oh, reddest rose | {angel/mackenzie} blitz

even though i haven’t step foot in the arena, there are bruises tattooed to my knuckles that haven’t quite healed, all of them a stinging reminder of the training session. they have not announced the individual scores but i’m certain i am sitting at rock bottom.

mackenzie advises me to have more confidence and it’s so effortless for him to say that, with his gleaming, brown wreath and stars mirrored across hazel eyes.

i lost my confidence when the orphanage staff told me about my enriched past, at an age where i’d stopped playing with wooden soldiers and red capes.

(‘your parents, they left you.’ )

they did not bother sugarcoating it,
just a cold, hard, unabridged truth.

it’s an autumnal day. mist wraps around the capitol’s skyscrapers like grey vines, and i stare at the jungle of white and neon. they are so close that i could reach out, and wouldn’t be surprised if the fluorescents burned against my calloused palms. a cold shower cleared my head a bit and washed the dried blood caught under my fingernails, my blood. the blood of a foolish angel that doesn’t fear exile.

how typical they must see me as: a rebellious boy with an overwhelming amount of pent-up anger, engaging in a brawl with a simulation. 

the elevator doors creak open, giving entrance to mackenzie. eyes wash over his form for a quick second before averting, back to the cityscape which breathes neon. it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who’s sitting beside me after a moment’s worth. 

“i hope you get to experience the world someday.” he utters; i don’t reply. “you could, you know? if you wanted. you're thin, but you're quick. just —”

just don’t be afraid to go for the jugular vein, if the opportunity grandly presents itself.

“allies matter, allies matter, but there's only one winner. don't let them get too close.” i blink, and in the short interval of darkness, i see parson’s face brightly. i see the girl from four and another with a strange alias: hell.

“and don't ever give up. no matter what.”

fingers pick up the rose, twirling it around to search for thorns. i see only a singular one, possibly there for aesthetic reasons.

“were you scared or petrified before you went in? there’s a difference between the two, you know. fear has layers. scared, is the trembling of teeth and nightmares and nervousness.

but petrification,

that’s more complex to explain, because there’s nothing much to offer an explanation about. it’s just paralysis. a total shutdown of mind and body, complete numbness in the senses.

petrification strips us of our humane qualities, because it’s preparing us for the inhumane horrors ahead.”

pad of a thumb sinks down that green thorn and it draws out a pearl, colored scarlet. i don’t flinch. i don’t feel. i am numb.