the whole world is watching / round two

I crack my neck, stretch my shoulders. See, the thing people don't really consider is how much of a workout this is. Sure, the cuts and scrapes hurt- most of all my hip, thanks to the little brat whose throat I've just caved in. But the thing that hurts the most is my lower back, and I don't know if it's from swinging this axe around all day or if it's from carrying basically all of the talent in the 6th Hunger Games. Little Guy's blood splattered right across my face and I sniff through my nose to get it out of my nostril.

"Gross."

I look out the window to see the others still hard at work. Typical. I take a seat in one of the booths, rip off the pink tulle stapled to its sides and tie it around my neck like a cape, crazed royalty with bloodlust. God, I want so badly to hear Terra's skull crushing under my boot and it has not ever been more of a possibility than it is now. I guess there's probably only about four or five of them left at this point, right? Clearly, it's all in a day's work. Kiddo here made number... four, I think?

I haven't even gotten to the stomping part in the fantasy playing out in my head before JJ Moreau's voice interrupts my train- heh- of thought.

"Delia!"

She pauses between each syllable of my name- dee-lee-uh. I make a pathetic attempt to groom myself, an exasperated smile on a blood-covered face as I try to comb through my hair with my hands, straighten the ripped remnants of my clothing. I'm sure I look as delightfully deranged as I feel. Good.

"JJ!" I call back excitedly.

"Congrats on Top Four, girl!"

I curtsy, fanning out my tulle cape. JJ is very personable. I think she's probably a good connection to have and, seeing as I'm about to become a victor, we'll probably be seeing some of each other. Maybe she'll even help me get Terra if I get in good enough with her- who knows?

"How's it feel making it all this way?"

I quirk an eyebrow and raise my hands into the air.

"Fuckin' fabulous. I earned it, though!"

"Oh, trust me, I know! What's your kill count right now?"

I hold up four fingers- "For now."

"Has it made you feel different at all?"

"No." I turned those parts of myself off to make sure.

"Well, you swing that axe like it's your job! Did you train with one, or something?"

"Thanks! Nah, I didn't train for this. I've just made a career outta beatin the shit out of people who have it comin back home."

"Speaking of, what's the first thing you're gonna do when you get back home?"

"Oh, I have plans. But they aren't waiting until I get home." I wink at her before my eyes find Terra again. I won't even wait until tomorrow. I won't sleep until it's done or I'm dead.

I blow her a kiss as she blinks off the screen. A moment's pause, a yawn, and then I heft my axe onto my shoulder and make my way out of the train car.

I mean it when I say this: genuinely every movement makes my body ache in soreness. My shoulders, my back, my knees, my arms, even the bottoms of my feet throb dully with each thrum of my heartbeat. Tell me I'm not earning my keep. Tell me I'm not as good as him. Tell me I'll never live up to his legacy. Tell me I'm a fool for trying. Tell me. Because I want to prove you wrong. Hell, at this point, I probably already have. Ramsey was entertaining, sure, but he's the kind of person you love to root against, you know? Big strong guy, full of himself, talented to boot, abrasive by nature- they're a lot of the same traits I have. Only difference is, I can tell when to use it and when not to. He was truly, truly an asshole, that's just facts. Nothing was worth anything more than his own self, he thought.

Plus, I've already killed more than him. But you know, who's counting? Listen. I'm competitive. Sue me.

My ribs sting with an inhale as my feet carry me onto the solid ground of the arena. I stretch to the side, exercise my rotator cuffs. Three left? Pssh. I wonder if Red will be one of 'em, or if she was too clever for her own good. Way I figure it, at least if I'm out here in the open, she can't sneak up on me like the little creep she is.

Speaking of.

She has the same haircut as me, but I'm definitely rockin' it better, between you and me. She's another one of the quiet ones, like Red. Thinkers. Getting all cerebral and planning out their every move for every situation before it even happens. I can tell by the eyes, the awareness. Some people just make a bitch feel seen but in the worst ways, you know? I wipe at my forehead and her eyes glint up at it and suddenly I feel weirdly insecure about it, you know? I guess it's because there aren't many people like her in the scrapyard. Closest thing to it would've been... shit, I guess me.

She doesn't look like much, but she's made it this far and that's probably why. I don't make the mistake of under-estimating her- oh no. I've been saying it all day: it's the quiet it ones you gotta watch out for. This girl probably gets freaky when she loses her shit. I gotta play to win, though. I gotta pull out all the stops.

"Let’s get this over with, shall we?"

I roll my eyes. Oh, brother. She swings her axe and she's quick enough for it to count as impressive. Her weight distribution is off and she is throwing herself off-balance in the after-swing but, you know, the girl has gumption, I gotta hand it to her.

She just catches my shoulder and I hear the sound of tearing as the blade rips through fabric and flesh alike. I hiss in pain.

"Let's."

Her sense of confidence annoys me. It isn't that she's confident, necessarily, so much as it seems to come and go, ebbing and flowing. I see flashes of it in her eyes, lengths of time where I've never seen someone so sure of themselves, and then it's just gone in an instant and she's back to the mousy exterior and the quiet demeanor. I can't tell which way is up with her, and that's my problem. She's a bad actor, who the fuck cares? My problem is that I don't know which emotion is the real one. Is she really scared, and trying her very best to put on a brave face? Or is she playing a character, making herself small enough that she can be the serpent hiding beneath the flowers of her gentle, knowing eyes?

I'm not buying it, I'm not trusting her, and I'm not interested in learning anything more about her. It's easier for me that way, I guess. One of the worst parts of this, of locating a target's weaknesses, is that you have to humanize them to do it. You have to see the slight limp in their left leg and wonder if they got it falling out of a tree as a child. You have to see the way their hair falls over their eyes and their gaze is trained on the ground to wonder if its because they've been talked down to. And that's why the switch helps. It is only a temporary fix for a problem that'll never go away, but that's just how it has to be sometimes, I think. You keep putting bandaids on the bullet holes and hoping it'll be enough, because to stop is to die. And. And-

I don't want to die.

As much as I want to win, as much as I want to exact my revenge, as much as I want to prove that I'm more than a remnant and a fucking after-thought: I want to live. Because this shit is too much for an eighteen year old. It's way too much. I can feel it starting to overwhelm me and I make the stupid decision to let it. Not long, just for a second. A wave of grief washes over me and the soreness I feel all around turns to nausea for what I've done. My eyes lock to hers and I see that she's been speaking- shit. I missed it. Something something home, I think.

My lip trembles with the thought of it.

"You’re really gonna let a sewer rat from Six be the end of you?"

And then she lunges, and because I let myself feel something in this place- which I told myself not to do- I only have time to hold my hand up in an attempt to block it. The blade digs its way deep into my arm, a dull throb that screams in searing agony long before my own bellows of pain escape me. I feel it when she pulls it out, feel it rip through muscle tissue and vein and splintered bone. I feel when it gets caught on my skin upon its attempted exit. I feel the jerk as she forces it free, and the tearing that comes with it. White hot flames consume my vision.

"FUUUUUUUCK!"

I stumble back to give myself some sort of recovery time, use my axe as a cane to keep myself upright. I feel it coming. My throat tightens in protest and I try to labor my breathing but there's no stopping. I bend over at the waist and I vomit, all bile and humanity. I let it leave me, stuttering over my inhale to right myself.

"No!" I don't know what it means. If it's an answer, or a warning, or a threat, or an act of rebellion against my own body. I find her where she's standing, and I say it to her directly:

"No!"