Something More [Damen]

"Let's go Myles. That's not good enough!" It's never good enough for coach. The weight strains my muscles in my arms, making me break into a full blown sweat. His rapid breathing and my beating heart are the only things I can hear. You're never good enough Myles. Not good enough kid. I'm sorry, but I can't lift your weight you jerk. I'm only 12! No matter how many times I yell at him in my mind, or try to write it out on paper, it never helps. I still lift the weights that he wants. I still take the insults he gives. I still cause myself all this pain.

It wasn't always that bad. Sure, it started at a young age, the best time to work a person hard, but it was never this out of hand. Coach Harris was always giving me breaks with things. If I couldn't lift those weights, he'd give me lighter ones. If I couldn't run that far, he'd let me take breaks. It only started getting worse the day I was eligible for the Games. It's as if he realized that I needed alot of work to even get close to being a Victor. I needed more strength, more skill, more everything. It's the only time I really wished to not try to win the Games. That first day had me so tired, I slept for another few, missing valuable practice hours.

But I can't do anything about it. I'm too young to fight him. I'm too afraid to stop training. The only thing that gives me the thought of safety in the Games is to know how to handle the multiple blades and sticks that fill the racks and how to run for miles or how to lift weights for hours. I can't just give up wanting to fight. That would be suicide. "Yes Coach Harris. Sir!" I lift the weight higher again. But it's never enough.

It never was good enough. Even after Harris died. Every time I did some sort of training, I felt that he was watching from above, urging me on to get better. Even when I passed the age of 18, and no longer had a reason behind training, I felt that he wanted me to continue. The day he died was probably the worst moments of my life. I no longer had direction in the dark thing we call life. He was my light that guided me through that life. He looked so peaceful in that casket. His lips curved up in a smile that seemed to only belong to me. The smile that I only saw. He was a nice man, behind the constant anger. He only meant good.

I was to be in his position for the next few months. Being the most frequent visitor at the Training Center, I was given a job to help some of the younger kids hoping to become a tribute. The list was hard to memorize, so I vaguely knew who or why. But I knew that there was only one girl. She'd probably be the toughest to teach. Or, maybe the easiest. You never know with Career girls. Still, I hope she is hard to teach. Maybe then she'll not try and risk her life in the Games.

My card slips into the sign in station, restricted to all but staff.

"Hello Myles Leclair. Training Number 1010.
Day 6, 56th Games
Start Time: 9:01. End Time: N/A
Have a Nice Day!

I grinned at how formal it was. Come on guys. This is just training. We aren't the Capitol. No need to get all fancy. But still, it was needed for each staff member who signed in. It made sure that people knew you were available, when walk-ins came. They were rare though. Most had appointments with the Trainers. And by the time on my wrist watch, mine was to arrive in just a few moments. I take a seat near the door, letting my legs rest up for the intense training that was soon to begin.

WORDS: 671
NOTES: That's it (: Second Myles post ever.

The rain soaked through my rain coat like it was just made of worthless rags. The sounds of the water bouncing off the ground hurried my speed, putting fear of injury into my childish mind. It wasn't like there was no fear there either. It was my first day at the Training Center, finally being of age. It's like the first day of school. You worry about what will happen. Will your friends still like you, your enemies still hate you, your crush still ignore you? Will you trip and fall in the halls, become class president, have your first kiss? Will you have detention, ace a test, make a team? It's always the anxiety that makes the first day the worst day.

The Training Center doors swing open at my touch, splashing the smell of sweat into my nose. The stench is strong but it's welcoming. It has the kind of smell to it that brings you in, questioning where it actually came from. The answer to that question rests in the room, specifically with the larger men and women that are swinging swords, axes, clubs and weights around like they are nothing. I open my mouth in awe, surprised at the ease for them. Maybe someday, I'll be liked that. But my hopes are interrupted by a taller man, maybe around his 60's. "Suit up Leclair. You're up next on the elliptical trainer." And by the sound of his voice, that should be Coach Harris. I was assigned to him by my gym teacher. He said that Harris was the best in the business, the one that would get me in top condition in days.

""Hello there Mr. Harris. I'm Myles Kayne Leclair. I was told you would be the one training me?" I say as I put on my best smile. First impressions are always the best if you get them right. It seems like I got it wrong though, that point showing on the face of Coach Harris. "I don't give a shit what your name is boy. Get on the elliptical trainer!"

You never were the nicest Coach. I sigh, preparing myself for the day ahead. Then she walks in, my student. As I always said, first impressions are worth lots of points in my book. Let's just say hers was on the positive side. Dressed to impress is definately a good way to put it, her outfit consisting of various articles of workout clothing. She introduces herself as Penny Cromwell, and I make sure to stamp that name into my memory. Penny Cromwell, Penny Cromwell, Penny Cromwell. Then she's blurting out more words, questioning if I'm already giving up on her.

"Let's go Leclair! Pick up the pace! Why did I take this job?" His words stab at me like daggers, piercing through my skin, letting the imaginary blood drip to the ground. Exhaustion sets in, turning my thoughts into blurs. "Are you giving up on me so soon Coach? I'm not that worthless." I grin, speeding up the trainer, using the last bit of energy I have. "Now why would I give up on you? We're just getting started."

3:12. 3:13. 3:14. The timer seemed to have no end as it climbed it's way up to my limit. I hadn't bothered to listen to Harris when he was giving the logistics. I was to busy watching the other things going on around me. The other kids who were already able to lift twice their size with ease. Those kids would be Victors. I was just dreaming.

Still, I'd give it my all I guess. My hand fumbled against the buttons, bringing the speed of the rubber mat to a sprint. "That-a-boy!" I heard Harris grunt. The words placed a smile on my face, one of victory and happiness. 9:48. 9:49. 9:50. Almost done? It was stupid of me to think it was over though. That's when the sword came crashing down beside me. I launched myself off the treadmill, whipping around to face my assailant. "What the hell was that for?!" I question Harris. He's smiling like an idiot, his off-white colored teeth shining from the light. "In the Games, you have to be ready for those that are faster than you. Yes, you can run like hell, managing to get away from most people. There are always faster kids though. Faster kids who can get the better weapons. You need to be ready to fight as you run. Get back on."

The rest of the training day consisted of me running 10 minutes on the treadmill, dodging swords, axes, tridents, arrows. Few had hit, enough to cause some damage to me. Nothing fatal though. Harris ended the treadmill, sweat building on his brow. "We will continue tomorrow. Bring some protective gear, if you have any. We will be sparring."

"Yes, the string is dangerous." I smile, probably the first time in a long time. The innocence she emanates could do nothing less than make the corners of your mouth move up.

The smell of sweat fills the air, a comforting smell for those who frequent the gym so much. The weights prove to be no challenge for my 18 year old arms. They raise high in the air and slowly descend towards me, repeating the process over and over again. Coach Harris had wandered off, preparing our next station to work on. It was my last year after all and the reaping was days away. This was my only shot to perfect everything. That's when I heard the scream. I hop up from my bench, looking around the room for the source. I know where it's from. I've heard his voice so many times that it's like a home for me. COACH! That's when I see it, the man with the spear. Except the spear no longer rests in his hands. It found it's new home in the chest of my best friend, my fatherly figure. In the chest of Coach Harris.

I dash across the room, pulling the knife from my belt. It digs its way into the killer's neck, splitting anything inside with ease. He gasps for air, falling to the ground. He will live, so I turn to Coach Harris. "Kid. Is there anyway I can convince you not to volunteer?" Tears are pouring from my eyes already, my hand wrapping around his. I shake my head, muttering a quiet no. "Damn. Too bad. You would've been the best coach. Who's going to replace me now? It was bound to happen one day, when I became older than I already am. Listen kid, Myles. You are a great young man and if you do indeed volunteer, I wish you all the best. You don't need luck though kid. You have what it takes. You are what it takes. Can you get me a drink?" His voice is more hoarse now, the look of shock in his eyes. He feels no pain yet? He is just mumbling in shock. It brings more tears out my eyes. "You're dying Coach." I barely choke out, the emotional stress pulling me apart. He is dying. Probably already dead. Probably just a figment of my imagination. "Hey bud. I love you pal." His eyes slowly close, ending his connection to the world, seeming to end mine too. I break down, digging my face into his bloody chest. He's not gone. He can't be. He's everything to me. I black out from the smell of blood.

The smile is no longer valid. Darkness fills my mind, the depression that I was diagnosed with taking it's toll. I clear my throat. "Alright. Do as I showed you." I mutter, obvious depression in my voice.

[Notes] Sorry it's so short. My mind is numb from all the test this week.