gods and men | {mackenzie day 1.5}

I've got a cold heart and cold hands
I'll make you wanna be where I am
if you only knew my plans
oh, if you only knew who I am

He was the paper boy remnants of who he used to be, reduced to a face and a name on the side of a milk carton. If found, please contact—

His mother may have already buried an empty coffin, for all he knew. Or, she could have understood. This was not without reason. He wanted to live. For her. For Maxine. For himself. Hands still shaking, he lowered his gaze to them, covered in the blood of so many others. He couldn't get the images out of his head: the gaping hole he'd put in that boy's stomach, for starters. Mackenzie didn't even know his name; it was the most twisted sort of torture, thinking about the most horrendous things he had ever done.

Or the sliced open leg he'd given to Ollie Brooke, innocent little thing. She attacked his group, and in the moment, that was unforgivable. But he looked up at the sky, willing her to know that she was forgiven, willing her to know that they were even until further notice. He hoped she died a quick death when it came time for it. Like Faline, she was too small, too pure for a world so dark that shadows no longer existed, where blood filled the streets and tears made paths down dirty cheeks.

What about Zion? He was pure, too. Mackenzie thought back to the brief conversation they'd had when he taught the boy how to throw an ax in the training center. He was not a bad guy; Mackenzie might have even been considered the bad guy after what happened in the bloodbath, when his spear ripped across the flesh of Zion's left cheek.

People could not be friends here; the world did not allow it. There was only Anger, and passion, and death. Darkness and blood and tears.

He stood vacant at the mouth of what could have easily been the biggest tree he'd ever seen. He and the others had discovered it by chance, a warm glow beckoned from within its centuries-old roots, and they dared to listen. Within, the walls were encrusted with gemstones and hues of gold; a rich man's dream. He felt music within his bones when he walked inside; his soul a swan song, lamenting in ways of beauty he did not know were possible for mere mortals. This, he thought, hand on the steady tree, was only meant to be observed by gods.

And that was the thing about the Capitol; they loved to play god. Cut one, and they would bleed gold.

And he was just a boy; an article title. He wondered what they were saying about him; if his face was plastered on every newspaper as the next to fall, or the one to take it all. Surely, they knew he was destined to die. He was not like them; mortals did not live forever. He was a boy from Seven, a handsome face with subpar survival skills. He bet he was the kind of tribute they wanted to die, just so they could mourn his death.

Even still, parachutes rained down on him, sponsors sending him a message that they did not want him to die just yet. He received a water canteen, armor, medical supplies that could've meant the difference between life and death. He looked up at the stars one last time, silent thank you for their faith, and disappeared within the tree.

There was a feint voice in his head that told him this was too perfect, that nothing good could come from something as attention-seeking as this. He was meant to find this place, as were others, and he wouldn't have been surprised if the Gamemakers weren't currently leading other tributes right to them. Beds filled with feathers, warmth, shelter; there were pools of water, crystal clear, sweet to the taste.

The Gods have good taste, then, he thought.

He ducked within what appeared to be the forest's beating heart and did not come back out until morning.

normally I break your heart
I love every minute, tear you apart
late at night I lie awake
just thinking about your pretty face

song: let me touch your fire