i think i'm okay; Nylon/Bastian post bb
Oct 17, 2021 12:47:36 GMT -5
Post by charade on Oct 17, 2021 12:47:36 GMT -5
It’s—all a haze really.
The sunlight beating down and warming my skin. The smell of blood in the air and the creaking of those bridges in the distance.
I don’t care now.
Javelins have never been my forte, neither has fighting in groups larger than four whenever mom made all of us spar together. Yeah, I can own that, stumbling away from the main battle and huddling behind one of those giant eggs like a little bitch while I tried to staunch the bleeding.
I’m a career, I’m not stupid. Losing a limb in the bloodbath is a good way to get gangbanged to death. I don’t blame them. If I’d have cut someone’s leg off I’d have pressed the advantage too.
Fuck; this pain. I’d be turned on if it hurt a bit less. It's a stinging sensation that manages to be hot and cold at the same time. The drip of blood drops spattering the ground is almost a lullaby.
There were seven tributes still in when I left, leaving bits of me behind. Three of them were the rest of the career pack. I counted four cannons while I sat here, clutching the ruin of my arm.
I swear to gawd the boys better have killed the sixer’s, nine and Liza. I’m going to be pissed otherwise. You know, when I said I could win this thing by myself with one arm tied behind my back, I didn’t mean literally.
Fuck me. And fuck that boy from nine.
Those tribs had balls to go after their biggest threat in the first fight though. Typical lower district mentality. They hate us cause they ain’t us.
When I bite down on my shirt collar to muffle my screaming it tastes like rage with a hint of salt. But I have to, because I’m using my jacket as a terrible tourniquet and it hasn’t quite stopped the bleeding.
What? You try tying a jacket around the stump of your arm with one hand. Fuck.
Somewhere close I can even hear the sound of a pathetic excuse for a career from one crying. She sounds upset, and sort of familiar. Just—look at the stump of where my left forearm used to be, I think she's mumbling.
The silver lining here is that I’m one step closer to becoming the next Ridley Le Roux. I’m really—really following in her footsteps.
I don’t need to be whole to cross the finish line. I just need to cross it. You know, a lesser tribute would be feeling sorry for themselves right now. I don’t. I’m not most tributes.
I’m Nylon Fuckin’ Gingham.
I can hear someone making their way towards me too.
So despite how lightheaded it makes me feel, I struggle to my feet, pulling myself up with one hand and fixing my hair. Rule six of being a career. Never let them see you cry. So I put my face back on, and adjust my hair, because of rule four. Always look the part.
So maybe I’m only 75% of who I was going in here. That’s still worth more than 100% of all of these bitches.
My hand tightens around a javelin and I spin around the edge of the egg, ready to throw it. But it’s just Basty, and he looks about as bad as I feel. I lower the weapon and I stumble towards him, trying to keep that sway to my hips I’ve been practicing, but like—I just don’t have the energy for it.
“Bastian, you fucker,” It comes out weaker than I mean it to; the vertigo hits or maybe it’s just the blood loss and I pitch forward, slumping against his shoulder with a sudden exhaustion that hits me harder than stepping in front of a train. “You were supposed to be watching my back. What, eyes glued to my ass again?”
It’s in that moment I realize he’s standing there alone and I let out a tired sigh of longsuffering.
“Tell me those cannons didn’t include the boys.”
I really wasn’t planning on shopping for new allies this soon.
