Lucy in the Sky [Maia vs. Zack]

Maia Grayson

She’d fallen asleep before his face had appeared. Well, she might have been awake, because she was sure she’d heard the ear-splitting anthem, but her eyes remained closed. She refused to gaze upward, to see his face. It would just be another way to remind her that he was dead. And remind her she was alone. A sense of hopelessness came along with it, the fact of it. That Maia Grayson, tribute of District 2, one of the remaining 9 tributes, was completely and utterly alone.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It wasn’t long before the bare landscape erupted in green color. She thought she was hallucinating. The Arena was hotter than ever, and she’d shed her black shirt, putting on her acid-riddled t-shirt, which was at least cooler. She had a good feeling that the Gamemakers planned the outfits to be as inappropriate to the hot weather as possible. Wiping the sweat from her forehead, Maia squinted at the pit. Yes, it had to be there. She approached it, however, timidly, knowing the Games far too well to take anything so pretty lightly. Still, she sped up as she reached it, realizing that the greenery was mushrooms! Mushrooms meant herbs…food, medicine. Already, her eyes raked over the scene, taking it all in, distinguishing poisonous herbs from edible one, easily. And there were so many medicinal herbs too! A grin spread across her face. She could stay so long in here, having food. But, of course…there was the issue of water…

However, before she could make any decisions, she saw something. Oh please, not more cow, she thought. But, it wasn’t a cow. It was a boy. She wracked her brain, trying to remember who he was, his district, anything. But having not seen the dead tributes from last night, she was unsure. A numbness had set over her mind, and even the reassurance of food couldn’t break through the haze. She stared at him, fingers tightening around Weld-her harpoon. Contemplating him, Maia stood still, trying to figure out whether or not he will attack. Everyone was different. Then, suddenly, he charged forward, slashing his machete through the air, shouting loudly. Instinctively, she ducked as he swung, and the attack missed. The force of it sent a surge of wind over her, making her hair whip around, slightly. Heart racing, she straightened up, staring at him, harpoon raised. So, he was going to attack. Then, the obvious thing was to kill him, quickly. She reared back to do so, but his question stopped her.

"Did you kill Enigma Lane?"

Enigma? Who? Then, she saw it. The look in his eyes. It was almost deranged, but more sorrowful. More…vengeful. His goal was to kill her, because he thought she’d killed this Enigma. Whoever Enigma was, Maia had a good feeling that this boy was in an alliance with her. That he had serious feelings for her, far more than the one’s Maia had for Weldon. Sure, Weldon had died, and yes, she was upset about it, but she wasn’t going to put her neck on the line now for every single cow that comes her way. Call her selfish, but Maia knew when it was time to move on. This boy, on the other hand, did not.

“No,” she said, quickly, slowly turning the harpoon over in her clammy hand to a more comfortable position. “I didn’t kill her.” She swallowed. She didn’t know how to handle people. What in the world could she say to possibly stop this kid from trying to hack her to pieces? Only she could draw the lunatic in this Arena…“But,” she said, a little more forcibly than she meant to, her skills in lying failing her a bit now. “I know who did kill her.”

Did she know who killed Enigma Lane? No. But was she going to let this boy know that? No. Her plan was to stall him as long as possible until her chance came to attack him, kill him. Well, she thought, licking her lips, let’s hope it’s a good one.

She knew she’d said the wrong thing the second he charged at her. “Tell me!” She gasped, mouth open wide, but she had little time to defend herself. The machete easily came through her thumb, severing it from the rest of her body. She howled in pain, scarlet gushing from the open wound, bone shining through. Just the look of it made her sick, and her stomach churned even more when she caught sight of her thumb, lying in a puddle of blood on the ground. She swallowed down hard, fighting back the tears. Luckily, it was her left hand. Not her right, not her good hand.

She’d used to be left handed. Everything had felt most comfortable in that hand at least. However, whenever she’d grab for something with her left hand, her mother would smack it away. Weapons found their way into her right hand, the “stronger hand” as her dad insisted. Still, she’d try to switch hands whenever she could, but that always lead to shouting. Finally, she had to accept it, and use her right hand. By the time she was five, the stuttering began. She could hardly get through a sentence without stuttering. Enraged, her father brought her to the doctor, but they simply said to let her use her left hand. “It’s a common thing for kid’s who have to switch,” the doctor had said. But, her father, a proud man, refused to back down, refusing to let her use her left hand entirely. Kids made fun of her, and Maia stopped talking altogether. She quietly used her right hand, speaking little, and speaking slowly. She faded into the woodwork, at least she tried. The incident when she was 13 made her stand out, of course…The stuttering hadn’t disappeared completely, now, but had sunk down into the murk.

The fact that her thumb was gone brought the memory of that stutter back in her mind, back onto her tongue. “I-I, I’m not g-going to tell you n-now!” She roared, angrily, furious about both the boy, for cutting off her thumb, and herself for stuttering. She pressed the stump on her left hand to her shirt, trying to soothe the agonizing pain that was spreading all over her hand. She raised the harpoon in her right hand, running forward, and bringing it down upon him.
[attacks Zack, harpoon]
[dice=200+3000]
[deep gash on right bicep: 8.0]

Blood stained the tip of the harpoon, and strangely satisfied her. She smirked at Zack, but grimaced once more as the pain jabbed at her hand. "I won't tell you," she said, the stutter gone completely.

((occ: please excuse me while I go and stab this failure of a post))

All she’d done was make him angry. Good one, Maia, you screw up. She’d made the wrong move, she’d only made the deranged boy even angrier. For once, the scornful voices inside of her head were useful, useful to make her fury direct itself at this boy. She still couldn’t think of his name, which aggravated her more than ever. Her mind was on hiatus, free of all thoughts except kill this boy. Kill him, dispose of him, whatever. He was nameless, faceless, a barrier to her, nothing more. Just something in the way.

“Because attacking me will m-make me tell you,” she stuttered just a bit, sarcasm winning over, luckily. She quickly swallowed, recomposing herself. “If I die, then you’ll never know.” No stutter. She allowed herself a small sigh, but it soon turned into a grimace as his machete scraped her shoulder. He was yelling at her, screaming, so desperate she almost had to pity him. She wondered if this girl’s killer was still alive. There was a high chance the killer was dead. But either way, dead or not, that didn’t change that Enigma Lane was gone. Her eyes were closed (hopefully), her skin was cold. She was probably already back in her District, in a box, buried. She was gone to the world, and this boy, well, he just couldn’t accept that. She forced down the pity, not letting it get the best of her. This boy was just stupid, yes, that was it, he was stupid. Not pitiful, stupid. And with that in mind, she moved in to attack again.

[dice=200+3000]
[shallow cut on right calf-3.5]

Maia Grayson

The strength she'd previously felt was leaving her, quickly, as the deranged boy kept on screaming at her. Degrading her in the manner that Valora had mastered. And his look, the hatred scrawled heavily across it, splattered through the air just like blood, infecting her...for once she'd never seen hatred to this extent before. Back home, the contempt at her usually stopped at petty slaps, scornful words, nothing to this point. No, this ran much deeper, under many layers she didn't dare to pull away. Hate is a powerful thing, more powerful than fear, but less powerful than love. However, there was a fine, wavering line between the two. Whoever Enigma Lane was, well, this boy had really loved her. After her death, he'd crossed that line. He'd moved over into hate. He'd lost it, although it was somewhat justified. Still, nutty people like him, you had to be careful with. She hadn't been careful. She'd never been careful. Like now. She'd been different when she was 13...

Was pride really more valuable than life? Was she so misguided, so driven by her determination, her yearning, her need to regain the little honor she'd previously commanded that she was willing to put her life on the line for it? She realized now how foolish she'd been. The Games weren't something to be wanted, they were something to be feared. She'd never quite gotten the looks of horror on the faces of those Reaped from the lower districts. She'd just thought they were merely dumb, or like she'd been at 13, not quite ready. Now, she knew, she understood the truth that had been hidden from her, from all the Careers, and perhaps even their parents who never had to stare death in the face before-

The machete struck her chest, and her breath instantly left her lungs. Her eyes widened in horror, as she glanced down at the blade protruding from her torso, blood dribbling all around it. The pain was unbearable. She never knew such pain. Maia had always believed pain this horrible was only in one's mind. She hadn't known that it could become true, physical, a terrifying reality. Hands instantly groping to it, her hot, bloodied fingers closed around the handle, and she jerked it free. Blood surged through the open wound, and Maia's limbs shook. Tears were glistening in her eyes, but they didn't even have the strength to spill over. Agony, awful, horrible, pure agony.

"I bet y-you're loving t-this, Valora," she spat, softly, the words coming off her lips as easily as the blood came through her wound, drenching her skin and shirt. She supposed this was the point in all tributes' time in the Arena, that they realized the evident: they would die. How could they not know? Only one could win. But they all held on to that hope, that sliver of nonsense that it could possibly be them. Maia had. She'd held on so tight, but now, she could feel it, slipping away, like sand between her fingers. Time was running out. She was an idiot. There was no other explanation. She'd held on for too long, let go too late. She knew it, she knew it was so highly unlikely for her to come home, to see her awe-struck family. She knew she would never see her father smile at her, or feel Valora pat her on the back, or go into her mother's warm arms. Those fantasies were only fantasies, illusions to hide away the real horrors she was about to face. The horrors she'd been facing for the past few days. She'd seen people die before her eyes, felt the cold steel of a knife in her flesh, been attacked by stupid cows, and sensed Death hovering over her shoulders. On television, it was much different. Here, standing in this sweltering Arena, her own blood at her feet, pain rebounding through her body, the missing piece in the puzzle fit. She realized it now. Pride wasn't as important as she was as life was...to herself at least.

Her eyes met the milk-colored sky, trying not to throw up from the fetid stench of blood and flesh. The sun was desperately trying to break through the haze, but Maia Grayson knew there'd be no sun today. Perhaps there would never be the sun again. She looked down at the scarlet puddle, her hands pressed up against her wounds, as slippery blood poured out of them. She was quite the sight, with her stringy brown hair sticking to her neck, pimples bursting up all over her face, dirt coating her skin, but overwhelmed by blood. Blood was everywhere. On her flesh, her clothes, in her eyes, her mouth, filling her nose. A person could only lose so much... Well, Maia, you were born ugly and bloody, you'll die ugly and bloody-no, stop, don't think like that. Conflicting voices yelled at her in her mind, as she tried desperately to shut them out.

Die..dying...dead, they told her, while the other half urged her to, try, try, keep trying.What did she have to lose? Her life. Yeah, well, she needed to try. Failure had never been an option to Maia Grayson, why should things be any different here? You're in training, Maia, she coached herself, her limp hand tossing away the machete she'd just taken from her flesh, towards the mushroom pit. She didn't look to see where it had gone, it didn't matter. Ignore the pain, Maia, you've got this, just fight. Try. Keep trying. And never stop trying.

Because that's all you have.

[attacks Zack, harpoon]
[dice=200+3000]
[miss=0.0]

She'd missed. She'd failed.

Maia Grayson

They might as well have been fighting on a cliff top, so delicately hovering on the brink of death. Only Maia had her back to the drop now. She braced herself for the next blow, to lurch backwards, but her raised hand to deflect it worked, and she sighed in relief. Ha! He had failed this time! Perhaps failure was contagious, Maia didn’t know, Valora never failed…

She could sense his frustration, his annoyance, but it did little to reassure Maia. She was still teetering on the edge, so close to falling. She was unbalanced, on a tight rope, arms wind milling. One touch and she’d fall. She didn’t want to fall. No one did. Maia Grayson was not ready to fall. She could feel her wounds growing numb, pain leaving her, but blood still dripped. Unsure of whether or not to take this as a good thing, Maia bit her tongue, and gripped her harpoon, so slippery with blood it was hard to hold.

“Give up.” Maia stopped the second the words left his lips and met her ears. She stared at him, figuring she was just hearing things. She was going crazy, wasn’t she? But, he said it again. “Give up.” This time she heard the full extent of the words. She could feel his desperation, and the weariness that hung heavily over him. He was the one who wanted to give up. He was only begging her to, so could make it easy for her. Poor, pitiful…deranged, lazy boy!

“No,” she said, instinctively. Her numbed wounds were aching dully, and she grimaced once, before fixing a cold stare at the boy. “I don’t give up.” Years of training in the shadow of her sister, under the hostile looks and words of her father had taught Maia one thing: to never give up. If you kept moving, and never looked back, it would give you a step up. She knew it. As much as her father may scream and shout, and Valora may smirk, she knew the pair of them would give up in an instant. She wasn’t about to. She never would. Giving up meant failure. Failure caused by other forces could be revoked if one only wanted to. However, if she let the failure happen…well, that was beyond her reach. And Maia didn’t want to die knowing she’d given up. She wanted to die fighting. She wanted to die in glory, even if it meant failure in District 2. She wanted to die proud of herself, knowing she’d done all she could do, knowing she’d never given up, than die on her knees, begging for mercy.

“I won’t give up,” she insisted, advancing on the boy. Her eyes met his, and she held them there, an icy look forming over her blue eyes. Her jaw was set, taking shallow breaths. “Especially not to you.” No stuttering whatsoever. Maia Grayson wanted to kiss the world good by in grandeur, knowing, just knowing. Suck on that, Valora, she thought, defiantly. It was fair game now. At least to her. They were both on the cliff’s edge. Because there was always that chance. The tiny chance, a glimmer, that she could do this. Keep trying, Maia. Life’s value was wide in her eyes, right there. For years, she’d struggled with the urges. Her fingers would wrap around discarded rope, her mind willing them to just tie the noose, get it over with, get out of this hell. Her house was full of weapons. Any of them could easily take her life, some of them painlessly. But, she never had the gut to do it. Never. She’d retreat back to her room, and lie in bed, quietly crying until the feeling passed. Until it was gone. She’d blame it on hormones. She could never do it. Never.

And Maia was glad she never did it. Life was much more important than she had realized. Who cared about her family? Who cared about what others say? Because Maia knew, deep down, she was special. She hadn’t crumbled just yet, she had stared death in the face, and kept her head, unlike this boy. She could do this.

If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Maia Grayson needed to keep fighting.

[attacks Zack, harpoon]
[dice=200+3000]
[shallow cut on right cheek-3.5]

Maia, you're going to die. She already knew it. But that didn't mean she'd accepted it.

Made a wrong turn
Once or twice
Dug my way out
Blood and fire
Bad decisions
That's alright
Welcome to my silly life

“I’ll give you an honorable death. I vow on the stars.”

Honor in death? Wasn’t that what she wanted? To die in glory. Because winning the Games would never bring that. Winning meant guilt, a dark cloud that hung over you forever. A dark cloud that knew what you did, the inhumane acts you performed. Did she truly want that? That awful, eternal horror…she knew Victors from back home. They mostly kept to themselves, speaking little, doing little. Their scars didn’t show on the outside, but now Maia knew they were there, just hidden much deeper. She staggered, in taking a step forward, another step, refusing to give up. His last trying, a block, blocked with her raised hand, left her even weaker than before. The sudden movement had her stomach churning, hot bile rising and searing her throat before sinking back down. Her eyelids were much too heavy…much too heavy…the pain had left her completely now, her body growing numb. All her strength was gone now. Every last drop. Her harpoon slipped through her fingers, and fell with a thump to the ground. She didn’t reach down for it, knowing if she did she wouldn’t be able to get back up. Then she spoke.

The words were small, barely a whisper. They shivered in the air, before blowing far away in the wind. Two words. Simple words. “Thank you.”

Maia Grayson knew it was over. She had known for a little while now. The last blow had finalized it. Just her stubborn nature was keeping her up right now…wouldn‘t it be so great to sleep? She stumbled, drunkenly. She wanted to sleep…wonderful, sweet sleep. Time to sleep…and she was falling…falling…falling. Her eyes didn’t find her killer though, they found the sky. Just as she had expected, the sun wasn’t shining. The world had become iron-gray, gloomy, dark, a scary place to be in. The sun had hidden completely, escaped this dreary would. It wasn’t shining here.

It would never shine again.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
You land once more in a familiar place, a place you’ve been to far too many times in the past few days. Today, you’re here for a girl. You catch her soul before her body falls. You know the second you take her hand she’s different. Not entirely different, but different from the majority of the kids you’ve taken from this place before. She doesn’t fight, perhaps because she has no fight left in her, nor does she beg. She carries the demeanor that an elderly person usually carries: acceptance. Her hand grasps yours, and reassures you that she is unafraid. You wait for a moment, waiting for doubt, but it never comes. You sigh, glad for this. Your feet leave the ground again, carrying yet another soul, as light as a feather. You move together, away from the Arena, into a tunnel. But there’s no light at the end just yet. No, the walls have become a projection, a familiar story. You relax for yet another journey.

To Maia Grayson, Death came in the shape of a hand. It wasn’t a cold, bony hand as she had expected. This hand was much kinder, but weary. A hand that had seen much, dealt through much. But also a hand that had taken many others before. It now reached for her, patiently waiting for her to take it. She stared at it for a moment, before raising her eyes and looking about the gray world she was about to leave. Was she really ready? Ready to go? Not that she had much of a choice, but was she truly ready? Ready to leave all this pain behind, all the people who’ve hurt her, all the struggles? Only a bleak world leered back at her now, that fragile hand in between it all. She didn’t think twice. Her hand reached out, a pale left hand, whole, not missing any fingers. The two hands met, Maia’s and Death’s, and she held on tight. Well, here we go…

They say your life flashes before your eyes before you die. Maia can say that’s true. It wasn’t flashing though, it oozed, the memories. They collided, dragged her in, and disappeared into darkness, woven into the tunnel she’d been pulled into.

Mistreated, misplaced, misunderstood
Miss "no way it's all good"
It didn't slow me down
Mistaken
Always second guessing
Underestimated
Look, I'm still around…

She was four years old, running alongside an older girl. She laughed as the older girl smiled at her, twirling around, dress swinging. Her hair was braided, and it swung all along her back, nearly down to her waist. The sun shone down of them, and butterflies hastened to flutter out of their way. Their bare feet beat against the ground, sending dirt flying into the air. They both fell to the ground, giggling in a patch of dandelions. For a moment, they lay their, desperately trying to regain their breath. Then, Maia stood, lightly hitting the arm of the other girl, face full of mirth.

“Tag you’re it, Valy!”

And she took off running once more…

A five year old girl with brown hair, tied into a simple ponytail, carried an empty rabbit cage out the door of her house. Slowly and carefully, as if hoping the rabbit, Taga, would come hoping up the street, Maia lowered the cage into the trash. A seven year old girl watched her from the doorway, arms crossed, lips pursed.

Feet beat the ground, worn down running shoes making loud sounds as the hit the pavement. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Blood was in her nose, small trickles coming down over her lips. Her ears ached from the shouting, always ached from it. Finger-shaped bruises stretched on her cheeks, on her arms…but Maia Grayson didn’t complain. She did what she was told.

Pretty, pretty please
Don't you ever, ever feel
Like your less than
Fuckin' perfect
Pretty, pretty please
If you ever, ever feel
Like your nothing
You're fuckin' perfect to me.

Her fingers worked through the younger girl’s hair, no longer caring about being gentle. The younger girl winced, clutching the hem of her shirt. “Jeez, Maia, do you even care about your hair?”

“Who has time for it with training?” Maia shot back, and she could feel Valora rolling her eyes. Her fingernails scraped Maia’s scalp, painfully, and Maia winced. Valora chuckled.

“I take care of myself just fine,” she said, smugly. She tugged on her sister’s hair tighter than necessary in pulling it back into a ponytail. “I really don’t see why you can’t, M-Maia.”

“I-It’s Maia,” Maia hissed, jerking away from her sister, annoyed she’d brought up Maia’s stuttering.

“Whatever you say,” Valora giggled, before sauntering off.

“This is common for previously left handed children. Perhaps it would be better if you let her use that hand?” The words rang in Maia’s ears, as she hurried behind her father, who stomped just ahead of her. The doctor hadn’t understand his disappointment, his fury…his aggravation at the words. To him, her stutter was the mere result of…her. Not because he had forced her to use her “stronger hand”, her right hand. It was Maia’s fault to him. Solely Maia’s fault. No one else’s. Especially not his.

“D-Dad!” She ran to catch up to him, her hand on his arm, but he pushed her away. “I-I’m sorry. W-we can talk a-bout…t-t-thi-this.” He spun around, and grabbed her by the shoulders. A young girl, she didn’t understand the anger burning in his eyes.

“Don’t you stutter like that in public,” he growled, quietly, spraying her with spit. “You’re an embarrassment.”

Then, he turned around, and continued walking like nothing had happened. Maia watched his back, her eyes wide, but her mouth tightly shut, tongue firmly between her clenched teeth. Just what was expected of her.

You're so mean
When you talk
About yourself
You are wrong
Change the voices
In your head
Make them like you
Instead.

“Take this,” he told her, handing her a sword. It was much bigger than the ten year old, but she reached for it anyway. The blade glinted, evilly, at her, but it couldn’t overwhelm the look Valora was giving her. Maia gripped the sword, walking out onto the mat to meet her sister. The other kids training in the center stopped to watch. The only sound was Maia’s deep breathing, on contrary to Valora’s steady breaths. Everyone watched, used to seeing the older, prettier girl knocking the smaller one to the ground. But Maia wasn’t going to be knocked down this time. The man watched on the side, face betraying no emotion. Valora waited for Maia, who lurched forward, instantly.

The fight was short-lived. Valora saw the way Maia landed after deflecting her blow. She was unsteady. Her feet were much too big for her body, having reached an awkward stage in her life. Valora could easily-Maia tripped over her foot, landing yet again, flat on her face.

“Maia! You-”

She didn’t listen to the rest. She didn’t want to.

Lights flashed, shouting, cheering, overwhelming, like a tidal wave. And in the center of it all, a teenage girl who stepped down.

Brown hair collected in the sink. Drip. Drop. Snip. The pocket knife cut away it all, unevenly. Black hair dye stained her fingers, as she ran in through her hair, burning her scalp. She washed off all the make-up, she threw away the hair ties, and her old clothes. She didn’t care. Maia Grayson had been reborn.

So complicated
Look how big you'll make it
Filled with so much hatred
Such a tired game
It's enough
I've done all I can think of
Chased down all my demons
Seen you do the same

Hands secured the pearls on her slender neck. But those weren’t Maia’s hands. And that wasn’t Maia’s neck. She watched, her eyes just peeking around the door, as Valora beamed at herself in the mirror, white teeth against porcelain skin. Their mother swept her long brown hair up, twisting it into an elegant bun for her daughter.

“Ooh!” She squealed, delighted, like a little girl. “You’re going to look lovely, dear. You’re beautiful.”

“Thanks, mother,” Valora purred, turning and kissing the woman on the cheek. Their mother had Valora’s looks. Maia had no one’s looks. She might as well have been adopted. “My hair looks gorgeous.”

“Your hair is gorgeous,” their mother insisted. “It’s all natural. You didn’t cut it or dye it or do anything stupid like that.”

“Just like Maia?” Valora mused, and Maia quickly hid around the door, sure Valora’s eyes had swept in her direction. She leaned against it, listening, holding her breath.

“Yes, just like Maia,” their mother replied.

Running, running. Don’t stop running. He will yell at you. He will hit you. You’re going too slow, he’s timing you. Don’t cry. Just run, Maia, run.

She did cry anyway. She leaned against the alley wall, clutching her knees to her chest, tightly. Sobs escaped her throat, and tears poured down her dirty face. She bit her lip, trying desperately to staunch the sound but it was no use. Her shoulders shook, tears splattered the ground. She focused on a broken beer bottle a few feet away, glass shards glistening in the dying light.

“Maia!”

He was calling her. She gave a sharp intake of breath, and hastily got to her feet. Wiping her face with the back of her hand, Maia hiccupped. Allowing herself a moment to catch her breath, Maia turned and left the alley, back into her own personal hell.

Pretty, pretty please
Don't you ever, ever feel
Like your less than
Fuckin' perfect
Pretty, pretty please
If you ever, ever feel
Like your nothing
You're fuckin' perfect to me.

The memories were trickling away now, becoming faster, dimmer. The girl beamed up on a stage…she gripped a weapon in the Training Center…she rose on a metal plate…she howled in horror as blood flew through the air…a boy died before her eyes…cows ravaged another…the hot sun beat down on a girl who couldn’t look more defeated as she looked up at a third boy…waiting…waiting for her turn…

Maia couldn’t tell how long it was before there was darkness. It might’ve been a very long time or a short time, she didn’t know. Time had disappeared, completely, replaced by nothingness. My name is Maia Grayson, she repeated over and over again in her head, my name is Maia Grayson…my name is Maia…my name is…my name is…that was the time when she forgot her name, lost it all completely, her memory, identity everything. She expected some sort of emotion to come in this realm of nonentity…sorrow, fear…something, at least something. But nestled there in the darkness, Maia felt one thing and one thing only: Bliss.

Because somehow she knew this is where she wanted to be.

But we try too hard, it’s a waste of my time.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Miles away, a girl stood by the window in a dark room, watching the dying light flit across the walls. Her back was straight, her hands clenched around something sharp and long. She’d seen it all…heard it all…and then, she’d fled. Up the stairs, through the door, rummaging through the pillowcase on the way, and finally she stopped at the window. Her chest was heaving, her fingers turning the newly retrieved knife over and over. She knew they were downstairs, her parents, having numbly retreating into their bedroom, willing it not to be true. Willing that she’d just get up. God, let her get up!

Her sister knew better. She was gone. Valora watched the sun sink lower, behind the trees, dying the skies blood-red, most appropriately, and saying good bye to the world. Until the next day. And that was the irony. Because there wasn’t going to be another day. Not anymore, anyway…not for her. Never again. Valora sighed, biting back the tears, and pulled her sleeves up.

Against her skin, the scars were red, thin lines, stretching from her wrist, all the way to her shoulder. On her right arm, one for each and every struggle. The one nearest her elbow was the time she’d fallen in training, onto her sister, and the youngest had been the one to be punished. Towards her wrist was a long one, the time Valora had found her crying, and snorted at her for it. So many memories, so much skin ravaged, blood drained, pain forced into existence. Her left arm bore similar marks, one for each Reaping day. Two out of the many marks were longer, deeper, and more painful in more ways than one.

Her breathing shaky, Valora held up the knife, the last rays of light reflecting off of it. A shudder passed down her spine, but it wasn’t from what she was about to do. The origin was known, but soon, she’d be rid of it. She swallowed, and pressed the cool metal against her right arm. Her lips came apart from one another and she began to cut and carve. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, much welcomed pain spreading through her body, as she connected the lines, her breathing much quicker now. Finally, she dropped the stained knife, and listened to the thud of it on the floor. She held her arm up to the window, blood curving down her skin, and onto the floor. In scarlet letters, her right arm bore one name: Maia.

Why do we do that?
Why do I do that?
Why do I do that?

The sister that would stay with her forever. A scar that stuck to her. She could never be taken away from her now. Satisfied, Valora fell back onto the bed, blood splattering her blouse, and face. She didn’t bother to wipe it away, as tears rolled down her cheeks. Her unsaid apologies seeped out of her, but certain remnants stayed behind. Fragments she would desperately try to hide, and when she could, get rid of in the same manner as usual. What she just did.

No one knew her secret, and if they did, they’d wonder why. Why such a pretty, skillful, kind girl would do this to herself. Of course, they’d never know. They’d never know about her masks, and her porcelain breakable body underneath. They’d never truly understand the one thing she wished, deeply wished she could’ve expressed, and knowing, just knowing, that she’d never be able to. The undeniable truth she’d hid away, until now, it showed on her body, as a reminder to her. It would forever remain with her, until the day the darkness closed in on her. It would cling to her, stay with her. Always. That one truth…

Pretty pretty please don’t you ever ever feel
Like you’re less then, fuckin’ perfect
Pretty pretty please if you ever ever feel
Like you’re nothing you’re fuckin’ perfect, to me
You’re perfect
You’re perfect
Pretty, pretty please don’t you ever ever feel like you’re less then, fucking perfect
Pretty, pretty please if you ever ever feel like you’re nothing.

That maybe, just maybe…the scarred girl really did love her little sister after all.

You’re fucking perfect to me.