a game far bigger than hide and seek.

"Hey Wylla! Eva! Come check this out!" Lucas' voice reels me in. "You'll never believe what I found."

"Try me." I mumble.

I come closer. There's nothing in this world that can be stranger than some of the things I've seen so far. When we are united, I don't flinch. It's not something particularly special or extraordinary.

It's not like it is my starfish, it's a tree. It grows no fruit, only crayons. I snatch one from a branch and it's a dark colour. It matches the skies that you'd see from your window back in three. Those of the night which are littered with a small array of tiny little diamonds that you pray will fall so that you can wish.

I snatch it from a branch, immediately starting to draw something that will do the damage I long for. Lines and curves come together to form blades, and the blades drag down to create a handle which is a perfect fit for my little hand.

"Well," I say. "This is cool." I nod slowly, looking at the axe in my hand and the armour on my body.

Here's hoping it's not over in the blink of an eye.

table by dars

Eva turns her head and I become the centre of her attention. She's a murderer, but it doesn't matter, not really—we've all done bad things and we've all done good things. It's just that people remember the bad more often than they do the good.

And that doesn't make you a bad person. I'm convinced. It just gives you bad vibes. In this arena, I think bad vibes are better to have than good.

"Sure, it's cool." She says, and I smile. "Just don't draw any animals."

"Got it." I snap back. "No animals."

Before I can even begin to wonder why I shouldn't draw animals, we sense movement. We turn together, meeting with the eyes of a girl who is not broken, merely bent by her recent history. I stare, and it takes a moment for me to realise that it isn't someone worth fighting, no, it's someone worth fighting for.

Riven—and I think there is a dark glint of fear in her eyes, panic induced by iron clad girls and boys who struggle to tell right from wrong. No sentences to the naughty step would teach them otherwise, no countdowns from three to turn the fire that burns within to ashes. She doesn't have any reason to be fearful, she should let the tension diminish.

She made me a butterfly, she gave me wings and I spread them. Why would I ever want to hurt her?

Her eyes meet with mine and I'm thrown back to that moment in the training centre where childhood was at the top of my priority list and where enjoyment was worth it's weight in gold. A night beneath the warped stars and the sky's illusions—I'm still having a childhood; nobody says it has to be childish.

"If you're going to kill me, do it fast." Her nod is one of a person that has accepted her fate. Doesn't she know there is still time? "Maybe she should do it. She made quick work of my friend."

I poke my head out, a grey glance shot down the line towards Eva. I don't think Mum would have liked her at all, but the bad vibes she gives are addictive. I don't want to see more blood on her hands, but I do—is life always as confusing as this?

In the short moment between exchanges, I conclude that it is. The little Lorenzo Ruined on my shoulder is telling me that life is full of too many pieces of shit to ever be easy and clear. He's probably right.

"Kill you? Why would we do that?" It clicks. "Well, we only killed her in self defence if you remember, so unless you attack us, I see no reason to kill you just yet." I nod in approval. "And besides, something tells me that you're too smart to initiate a one versus three anyway." It happens again.

"Speaking of which, where's that boy you were tagging along with?"

"It doesn't matter Lucas." He seems to have disappeared. Perhaps one of the cannons that signalled shortly after we fled was that of his; perhaps he's hiding behind us whilst we're distracted and is ready to shove a spear through the three of us in one attempt.

But I don't think so. That isn't the Riv I remember, that wouldn't be the Riv that made me realise I was something more than a caterpillar. I smile, because I think, I feel safe.

"Hi Riv, it's me, Wylla." I begin to pace towards her, removing the fierce helmet from my head. "You've probably already seen, but... I'm bald now, and I think it's ace."

"...And we won't kill you. I think she would have done it by now if I'm telling the truth."

I let out a deep breath with ease and smile. I think we're all going to get along just fine. It's cool, really cool—Riven is here; she's alive, she's kicking, she's far from being over, and we have bad vibes.

I think I like it.

table by dars