between the shifting sands [Safina x Artemis | Day 2]

between the shifting sands - I

What am I becoming?

The thought that had tucked itself neatly into a dark corner of my mind had finally returned to take center stage as I sat under the fresh night sky. I had tried to find a million reasons to delay this moment after the undead bones had clattered and crumbled lifelessly back to the sandy floor to be buried by time once again. I put my energy into licking my wounds, taking time and care with each cut. I held the thought back as our trio, still intact, exchanged convivial recounts of our victories and reveled in the optimism that came with them.

When the adrenaline worked itself off and the tiredness returned to our sore muscles and foggy minds I knew there would be no more avoiding it. We agreed to try a bit more sleep in the early night hours to try and restore what the sun had taken from us. I couldn't find any viable reason why that would be a poor choice. So instead I volunteered to take the first watch. As much as I dreaded the self reflection coming to collect its dues, I knew it would've brought on nightmares a dozen times worse if I left it for any longer.

What am I becoming?

I had enjoyed attacking the skeletons, it was true. I want to be able to minimize it: it was because they weren't really alive, or it was just because they were mutts, or it was a clear enemy designed to try and kill me. I want to tell myself that it is a thousand times different from how it would be against another person. I want to believe that I'd hesitate if the person on the other end had a face, a name, a voice. But I know it's not true, that the enjoyment ran separately from the entity on the receiving end of my force. I had enjoyed the weight of the metal in my hands. I had enjoyed the power in my swing as it cut through the air. I had enjoyed the impact reverberating back from metal to body, uniting me with my tool of death. I had enjoyed the act of what I had done. In the moment, I didn't care much about the enemy on the other side.

I had enjoyed the act of killing. I know what I am becoming. I am becoming a killer.

I feel nauseous, fight hard for a moment to steady myself and keep whatever semblance of food is left in my stomach from coming back up. I repulse myself, I scare myself. In all of my preparing, trying to anticipate the hell I would be dealing with in here, I had underestimated the Games' ability to change a person.

Or was it always in me? To kill?

No! I wave my hand out in front of my face as if to try and shoo away this new, terrifying thought. No, I am not a born killer! I am clutching onto this life preserver, hanging onto it with grasping hands as I wriggle out of the dark, swirling sands trying to swallow me up. I am not a born killer. The Games are forcing me to be one. I am not made to kill. I am not meant to be a killer.

I repeat these thoughts to myself and fight off the panic that I hadn't noticed building up inside of me. I slow the rapid beats of my heart, measure out my breaths into slower, deeper, fuller inhales and exhales. I am not a killer. I am a tribute. I am to kill or I am to die. I enjoyed it because I need to, or else I will not do it. I kill so that I may live. I am not a killer. I feel lighter with the burden of the thought no longer weighing me down. Instead I now have a personal guidance to help me pave my path to life once more. I am not a killer. I am going to be a survivor.

My eyes scan over the dark, barren landscape of sand and canvas, away from the flashing neon lights and blaring music in the distance. My peripheral catches it first - a faint glow in the dark, out among the dark waves. What is it? I glance back at my sleeping allies and make the decision to move towards it. It could be a beacon bringing us something good, or it could be a threat that's better to discover now than wait for its surprise.

Cautiously I step closer and closer until I can make out the tent that the glow of the light emanates from. I realize I am either walking towards either a tribute biding some time, or a trap. My senses are on high alert, although I can feel the exhaustion of the day hours mixing with the dull ache of my new, healing wounds. I can only hope that if there is a tribute in there, whoever they are, they're feeling the same exhaustion that I am.

I get close enough to hear the sound now, tiny voices coming from the tent. My mind circles back to the tablet I found at the city of sculptures. Looks like someone else is exploring its contents. I debate turning around now, a better idea of what possible threat lurks near us, but I don't. A desire to talk to whoever might be inside pushes me to continue. Perhaps I'm just looking to prove to myself that I'm not a born killer. I am in control of when I need to kill. I have not lost my old self in the dark sands.


"I got one of those things myself," I call out from outside the tent door, testing to see if anyone is truly inside the tent or if it's all just a trap. "How's the show, is it any good?"