parched / jack.

You guzzle the water from your goblet like you've been traveling in the desert for a hundred days without a sip. Like you've never quenched thirst before in your life. You expect it to taste like heaven. Like that first cigarette after a fight or as sweet as the soft spot between Espie's thighs. You want it to be so fucking satisfying, but it isn't in the slightest.

Not by a long shot.

It dribbles down the sides of your mouth, like a toddler who still can't quite control what their mouth does - a mind all its own. You lick it off the tips of your fingers, but it just tastes like nothing. Like air. As if there wasn't even anything in the cup in the first place.

You want blood. 

You crave it, actually. If you're honest with yourself, like now. For the first time, really, you admit it silently. You let your thoughts be pulled back to Akira and the look on his face as he sank his teeth into your leg. It was revolting, made your skin crawl, but damn if he didn't look full. You feel like it's been days since you've ate - and it practically has. Those pomegranate seeds didn't do shit, and they tasted like it, too. 

You lick your lips as Katrina sews up her open wounds, wondering if she'd let you have a taste... You salivate at the thought, sizing her up like a piece of juicy meat and you're a starving carnivore. But in this case, you suppose it'd be cannibal. 

You shudder. 

When it's put like that, it really brings you out of it, you know? Your stomach churns and you look away from the makeshift med-bay. All it does is tempt you. But now's not the time, your rational brain knows this. Three versus one? You don't like the sound of that. In fact, those odds would very much not be in your favor. 

But there's still 10 people between you and the crown, and these three will finally be someone else's problem soon enough.