eye of the red storm {ree vs teddy; day 7}

My blade buries itself deep within his bicep and all he does it remind me of words I'd kept at the back of my mind behind waves of pain. "Ree. I thought you were gonna put one of those spears through my chest?" My face twists into a grimace when I pull the blade out of his arm and watch the blood spray across the ground, dripping down his arm and rinsing with the rain.

On the second day I had met this boy when a beach became our battlefield, mentality still fresh and body still whole. I'd called him out for what he was, a violent person although he claimed the contrary. Perhaps it was the sight of his golden lance through my friend's chest that began turning my mentality fragile, or perhaps it was the fresh scars I left along his friend's skin that did the contrary to him. I swore I'd end him if he killed Raquel and yet he only left her on death's doorsteps and I took on the heavy task of putting her back together again.

Only to see her face in the stars three days later when the smokescreen lost its previous thickness.

I've always had a questionable moral compass, sustaining rancid addictions by having other people gamble their wealth into my hands because I've never given a fuck about anything beyond my fantasy cloud, and I find myself wondering if I could take everything Teddy has in one stroke. When there's no one to protect, no one to kill for but myself and the hope of seeing another sunrise and losing myself in another forged euphoria.

"I'm not violent. I'm resilient, Ree. I bounce back when people think I can't."

I clench my jaw and roll my shoulders. "Well isn't that just fucking wonderful." And the acid in my lungs is all too real when I step back and we circle each other once again. The only thing between us the intangible storm that we'll bleed to escape. "I can't die here. I'm sorry, Ree. I don't want to do this, but you've forced my hand."

(he raises his spear)

The wound he leaves along my arm is an anchor.

I stumble back, grimacing at the line of crimson that weeps from the wound and only mingles with the rain as it runs down my arm. I do not scream at the sight of my blood hitting the ground in drips and spatters, my hand just flies to the wound as pieces of myself stain my fingertips, like the paint me and Emberly shared in the training center. "I'm not afraid anymore, Ree." I step back when he pauses. "I'm not afraid to kill."

I wonder if Atticus Manor was afraid to kill.

I forgot to ask, between the drinks he downed on the train and the drugs I found in the training center I never thought to hold a conversation on anything that could've been relevant to my survival. I never saw him as an idol or a king, just a man with a bloodied axe and a bloodier spear, but I still wondered. I wondered if he was afraid when he crippled his ally and watched him fall into his early grave, I wondered if he was afraid when he cut down his district partner so he wouldn't have to join her in the graveyard that eagerly awaited their new inhabitants.

I suppress a tremble in silence and the quiver in the face of death; I'm afraid.

I never sewed bravery along my sleeve for all to see and I never proclaimed to the world that I was a man without fear and I never dared to think I could cut someone down and be happy about it.

I never dared think I could put a spear through someone's chest who I proclaimed as a friend.

"Raquel was resilient and Raquel was brave," I say, edging towards him in anticipation for his next movement as I judge for an opening. "And look where she is now." I say, the cold bitterness in the back of my throat a tattoo in the air between us. Bitterness at the thought of her becoming nothing more than an afterthought while she sleeps in the stars while he tries to cut me down, bitterness at the fact I said goodbye to someone who held me when I needed her most only a couple of hours ago.

It's not a lack of fear that's kept me alive this long, it's desperation. Desperation to see another sunrise, desperation to breathe something other than stars in the sky and fresh air within this fabrication of survival. Desperation to be anything but sober; two weeks ago, the idea of taking my last breath while I was anything but high was a concept that drove me to the edge of madness.

Now, it's a possibility that ignites a red fire within my dying veins.

The rain smacks against my blade, rinsing it of the blood from his veins and I raise the glaive without hesitation when I face the possibility of becoming something despicable. "A lack of fear won't stop you from dying without a voice."

[dars]

"When did you become so bitter?"

My skin crawls at the ending of that question, the red chills running down my spine.

There's a whisper of satisfaction that sounds in the back of my mind when my blade runs across his midsection, a nod of my head that signals that this is right -- what I should be doing. I reel back, biting back anger and resentment at the way his question of arbitrary value hang in the back of my mind. His words are glass, cutting deeper than his spear a few moments prior and running a river of red that is synergistic with the cold bite of the storm that accelerates the decay of rationale, I'm left watching pieces of myself scatter to the elements piece by piece.

It doesn't hurt anymore, not the words that follow or the rain pelting my skin or the judgement he lays across my withering shoulders but the words he spoke before my blade bit his skin still echo in the back of my mind."Do you really think that she'd want you to be like this?" He says and he sparks an ignition I buried dormant beneath the soil of my skin, a storm that mirrors this one, a cold fury within my heart like the warm rage of this volcano.

("You gotta win this thing, alright?"

Perhaps the gamemakers will grow tired and bored of watching two nobodies hacking at each other with weapons they possess equal skill with. Perhaps they'll trigger the volcano like they did two days prior and leave us as nothing more than ashes to scatter in the dirt back home. Or maybe they'll have had enough of stoner boy with no talent to show and decide to rupture an organ deep within me and watch me drown in my blood; any of those would be easier to stomach than Raquel's disgusted gaze burning holes in the back of my soul.

"Then kill me. Kill me, just so you can get fucking high for the rest of your days."

"Oh fuck off, Ursa!" I sneer, as if judgement of a man with only three limbs can outweigh the judgement of the legions that disappointed faces who carry the Fer name on their sleeves and all its tragedy. As if his bitter judgement can weather the storm that comes with no one even bothering to look me in the eyes one last time when death's bony fingers dug into my shoulders to scatter my soul into the grave.

"You'd kill anyone, just so you can go back to old habits. Don't you know that we're all fighting for something. What's your reason Ree? Tell me that." He carries on as we continue circling each other, openings for strikes nothing more than white needles lost within the storm. I'm inclined to ignore him because that's all I've known how to do, bluff and ignore.

("You're a fucking mess."

"Disgraceful."

"Waste of space.")

Yet I speak anyway because I feel like I have to. I'm not fighting for the Fer's, who left me to rot in the Justice Building because I wasn't worth their time, I just want to go home. I don't want to look down and see slits on my skin, scars on my heavy soul and holes in my weakening flesh. I don't care for coming home so Luci can kick me when I'm down, or to find Kinsey and have him run into my arms. There's no girl waiting back home for me anxiously and the closest people I have to friends probably don't remember my face because we were always lost within intoxication. Yet Adelaide and Raquel's voices are like loaded guns pressed to the back of my skull. "As if you know anything," I say, clenching my jaw to stop my voice from breaking. "I'm carrying a whole lot of promises on my shoulders and I sure of hell aren't breaking them for you."

When did I become like this?

"I can't remember shit about my past, but if there is one thing I remember. The bitterness only leads to a bitter life." When did I start to hate his grin? When did I start caring about anything other than fucking or smoking? When did I want to hurt someone so bad?

"I don't care." I state simply, a fact that leaves me weightless.

"Bitterness never got me anywhere. You'll learn that soon enough. Raquel would be disappointed."

I don't move when his golden spear comes down.

But I scream when a burst of red leaves my foot, crimson chains wrapping around my foot and tethering me to broken realities and shattered galaxies with agony. I stumble backwards, every step evoking new waves of pain and I thrust my glaive to the ground to halt my descent to the ground.

I spit on his feet, a mixture of green and white blending with the pelting rain and rolling across his feet.

"Don't speak as if you knew her, cunt," I push myself up, gritting my teeth and stumbling forwards. "You weren't her friend, you didn't know her, you put that fucking spear through her chest on the second day." I bring myself forwards, wincing and grimacing with every step I take towards eruption. "I'm the one who defended her when you and your fucking boyfriend tried to cut her down."

I won't be judged be someone carrying an equal amount of sins on his shoulders as I am. Someone with just as much death lacing through his bones as me. And if he thinks he can pass judgement with every stroke of his spear then the following can come to play with my glaive. I will spill iron galaxies from his skin; I can be strong if I need to.

"So how about you take a look at the who's blood is on that weapon of yours before you try to make me look at myself."

My blade strikes bitter for it's the only thing I have left.

[dars]

A spasm as muscle passes across my arms and my glaive skims shallow across his hip and the laughter that follows is overwhelming.

A bite back the frustration that follows, broken promises seeming more and more probable as seconds blur to minutes and minutes blur to the moments that hang between the two of us. I swear, there's blood that drips from his arm and stains the ground and I see nothing but death scattered across the floor. It lingers for a second, biting at the back of my mind and threatening to snap my sanity at a moment's notice. I step back, stumbling for a second and catching myself on the bottom blade of my pole arm. "Fuck." And the curse is barely louder than a whisper drowned by the storm.

Lost answers and broken promises, the agony is made no lighter by his words.

"You think I wanted to put her closer to death?"

I don't want to listen because if there's one thing I learned from my bitter crash into this reality at terminal velocities it's that nobody cares what we want. Not when those who wears crowns only care about what they take, not who they take it from. Not when I've watched separation of neck and head, a bullet shatter a boy's mind and foundations I built upon the blood of others come crumbling down with something as stern as cannon fire. His laughter is pathetic but it's mocking, threatening my sanity with every second it fills the air and every overwhelming moment I bleed nothing but iron galaxies and crimson chains tethering my tired form to the ground.

"You obviously don't know me. I wouldn't expect you to. I didn't kill her, did I? Titus Seraphim did. I left her alive, Fer. I didn't dare kill her. I knew when to stop, but you. You were trying to kill Chester."

"I know that, I know-" Impulsive moments and broken sentences, he cuts me off massively and I'm too weak to even feel frustration.

"I saw Raquel later that day, but you didn't know that, did you? I spared her life when I could have killed her in just one hit. Would you have done the same for Chester? I doubt it."

I don't feel anything at his words because I don't even know if the mercy he speaks of is true or nothing but a fabrication.

"A man who threatened to gut me in the training center. A man who threatened to gut my friend in the arena. Chester's rotten through and through, sorry if you're too blind to see him for what he is but I would never spare someone like that, someone who tries to kill people because he enjoys it." And I leave the statement with conviction. Because for all my flaws, for all the oxygen I waste and the chemical storm I put my body through, I would never try and kill someone because I enjoy it. Threaten to kill a vulnerable person because I wanted to see them squirm.

Death tattooed along my back, life's blood in high demand -- I could never put someone through what people like Chester do to others.

Yet here I am, trying to cut down a man for committing the simple transgression of existing and trying to become something I thought was despicable; a man with a crown who only knows how to take.

I won't give everything I have to him.

(A breath and a pulse, it's all that keeps you going)

"You're pathetic. Spitting like a child who doesn't get his way. Reminds me of Wendell, the man who's blade you wield."

I almost tell him to go fuck himself, but through the shades of red binding my foot to the ground I realize that I would be proving him right.

"You think I don't know that? I've spent the last two years of myself smoking, injecting and drinking myself to an early grave for reasons I don't even fully understand. I'm not exactly someone to look up to." I say simply, like it's a cold fact.

"You're just as awful as him. You preach of who's blood is upon who's weapon, but don't think I forgot about Rhetoric's upon you and your allies weapons."

Elevators and hours between bed sheets; I don't forget about the wounds I left on Rhetoric's skin and I don't expect him to either. But his words spark fuels left deep within my skin, like an ignition of the powerless. "You're wrong." I state simply but my words lack my former conviction as I grimace with every step and wince with every movement.

I could never wield the same power as Wendell Gordon.

Once upon a time, despite spending half of my time lost within chemical storms, I tried to at least leave people with the positives of myself. Laughter around the neck of a bottle, sharing a joint on a rooftop, dragging them home when they'd had a bit too much. I never threatened someone with the point of a spear for the simply sin of pushing me to the ground, never tried to torment someone before killing them because I enjoyed it. I could never be a Chester or a Wendell, leaving pieces of myself with people so they could rot and fester.

Until the arena at least, the legion of wounds left on his skin is evidence that one redeeming quality has been wiped clean at this point.

His next words become a blur behind the flashing golden glint in his spear, stripped of mobility, I can only raise my arm to shield the worst of what he can do when he opens my skin and I scream.

I almost fall.

But I refuse to let my back hit the ground because I know the first time such an event occurs it will be the last. Instead, I stumble back and use the back blade as a crutch. I look down, a essence dripping from the gorge left in my forearm and a red rim quickly washed away by the the rain pelting my skin.

"You think I haven't heard this all before?" The cracks in my voice become evermore visible than the pieces of myself he reveals beneath my skin with his spear. A red blur passing across my vision, I don't let him see the weakness sewn within my fading heart. "You think what you say can hurt me?"

I know what I am.

I'm a boy who fucked the killer of one of his friends and befriended the killer of the other. I'm a boy who believes in alternate realities and once believed he was one the precipice of invisibility because he hallucinated that he was better than everyone else. Seventeen years old and it took death's scythe pressing against my neck and skeletal fingers clutched around my heart to find people who I cared about when I scratched below the surface.

And it took one of them dying for me to even believe in myself.

Now I'm here, letting myself break beneath the weight of the only promises I've made and cared about and letting them break at the point of this boy's golden spear and conviction to take everything I have left to offer.

"You may have the moral fucking high ground in your perfect fantasy world, you may kill me but I know that you'll probably follow me within the next two days and that's what'll keep me going."

I take everything I have and scatter my blood in the storm.

[dars]

Bitter words spoken are lost between my glaive skimming shallow across his cranium and his spear piercing my midsection, cutting off desperate breaths and leaving my with a bleeding wound I did not put high on my list of priorities three days prior but left scarring the skin of those who found themselves in my way little more than days earlier. The disparity in skill is only made apparent between my last desperate stroke and the final thrust of his golden edge, spilling blood not even worthy of a rank between my fingers.

"Now get up and fight me, fucker."

I listed the things I would cling to tightly when my name was drawn from that bowl; the movement of my muscles, the steadiness of my step, the rise and all of my chest.

I fall to one knee, despair outweighing the luxuries I waived for over two years with chemical rage between my teeth and needles in my skin. Dirt tracks along my skin, spear marks within my flesh -- what's the fucking difference?

I spit at his feet, this time it runs red.

A day ago I would have begged and bargained in the shadow of death. The way it's scythe could loom overhead; now I only spit in defiance of the unavoidable. I parted with my packs of sin only a few hours prior, deciding my days of bargaining with wealth could not save me from the steel in anyone blade or the rancid breath of any mutation; I don't even have a pound of flesh to offer for my life's blood was never worth anything to anyone.

(Except to me)

I want to fall, succumb beneath the weight of gravity and the fatigue that rests on my shoulders and laces its way up my bones. But instead of biting cold asphalt and being met with a face full of blood I want to be met with a face full of Raquel's hair. Emberly's warmth. Clementina's touch. For someone, anyone to take me by the collar and pull me from the early grave I only feared when met with a golden edge.

I never had chemicals to run within my veins, but I ignored death's shadow while that pack of cards rested heavy in my pocket. While Emberly could hold me when I shook, when Clementina could pat my back when I was weak and when Raquel could wrap my wounds in bandages and the opposite could come into play. Yet watched two out of the four pillars that supported our structure of desperation quickly proved packs of cards and bargaining power could easily be replaced by despair within my chest and golden flecks within my stomach.

Before he shattered hopes I secretly held in the back of my mind, he almost sounded like he wanted to console me while I succumbed to moments of decay.

"I don't want to be remembered," I cough, weakness a badge pinned to my chest and despair strewn across my heavy shoulders. The odds were always stacked against me, towering to take the shape of black ravens and grey smoke clouds -- I will never find my fantasies again. "I'd rather just--" I cough, pausing, teetering on my heels as I bring myself up. Not quite steady but far from weak.

(--I'd rather just live.)

"I'd rather just be anything but sober right now."

I'd driven myself on that desperation, to bless my skin with needle marks and my lungs with pieces of decay.

I lift my glaive, red glinting in the corner of my eye. "So burn my picture, spit on my grave. Do whatever it takes to forget me."

Once, I'd made a promise to the two who I knew were important to me. A last fragment of home and a dying girl who's hand I held when we both needed it most. I should've known better than to make promises under the influence of grief and despair because such fragile resolve tends to shatter beneath the pressure of insanity induced by captivity within sobriety.

[dars]