two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl // lucas vs shelby

Onward I’ve marched toward a
Kingdom dredged gold.
I have suffered my thoughts—
Never ceasing their hold.

Gilded blade in grasped palm
Forged from my worn mind
Only serves now the purpose of
Recalling lost times.

I have not stopped sobbing since leaving the side of Wylla Lysander’s body.

Trudging desperately away from the Cornucopia I had left my feet to drag in the dirt behind me until their identities were marred by the presence of hard ground. There I had stood, tears falling to cheeks and skin bare surface below until my knees refused to hold my weight any longer and I found my face pressed to the cold floor of the mansion now revisited. It was from here that I heard the sound of Capitol anthem blare into the sky, but for the first time I did not have to turn away. The walls of shelter solidified blocked my vision from seeing her face once more and for once, I was grateful for poor sight and senses minimized.

There was no one to pay grace to in particular, but still I found myself spitting thanks into the air surrounding until the music had faded away and left me to nothing other than memories and cold walls.

I had not meant to kill Wylla Lysander. And despite the disbelief that was to follow that statement I knew that some part of my mind in that moment had been filled with nothing but pure, unfiltered fear, and that it was this alone that caused the blade in my hand to strike out and draw enough blood to be considered deadly.

There was too much wisdom packed into the crevices of her chest and the spaces between her bones, and it was this, and not my knife blade that truly killed her.

To live with that kind of knowledge— even if it had followed her to a theoretical victory that would not now come to pass— would have shown itself through the mirror just as she passed from this land back into that which she had once known.

There is not a single man living or dead that has not come to regret the information bestowed upon him. whether desired or given with resistance. How she had come to this point was something I would never know and could never again ask, for I am sure that when my own time comes to pass we will not be found in the same resting place.

It is then, past the anthem and her reminder to fight anyone but myself and myself aone that I fall asleep, with newly acquired blade in hand and empty bottle of tequila tucked against my chest.

The wise man and the drunkard— the story for the ages that has taken every from imaginable and still held true to the same moral at the end of the story: relief is nonexistent and the ways by which we choose to cope with pain and horror are the deciding factors in deaths well-received and lives lived miserably.

She has given me the means by which to consider all options laid out in front of me, but still I yearn for a full bottle of tequila rather than mind and anxiety laid to rest.

The sunrise does not wake me today, and it is then that I know my choice has been deemed incorrect, and that any revelations or epiphanies that were to be had are less likely now than they were before the sunset.

It is then, on worn feet and tired mind that another voice catches my attention, “Good to see you’re still alive, Shelby.”

Two days prior pressed against the wooden table that voice had hovered over my neck and whispered in my ear— how my body was so soft, how it gave to his hands and how it was his, if only for a moment.

Caught in the replay of events unmentioned I do not have time to speak before he is moving towards me, regret laced words spilling from his tongue like another bottle full of tequila, “I think we both know what has to happen next, though.”

I smile, unaware of the consequences as I take hold of the waistband of the black lace underwear and let go, waiting until they rest around my ankles before stepping out of their hold.

But before circumstances predicted come to pass he reaches back with a weapon similar to my own, but shorter. I smirk for a moment at the beauty of irony until he attempts to reassure me, “Don’t worry, though, this way, you can say it was in self defense.”

I scoff, watch as his blade passes me twice and step back to admire his body before raising my spear, “Lucas, if you’ve learned anything from fucking me not once, but twice, it’s that I have no need for excuses of any kind.”

Aged whiskey and gin
Never torment the soul but
Deceive me greatly they must.

And when that bottle’s thin, I’ll
Remember times when
Each was capped off sans mistrust.

With his blade dodged lightly and my own taken up, I expect my strike to do damage of great caliber, but the first strike falls wide and the second finds its way to cut thin armor. Bright as the sunrise I did not manage to catch sight of this morning and gleaming, it falls aside at the point of my armor and the disappointment expected to fall upon my shoulders is left dissipating into the nearby air at the sight of bare skin.

It was as though two occurrences now recalled to the forefront of memory were etched there, as though he had not been protecting himself but the last strand of fate connecting the two of us.

Eyes turned from soft skin to face I see a smirk met in eyesight and I return the favor, not struggling to hold the expression even when he speaks, “Touche, Miss Leviane, touche.”

His voice drips with the same air of causality as my own, as though we both know we are catalysts of a future that we will not see, despite our future status of dead or alive. Lucas O’Hara was smart enough to know that when opportunities presented themselves in a poetically ironic fashion, it would be foolish to do anything but admire them as they were grasped in the palm of one’s hand.

Despite the stumbling and falls we had taken along the way, I knew that neither the boy in front of me or myself could be considered as anything less than brilliant.

And though the thoughts of him fill my mind, I remember that Lucas does not fulfill the same role, and that any kingdom I was to rule from this moment on would be a throne of his to share as well.

He strikes, and I imagine his hand within reach of the crown. But the thought startles me and I shudder, shoving aside the thought of falling to my knees in front of him. But I do not find myself staring at bruised knees and scraped palms. Instead, the vest at my front has taken the brunt of the damage and left me in the exact position as just moments prior— the only difference to be had here was the startled look upon Lucas O’Hara’s face that is quickly fading from such to despair.

I do not always think of killing my partner on the third date, but it seems that this time there is no afterthought to be pondered upon. I would enjoy sharing a bottle with him only to shatter the glass over his head and watch his blood spatter the edges.

He does not love me, and I do not, cannot, will not ever love him.

If circumstances were somehow swapped and the possibility was fabricated, I do not know if there would be any change in the course of events. Perhaps the last two instances would have still come to exist, but there was not any change of course in the fact that my sister was dead and gone and I would spend every night alone despite the touch of a warm body beside my own.

I do not believe my sister ever truly loved me beyond the surface of my doubts, and I held no hatred against her for it. She did not see any emotion besides that of her own, and the world around her only served to fuel her thoughts as she saw fit.

I am nothing more than a catalyst; nothing more than the stray bullet that fells the beast and earns no credit for doing so.

Perhaps that is why I am here— to do damage and never fear the reprimands; to be loved but only in the moment that I am beautiful.

There is nothing to be seen here except the dirt beneath our nails and the blood coating our blades, but when I meet his gaze— when I truly look Lucas O’Hara in the eyes and do not let my vision stray, I can see nothing more than missed opportunities and circumstances.

With spear raised and fears aligned, I face him with same smirk and softened voice still stripping with satire, “You know, love, we could both put our weapons down now and go for a third time— entertainment is face value as it goes.”

But I know that our words are both pegged as fables and lies, and I knew that when dealing with a man as smart as Lucas O’Hara there was nothing I could saw that could shift the decision already made in his mind.

My body means nothing here.