bells on the wind / sick & belcher, post bb.

Leaving Sick behind fucking hurts. Literally.

The second I step over the threshold and slam the back door to the cabin closed, the tred on my boots fails me and I go ass over tea kettle. The blow to my elbow catches the right spot and sends shockwaves through the whole rest of my body. A gasp rips through my chest, sharp and painful as tears well in my eyes instinctively. All my limbs point in opposite directions, and I stumble trying to get back up, a pathetic creature trying to find her balance on the ice.

I end up just sliding down the rest of the steps on my ass, which soaks the heavy denim and my tights. Shivers collects on my spine, L1 to S5 suddenly ice cubes beneath my skin.

Winters in Six could be rough, but they had nothing on this.

Waiting for Lionel to run out of that blood soaked cabin agonizes the senses, my brain running through different scenarios over and over. They get worse and worse with every second, images of Lionel limp over a banister railing, impaled by whatever he fell on. That one makes me shiver for altogether unfamiliar reasons.

I can't wait much longer after that, but I come back. Maybe I even come back for him.

It takes some searching, but the snow thins out along the edges of the wood and I find I'm able to loop around the perimeter of the cabin without running into too many of my fellow tributes. Most of the faces I see flashes behind the broken glass belong to careers, entitled brats. Of course they lay claim to the cornucopia.

But then there he is, hobbling away. Lionel Estrada, in the flesh and blood, and I wince when I realize the awkward kilter to his stride.

"Sick," I hiss through the mist, pausing behind a dead, mishapen tree with gnarled branches for a moment to get his attention."Over here."

I bite the inside corner of my lip as I watch him begin to limp over, finding myself unable to properly look him over. There's something awful about the angles to his lower half that makes my skin start to crawl, and I decide to go to him rather than continue watching him try to walk. Behind me, something rustles amongst the branches, but when I whip my head to look, nothing's there.

"Could've told me you're a masochist," the words are thick in my throat now that the adrenaline is starting to settle, making my skin start to itch under all the layers. The tips of my fingers are unbearably cold. "Don't tell me you really thought you could take those two."

But then there's that rustling again, I'd swear it, and this time when I turn to look I search, really search amongst the wisps of cold fog on the ground. Whatever is hiding there better show itself soon, or I'm pulling out that dart gun, aiming it blindly, and firing.