Shiny Things and Hair Gel [Reyes ~ Day Two]

After careful consideration for several hours, I've decided that I don't know what love feels like. Not like sex -- though admittedly I don't know what that feels like either -- but honest to god love. For another person, for a family member, for a pet, for a place, for a favorite food or item. I can't think of anything at all.

I realized this at three in the morning, when I woke up out of habit. I hate myself for waking up this early, especially now. Whereas I used to have warm covers and a comfy bed to entrap me and tell me that everything would be all right, now there is only sand. And it moves -- every hour or so I'll wake up and find that I have to find another spot to rest, else I'll be buried alive. Everything is danger and darkness and uncertainty, and when I wake up in the middle of the night the trouble I have falling asleep multiplies by ten. Guess it's a good thing I'm used to it, albeit on a smaller scale.. without the sand.

After a while I began worrying about rolling over and the sand filling up my mouth, so I resolved to sit up and sleep. Which was a bad idea. I'm used to curling up and snuggling into the covers on my side, or burying my head into the pillow. Replace the pillow with sand, and it's only home. Home.

Which is how I stumbled upon the whole love thing. Why do I call that house, that District, that family, my home? I mean, there's Ezen. I enjoy his presence, or I care about his existence, or I feel obligated to save because we're family, or I pity him, or I don't want to watch him die a horrible, miserable death. Love? Not a chance.

We didn't talk much. He read, I trained. A simple nod here and there signified our brotherly truce. We played when we were younger, with blocks and toys and we ran around the streets engulfed by our imaginations. That lady over there looks like a spider -- the man with her, a bear because his stomach sticks out over his belt and he's got long, thick brown hair on top of his head, and scruff lining his jaw.

Companions, brothers maybe, but to say that I loved him? When we were younger, meh. As we got older, we both changed.He got scared, I got scared, but I hid it with shiny things and hair gel and I shook my ass at people to mock them. He stayed scared, and I think sometimes he was even afraid of me too -- as if I would go bad, yucky. Even when his face flashed with recognition as I passed by, I could see the tensed muscles between his eyebrows and the lines of his mouth. He knows, I know, the children know that I'm no goody goody who smiles and dances and sings his way down the sidewalk.

I try not to think about it.

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She was older. When she first came into the house, I even looked up to her. Pretty, blonde, somewhat outrageous – she had this way of presenting herself that I could never understand. I mean, she came from the community home, and she was dirty and disgusting and kind of underfed, but she acted like royalty.

Then she slit my brother's throat open, and I swore I'd never see it happen to me or anybody else. I couldn't watch anybody else die – I was younger, stupid. Didn't realize what I was in for. I wouldn't let her breath, or think, or pick up a knife ever again.

I went into her room one night, and I was dramatic. Had a sword and everything – planned on cutting her head clean off her shoulders.

She wasn't sleeping there when I walked into the room.

”What's the sword for?” she asked from behind me, pressing a knife to my back. She could have killed me, right there. One slash of the knife through my back and I could have been bleeding onto the floor.

I didn't know what to say, or I was too afraid to speak. I turned, tried to pull the knife from her hands to give me the upper hand, but I accidentally severed her leg instead. Blood, everywhere. I stopped and retched all over the floor, grossed out beyond belief even though I'd seen it happen a hundred times before on TV, in the Games.

The screaming was unbearable -- it woke everybody up. A hundred and one profanities came out of her mouth. It didn't even take a minute for the entire family to come running, and they all gathered around as she lay on the floor.

"What happened?" the other kids asked. Some looked emotionless, others almost pleased because she would hardly be a threat anymore, and others cried. Tears poured like buckets out of my eyes, and I puked.

The screaming died down just enough for me to hear my mother whisper into my ear. My hands shook and I couldn't contain the sobs.

Kill her.

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As light enters the Arena once more, I think of the dead. I think I killed someone. I think.. did I? Maybe I didn't. Can I just say I'm innocent? It's not as if I could see anything through the sand, and I was only lashing the flail around without actually trying to hurt anyone. I didn't mean any harm. I don't want to hurt anyone. I just didn't want to die. I think back to my private training session, and to what I said I would do. I would do it, and I would win. Winning means killing. Killing means no escape.

Guess I should get used to it.

I'm not going to puke anymore. I've seen enough people bleed now, but just.. I don't want to. That's the thing about everything I've planned, though. It's possible to do it without actually killing, right? I've found the loophole.

My gelled up hair has fallen over my face, and I hate it this way. It makes everything difficult to see, but I suppose it shields my eyes from the sand I kick up into the air.

I find myself wandering aimlessly through the sand. The rest has given me a bit of energy, so I've decided to explore. I need a place to carry out my plan, and the towers must have changed in the night. Sand keeps falling, things keep changing. Plus, I need water. Luckily, the first tower I enter seems to have it. The air smells godawful, but the water I see is at least usable. If I only had a --

A parachute falls from the sky.

"Your timing is perfect," I say, smiling as I take the water jug and fill it up. No time to boil it, though. Plus I need the wood.

I pull my rope out, and the wood, and the tarp. I dig the hole first, jump down in it until it's just about the right size. I'm forced to dig with my hands, because there's nothing else I can do, and the ground is soft. Somewhat disgusting, but I'll have to settle. If I'm going to be killed tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that, I want to say that I did something. Something clever.

I carve the wood to perfect points, join it all together with the rope, and when I'm done I plant it into the ground and throw the tarp over, then cover it with just enough dirt to remain hidden from sight.

And then I turn around and run, a devilishly somber look in my eyes as I wonder how many tributes I will see die.

[Receives water jug, gets water, flees]