frigida corda ; penelope v. curtus ; day seven

He moves before I can gut him.

And I shouldn't, I know this — but I scoff. I look down at this tribute, this boy who refuses death, and I have the audacity to feel disgust. I pretend like I am not looking at myself. Bloody, and broken, but standing. It will take more than my words to fell him.

His own tongue is just as sharp, rusted along the edges but cutting where it counts. I do not lose my smile as he speaks, the coldness in my eyes. I want him to make me hate him — I need him to make this easier. I am a killer asking for an excuse.

He confirms that he has his own demons, as red and terrible as the blood on his hands. All I have to show are my blades, tarnished from frost and waste. "Do you regret it?" It's not my place to ask, and it's a question I would be unable to answer, but I cannot stop the words.

"Who you've become in here.
Do you regret any of it?"

I tilt my head to the side, smirking at the hidden cameras before they can pick up on my rebellion. I will not be the girl who challenges authority, who questions the system that feeds her; I will accept the bread. I will feast on that poison as long as it keeps me alive.

"I don't." Except I do — except I will never be able to tell him this. "I made a promise to survive, and I'm seeing it through. I won't die." And i will, someday, but I cannot tell myself this. "Even if that means I have to kill everyone in my way."

Maybe I want him to hate me, too.

Maybe we're all looking for excuses.

This one is mine.

"We can't share the crown."

"We're not so different, I guess."

Except he still has hands. Except he is the still the same person that entered this arena — at least on the surface. Something dangerous stirs in me, a flame of jealousy that sparks in the pit of my stomach. I am a moth seeking warmth, wholeness. And then suddenly I'm breathing fire.

Not because I am bitter, and not because I want him to hurt, but because I am. "If you want the crown so bad, take it from me." I am reaching for it, begging for that cruel and glorious touch of gold, when his blade meets my arm and slices through the skin.

My limb hangs from the bend of my elbow, muscles torn and blood spurting — and my axe weighs it down, tearing the flesh until it is nearly stripped from my body. And I can't stop screeching, bringing my other weapon to my teeth and biting into the steel. I taste rust, and my lips sting, but everything is numb compared to this.

This is torture.

And I've been here before, but nothing has prepared me for this moment. This is a different kind of pain, an unfamiliar beast that has come to tear into me. I don't know how to defeat it — I do not know what it wants. But it leaves with a part of me, and I'm left bleeding on the snow.

"Lucky shot." I do not hide the spite in my voice, the vicious glare of my eyes. He saw an opening, and he took it — I am not foolish enough to suggest that I would have not done the same. My voice is raw, cracking in my throat and cutting through me. I choke on the sounds of my pain.

"It will take more than that." I am sure I have made this clear to him, but now I'm saying it to myself. 'It will take more than that to finish me.' Because I'm not — I'm not finished — I'm not ready to go. "Go for my throat. Take off my head."

I stalk closer, legs shaking and severed arm still hanging by my side. "Stab me through the fucking heart. That's what it will take to kill me." I turn on my heel, accepting what I am about to do. I tell myself that I used to be an acrobat — but I never stopped. They can't cut out my identity.

And then I'm spinning on my feet, screaming as my arm and the axe are finally set free — and they sail forward. I am aiming to destroy.

"Did no one ever to teach you not to play with your food?"

I am snarling, tears running down my cheeks. I am feral and broken.

"I'm going to devour you."

This boy is cruel, and terrible — and not a monster at all. I hate him for it. His voice is cool and edged, but not in a needlessly vicious way. Not like Reyes. And when he cuts into me, he does not kick me when I'm down. He doesn't take the easy shot.

Not like the world.

And here I am, nails digging into the earth — and I've stopped screaming, but my cheeks are still red, and I'm covered in blood. I refuse to let go, even as hands tighten around my throat. My life has become a sort of unconsciousness, blinking in and out of awareness.

I try to focus on my target, on how he reacts to the axe in his thigh — on his words — but I feel faint, nodding my head without even hearing a question. When he strikes, all I can do is turn to the side, tripping over my legs and falling to my knees. His sword catches the back of my head, but the pain pales in comparison to what I have already endured.

"I'll keep that in mind." I reply to him shortly, trying to remember what he said. I allow my head to lull forward, closing my eyes and leaving myself vulnerable. I focus on the wind moving through my hair, the chill of winter. I smell death around me. I do not want to see it.

"Tell me," and I pause long enough to pull myself to my feet, pressing my good axe to a nearby tree to steady myself. "Have I made it easy? Hating me?" I swallow, trying to ease the hoarseness of my voice. "Don't try to sweet talk me. I know I'm horrible."

I am horrible because I need to be — because playing the villain is the safest option. For me, at least; and that's who I have to choose. Here, in this arena, I have to choose myself. I step forward and roll my shoulder back, readying my blade. I will always choose to fight.

"One of us is too selfish to die.
I have to prove that it's me."

When he strikes, it is all I can do to turn to the side. I take the point of his sword to my arm, unable to meet his gaze as it slices through the skin. The pain engulfs me, for a moment, but then it is swallowed by the adrenaline coursing through my veins — by the agony that I have already endured.

I do not want to be numb, but I want to survive.

My body has chosen what sacrifices to make.

This boy is strange, and gentle — gentle in the way that the sky shifts as a storm brews, leaves rustling across the ground. He is a warning sign. And I am taking him seriously, trying to prepare myself for the full force of his power, but there is a part of me that wants to fall to the ground.

Not to die, but to rest; and I have to remind myself that there is no difference between the two. I cannot afford to stop here, to hand him an olive branch and pour out my soul. It trickles out of me, like my blood. Not enough to drown us. And I have sharpened that wood into a blade, and I know what I must do.

I speak as I lower myself to the ground, nudging my bag with my knee and propping it upwards. I try to mask the clumsiness of my actions, the movements of a girl with one hand — but even then it's just a stump, an axe impaled through my flesh. Nothing in me is made to be soft. The snow crunches beneath me, but all I can hear is the rough sound of our breathing.

"I don't hate you, either." I don't know what I feel for him, but I am too tired to give it a name. I just let it rise in me, hoping it will fester into an emotion strong enough for me to kill him. "And maybe that's true, but not for me. Not here." I've hooked my good elbow around the handle of a spare weapon in my bag, jerked it upwards.

"I'm not a gambler, Three.
I'm a winner."

I smile at him, laughing quietly — and then I scream. I shove the severed end of my right arm onto the log splitter leaning against my knee, enough that the fire in my body comes back to life and my vision begins to blur. Enough that I can hold it, even without hands. Call it improvisation, I call it survival.

My weight shifts to the side as I stand up, my stomach rolls — but I catch my footing after a few moments, closing my eyes until the world stops spinning. When I open them, I am staring at my enemy. At the stranger. At the other animal trapped in this cage with me. This needs to be a mercy kill. I am setting us both free.

"You—" my voice cracks, but then I stop.

I cannot finish that sentence.

'You deserve more than this.'

I have to pretend like this is okay.

I have to pretend like I'm okay.

"You fought well.
You can stop now."