cardboard

thompson harvard - d2b - arc
Veteran Member

2,623 POSTS

Pronouns: he/him
last seen Nov 16, 2024 9:33:49 GMT -5

cardboard Mar 1, 2022 12:41:21 GMT -5

Quote

Post by thompson harvard - d2b - arc on Mar 1, 2022 12:41:21 GMT -5

I don't know if I like the feeling of a broken foot. It's not that I dislike it. It's a battle wound, which makes me a warrior already. I basically already won this shit. If I can survive with a broken foot - might as well cut it off. I'm no winner of war if I don't leave healthy.

If you're a winner of war without scars, you're a liar. You're a liar to the fibrous tissue that builds up and collects on your skin, creating a bump that feels funny to run your finger over. It feels scaley. Like a lizard's back if you were told to give it a rub. A snake would be a better comparison - I am the snake from Eden's garden, after all.

Sometimes you pick at it for fun, the scar. The feeling of peeling it back with your fingernail becomes therapeutic. Or maybe you do it so that scar always grows back, reminding you of the carelessness that led you to the scar. Or maybe you don't like seeing the scar. Or maybe your hands just need something to do in the moments of silence, like they weren't supposed to be resting by your side, doing nothing.

In one of the books on the shelf of my suite, the story spoke of men and women returning from home with lost fingers, toes, hands, feet, legs, arms. They returned in a wheelchair or with one of those fake legs that are supposed to represent the real thing. Or they came back with nightmares. Keeping you up late at night, reminding you of your past, as if the jolting from a slamming door or the side-eye of a person cutting food with a knife. The distrust. That was war. That was winning. Sacrificing as much of yourself as possible to return home to the people that you loved. But it didn't matter because you were alive.

I don't know if I love anyone. I don't really have someone specific to return home to besides the horses in the barn. Maybe January - he's a sweet kid. When we first met I was building a slightly better chicken coop. He offered to help as best as he could - which was really just him attempting to paint the damn thing. I didn't trust him to hammer a nail into his hand. But he helped a lot, and it was nice. Sure, I'm named after his shitty ass grand-uncle. But I am not him, and January isn't the mirror of him either. His help was like this Canvas guy, I think that's what he said his name was. I'm bad with names, but if they help me out I'll try and remember it. It's my way of saying thank you.

"So, Canvas-" I hope that was right, a grunt following his name as we try to hobble my way out. I took a few steps on my own but it wasn't going to work. "What's up with you? The story, all that crap." It sounds ingenuine, but this is about as genuine I can get. "I guess if we're gonna be in this together we should probably know each other a bit, huh?" Hopefully this works. I wonder if we'll find anything useful, or if we'll just be walking aimlessly. It's pretty fucking hot in here but I'm used to it, due to the summers spent laying in the barn with only the shade to save me.

[ gathers 15 ft bandages ]

Knuckles
Librarian

4,984 POSTS
Pronouns: he/him
last seen Nov 22, 2024 1:19:28 GMT -5

probably flailing over something

cardboard Mar 1, 2022 23:37:25 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Knuckles on Mar 1, 2022 23:37:25 GMT -5

Each breath catches in the back of his throat as he tries dragging his new friend further away from the chaos of the bloodbath. This isn't how he imagined his time in the arena going, but deep inside Canvas is grateful for some company. It won't last forever, yet at the moment not being alone offers a relief. Only it doesn't offer relief from the heat. Sweat drips from his brow into his eyes, the inside of his nose is dry, and his lips are chapped, and it's incredibly uncomfortable.

Every step feels like it drains all his strength, but he keeps going on for as long as possible getting further away from it all. The lifeless faces of those who died stain his eyes, and all the blinking in the world will never get rid of the horrible images. For a couple of families, this is reality. Any hope they might've have has crumbled down, and Canvas stands tall trying to keep his family from getting too down.

Hope is such a powerful word, and sometimes people become too hopeful, and while twenty-two remain in the game, Canvas knows hope means nothing. It's a foolish word many try to hold onto. Maybe while his heart beats and his lungs expand, there is a bit of hope, yet deep inside it means nothing. It breaks heart, crushes dreams, shatters realities, and yet at this moment it's all anyone living through this hell has.

Thinking of home is too painful because seeing it again is very unlikely, but the faces of those he loves keeps him going, keeps him carrying his company forward when all he wants is to find some shade, somewhere to get out of the sun as it tries pulling every ounce of water from his being.

He only stops for a second when Sven speaks asking about his story, saying they should get to know each other better, but why? What's the purpose when one will definitely die? Why try to make friends with someone when it's simply a foolish thing to do? Of course friends carry people through these, they help succeed in the darkest hours, but what's the cost? Does it make a difference?

"Well, I'm an artist." He says half heartedly unsure of where to turn from there. "It helps me let go of any emotion I feel. I've lost family to the games, and with my relative for a mayor, I figured life would get better." Canvas isn't sure what Sven is asking for, but he's trying to tell a story, trying to tell some things he wants the entire world to hear, but at this moment, none of it matters. He's just a boy trapped within an unscripted play.

"Only it didn't make a difference."

A heavy sigh leaves his chest as he thinks about those he loved, those he cared about, those who are rotting beneath the ground.

"I figure being an artist is only right, though, since my parents decided to name me Canvas." A small smile spreads across his face. The whole world is a canvas, and nature paints many beautiful pictures, and he simply tries to capture them all. "I try to use art as a way to keep myself busy. It makes time pass by quicker. It eases my mind."

A downcast gaze locks on the ground;

"But most importantly, it gives me hope."

Some may realize hope is a fragile thing, yet it's true. It offers hope that one day the world will become better even though Canvas knows better especially now.

"Enough about me." Canvas pauses and turns to Sven, "What about you? What's your story?"

credit to griffin <3

collects 15ft bandages

lest we forget [the characters]

credit to Zoe

thompson harvard - d2b - arc
Veteran Member

2,623 POSTS

Pronouns: he/him
last seen Nov 16, 2024 9:33:49 GMT -5

cardboard Mar 2, 2022 16:11:46 GMT -5

Quote

Post by thompson harvard - d2b - arc on Mar 2, 2022 16:11:46 GMT -5

The thing about war is that you don't know who you'll run into. Who you'll befriend, even when the enemy is right behind your back. In this instance, he's got his arm around mine. I wasn't sure how open the guy would be about his life. One of us will die after all, why bother knowing our story? Maybe we could redeem it when we get home. COntinue their legacy a bit by living on in their name.

Not that I had any other name to live for besides myself anyway. Canvas opens up, stating that he's an artist. Huh. Talk about branding. The Yorgos' clan ran with the Yogurt shit for a long time which annoyed the fuck out of me. Come on, just because they both start with Yo- doesn't mean anything. Sure it was kind of fun to say, but it still was a pretty shit idea to think about. "It helps me let go of any emotion I feel. I've lost family to the games, and with my relative for a mayor, I figured life would get better." Well, shit. At least he had a good method for coping with all of it. Not that mine wasn't.

Okay, maybe it is, realistically. January and I once talked about my issues with September. How I was angry at him. Hateful at this thought that anyone would do such a thing. Give people hope that a return was possible to only leave at the last possible moment before returning, the thing that I've been bitching about ever since I knew what happened. But like how a lot of these people here, September had no choice. And sure, I deserve to cut him some slack. But if he wasn't designed to fight, why fight?

"Only it didn't make a difference."

A sigh follows the statement, and I also relate to him there. The conversations, no matter who with and what about, never changed my thoughts on September. "I figure being an artist is only right, though, since my parents decided to name me Canvas." An innocent smile dashes on his face, boyish in a way.

What a bitch.

"I try to use art as a way to keep myself busy. It makes time pass by quicker. It eases my mind. But most importantly, it gives me hope." His gaze is now locked in on the ground.

Mega bitch.

"Enough about me. What about you? WHat's your story?" He's now turned to face me as if he cares. If he was anything like me, he only moderately cared. Or maybe he's genuine. I haven't met many genuine people outside of January.

"Well, I live on my own. At my grandparents/fathers' old barn." I grimace slightly, mostly because I don't like this idea of letting the country know my story. But it'll be known eventually if I return home, no? "I'm named after my grandparents' old boyfriend. He was in one of the very first few Games. His family had code names during the war, or something like that." He was a warrior too, yes, but a failed one. "I don't know why they named me after the old guy if he's dead. And if his death led to my grandparents. And Appa's to my dad-" at this point I'm just venting again. "So I just live on my own. In their barn with all of the horses. I like 'em, I normally don't do the whole people thing. It's nicer when I don't have to like... talk to people and be vulnerable and shit." At this point I sound more uncomfortable than casual. I give a shrug. "Appa was named after a type of horse - Appaloosa - so I like taking care of the horses. It's my way of staying connected I guess without having to say it."

That's one thing about me that is never going to die - when asked for the story, you'll get it. My version at least. The dead ones don't matter.

[continues walking w' canvas, leaves with]

Last Edit: Mar 2, 2022 16:12:49 GMT -5 by thompson harvard - d2b - arc

Knuckles
Librarian

4,984 POSTS
Pronouns: he/him
last seen Nov 22, 2024 1:19:28 GMT -5

probably flailing over something

cardboard Mar 3, 2022 0:16:35 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Knuckles on Mar 3, 2022 0:16:35 GMT -5

Sometimes silence is scary, especially right now knowing that someone could be lurking from behind. It's so easy for others to sneak around, to silently step across the arena and never alert someone to their presence. Yet in this moment, Canvas is thankful. Not talking doesn't break him, it doesn't bring any bad memories to mind, and instead it gives him a chance to listen, a chance to learn, a chance to get to know this guy, and seeing that most of his time in the Capitol was spent hiding from others, now is the chance to break those barriers down.

And he listens carefully as Sven speaks taking everything in. It doesn't matter if Sven didn't hear a single word Canvas said. It doesn't matter because someone heard, maybe his family, maybe some friends -

if he had any friends.

A lump forms in his chest, and it takes every ounce of strength to clear it away. Would Sven become his first friend? Would he finally find someone who cared? But why would anyone care in a place like this?

A couple of blinks, and his attention focuses on the story again learning all that he can. Truth be told, Canvas didn't know much about district ten, but that can be said for any district because all he knows is his home. Maybe their better, maybe life is easier. Wouldn't it be? Living in a barn? Wouldn't he have all kinds of different animals then?

Yet his stomach churns learning he's named after someone who died many years ago. Canvas considers himself lucky. As far as he knows he's the first person to ever carry this name.

But then he hears of the horses. A nod of the head lets Sven know he understands. Being around people is hard. Talking to others, trying to look at different lives. Everyone lives differently, everyone has differently beliefs, and sometimes being away from them, taking a break, that's all that's needed. Maybe that's why he became an artist.

Maybe.

Truthfully, Canvas started drawing at a young age. It gave him something to do when food was scarce so he didn't have to focus on being hungry anymore, and from there it turned into what it is today.

In that moment, Canvas closes his eyes imaging a world where he had an empty notepad as he relaxed against a barn wall with horses roaming about. Oh what a wonderful picture that would become. The amount of money it could bring him, his family, everyone he cares about -

it's just a dream.

Leaving district eight is nearly impossible, and going to district ten, and seeing the horses, the only way to do that is to win the games. It's hard to think about, but that's his goal. To make it out of this mess alive and find the person who threw him into this mess in the first place and make his life a living hell.

"Must be nice." He finally breaks the silence after forcing himself back into reality. "Living alone with a bunch of horses." A genuine grin spreads across his face, and for the first time, Canvas isn't afraid. Sure, Sven could turn on him in the blink of an eye, but at this moment, that doesn't even cross his mind. "I would enjoy it. Just sit down with my notepad and pencil and just draw for the rest of eternity."

Of course, that may never be reality, but it's fun to think of. It's fun to live in a dream.

"Nobody would ever see me again."

And that's the truth. One day someone would find him sitting in the happiest of places without a care in the world.

credit to griffin <3