n a m e l e s s {oneshot}

blasphemy
my eyes are red and gold
the hair is standing straight up
this is not the way i pictured me

Tiny stones lie dormant on the cold steel of an age-old train track that weaves through the forgotten lands that void between the districts. The sleeping rubble is disturbed from it's slumber, juddering as something approaches. Something that does not often pass through this way, but is welcome. The flecks of rock dance around the tracks as vibrations increase to a near earthquake, a roar of noise representing raw power and speed. The unmistakable pewt of a horn is confirmation that the awakening of the surroundings is justified. The unstoppable iron horse tears through the nothing, it has a destination in sight. It has a cargo to offload, and it can't wait to shift it, like it's hands are dirty and must be cleaned.

The train slows for nothing, it's speed is unmatched. It hails from the Capitol itself, but certainly does not look glorious. The train is not of the same standard to the trains that carry Tributes from their Districts, nor Capitolites around their beloved city. It is a supply train, sent to districts to take produce to the heart of Panem. In this peculiar case, it also has something to give back to the Districts: Citizens. Not citizens of the ordinary, either. Prisoners from the Detention Center, their times served and their rights to return renewed. I am one of those prisoners.

I have to say, the grubby metal tin that we are held in is luxury compared to the treatment we got back in the Capitol hell. I sit in the corner of the iron container, my head down and my face masked by the shadows. There are two other prisoners in the hold with me, but I care not for them. They are nobodies - One is insane and the other is so brutal and cold that he keeps himself to himself. That suits me just fine, because I'm a little of both.

I am a wreck. My face is doodled with scars and cuts, some of which are still fresh and beginning to scab over. My forehead is a constant frown, but the pull-down mask of darkness hides that from view, leaving only my eyes that brim with desire. Desire to get home. A full beard has grown on my face, always itching and in the way. It is blood stained in places, but hides the worst of a bruised lip and several cuts. My grey jumpsuit hasn't been changed in weeks, sending a foul odor around the already rotten cabin. My hands are cuffed, rusting steel that digs into my wrists, always too tight. It's a feeling I haven't gotten used to in the five years I have been burdened them with. I long to be free, to be able to walk on soil once more without the chains that keep my ankles close to prevent me from running. Soon, my friend, you will be free once more.

Light seeps through the barred windows, so narrow and taunting. I can feel the wind, but it is fake - Created by the movement of the train. I haven't felt real wind on my face in five years. I haven't looked up at the sun in five years. Even now I try to glance out of the tiny horizontal rectangle, trying to get just a glimpse of that sun. Nothing. Patience, I remind myself. Just a few more minutes and everything you have ever wanted will come back to you. The world won't know what hit it, and they will regret the day that they let me back into it.

I hear an alien sound. It takes me a few seconds to register what it is, because I haven't heard it in so long. Birdsong. The gentle whistle resonates through the chamber that we are weighed down in, and it lifts us. The larger of the other two glances to the tiny barred window, smirking somewhat. He stands up and walks to the other side of the moving prison, like he doesn't want to be near the sound. My gaze follows his, finally reaching the window on my side of the metal shell. A bird is perched along the frame of the tiny hole, looking inside our hold with what is almost pity. It is blue in color, with a white chest. I'm not good with naming species, to me it's just a bird. I do not neglect the creature though, I lift my hands together, as they are so bound my the metal loops. With one hand I extend my index finger in a point, reaching up from my sitting position. My dirt sprinkled finger tips reach like a plant to the sunlight, red raw and blood stained fingernails. Reaching up to the light. To the bird, just to touch it. Just to know that it's real.

It flies away before I reach it, and disappointment fills me. I get no confirmation, no soft feel of feathers on my fingertip. The bird was scared of me - a monster in chains. It, like everything else before me, has fled me in fear. It's something that I built my life on in the past, but it's a burden. It's a curse that I can't shift. I can never have anyone close to me... But over time I have learned to like it that way. The larger man in the room, the sane one, the well-built, tattoo covered, bald guy, laughs. He laughs at me, how the bird fled me and the drained look on my face that followed. The madman in the corner, much younger than the Juggernaut and I, rocks back and forth, also laughing. His laugh is more lost though, and I doubt that it's directed at me.

"You've lost it... You're as insane as him..." He spits out, flecks of saliva catch my face from across the small container. He jerks a thumb at the crazy kid in the corner, my eyes follow the thumb to the lost boy. Maybe I am as insane as him. My eyes are not interested in the slightest. They return to the beefy chap pretty quickly, and for the first time in a few months, I open my mouth to speak.
"Sanity is overrated." My eyes then trail back to my window, my hopes for the outside. I no longer wish to see the pea-brained powerhouse nor the broken rocking horse. All I want is for time to go faster. It's all I've wanted for five years.

I hear the guy sit down again, like he's given up on me. I continue to stare at the bleeding light, my face is not smiling. Not yet. Not until I see that sun and feel that wind. Not until I have no chains to bind me, nor a number on my back to define me. Not until I am free, will I smile again. Not until I become who I once was.

A scream of metal on metal pierces my ears and those of the two other prisoners. The large fella covers his ears quickly, but does so alone. I take in the sound of the train's brakes, for I will remember this sound well. The wind becomes less harsh and the g-forces acting on us reduce. The momentum of the stop makes me slide from my sitting position and topple over, as do the other two. I stay lying down, but the big guy pushes himself to his feet.
"What's going on?" He asks, not waiting for an answer. He stomps his way over to the tiny barred window and grabs the metal, trying to poke his eye through. I stare at his back, a large number identifies him. He is Seventy Two, and has been for a long time. I do not know the number of the clinically insane person, but I know my number. I've always been number Three Hundred and Five, even now the digits are printed onto the back of my jumpsuit, burning my skin with their cold bluntness. In the Detention Center, there are no names.

"We're at the District Barrier." Seventy Two says, wonder in his voice. You don't say? I stay in an almost lying position, looking at the rusting shell of a cargo hold up close. Spirals of orange eat away at the once shining container. Time devours everything, and it has made a right mess of me. The District Barrier is all that stands between us and our homes, or what's left of them. I have no idea what the future holds, but I know that I'll be ready.

"We're almost home..." He says, his voice nearly disappointed. I glance at him, smiling almost. I haven't been home in five years, he hasn't been there in even longer. He sounds doubtful because a lot can happen in that period of time. Home may no longer be what it once was. I look at the madman in the corner, barely out of his teens. Driven mad by the Capitol. Was he tortured, or could he just not stand the confinement? He'll never go home, because he lost that part of himself whilst detained.
"Home... Home... Home..." Mutters the insane kid, rocking back and forth in his corner. I glance with an empty expression. I have no pity anymore.

The train lets out a huff of steam, like it's sighing. It struggles to accelerate all too quick, as if it's someone starting to lift a weight... Slow at first, but then gaining in power. It's advancing to the station, where we will all be one step closer to freedom. Freedom meaning different things to all three of us. Seventy Two walks away from the window, dragging his chains along the ground as he does so. I stare him down all the way, watching every drop of sweat form and fall from his creased brow. It is very warm, and we have been denied water all the way from the Capitol. Their final taunt. The last laugh is mine though, for freedom is minutes away.

The journey through District Ten takes longer than I had imagined. Time is relative, and it is going slower than the half-decade I spent behind bars. I am so close, but it takes an age. Patience can't be taught, even after five years of waiting I am still impatient. I struggle with the cuffs, my wrists becoming more and more sore. The bone is white and cuts can be seen, tiny flashes of red midst the dull metal. What I would do for some water. Patience.

Finally, after what I can only gauge is another half hour, the train cracks on it's brakes and begins to slow once more. Again I force away the temptation of a smile, not yet, not free yet. It comes to a stop and the madman is rocking faster than ever, chanting one word over and over: Home. Seventy Two stands up and walks to the sliding door, locked of course, but not for long. I stay seated on the cold floor, staring at a wall like always. Seventy Two is not excited, his bald head is creased like leather, he is doubtful. Anxiety, I'd call it. His future is uncertain, as are all of ours... Yet, like always, I have a game-plan. The door clicks with confirmation that it has unlocked, and slowly slides open. Light pours in, washing us all with purity. I shield my eyes for a second, adjusting to the numerous Peacekeepers that stand before us. Like routine we are guided out of our mobile prison, like we would every day for meals.

I step out of the container, my bare feet on the earth once more. I feel so raw, wearing nothing but a jumpsuit and cuffs... But not for long. I look up to the sky and see it. So bright, so violently bright. It looks down on me and I smile, wide mouthed and teeth bared. I am home, and just minutes away from walking the streets like any normal person. I can taste it, froth in my mouth forms as I taste the freedom. So much potential is stored in pure freedom, I can do anything. So many plans and ideas have brewed inside my head over the years and now they are all falling into place. They are all possible.

i've felt the hate rise up in me
kneel down and clear the stone of leaves
i wonder out where you can't see
inside my shell i wait and bleed

We are led slowly into a building by the station, people staring at us all the way there. I care not for what others think, because in an hour or two, I will be completely unrecognizable - A different man. The beard that finds it's home on my face will be gone. The jumpsuit that marks me will be gone. The long, ragged, flea infested hair, gone. The rusting handcuffs that dig into my wrists, gone. Think what they like, but I am not myself. Not yet.

Inside the building is much like the Detention Center. It is very white and sterile. I inhale deeply, catching the unmistakable whoft of bleach. The tile flooring is cold on my feet, but we keep moving for long enough to get used to it. We turn corner, then through another doorway. Eventually we are separated from another, going into separate rooms with respective Peacekeepers. Seventy Two catches my gaze before I'm pushed into my room, and he is gone from my life. My room is weird. It's not got a bed, nor a toilet. It simply has a mirror, a cabinet, a chair and a desk. I nod, almost approvingly. It's not bad, but I don't really understand why I'm here. The Peacekeeper unlocks my handcuffs, the relief fills my face. I rub my wrists slowly, each touch on the raw skin is painful. He proceeds to unlock my feet-shackles, which is equally relieving.

"The clothes you were arrested in are in that cabinet..." He says, his voice official and stern, "...As are your belongings. You'll find some other essentials too." He gestures to the drawers and cabinets that lean against the wall, before leaving me. Alone. Now I am alone. Finally, alone and free. My hands still caress my wrists, the feeling is ecstasy.

I open the dry wooden door of the wardrobe. Sure as hell, a midnight black shirt is hanging there, along with equally dark trousers and shoes. I take them out, placing each item of clothes over the shoddy chair. I strip down naked, throwing the jumpsuit to one side. Glancing both ways, I decide to do a spontaneous dance on the spot for a few seconds. I can dance naked. I really am free. Silliness aside, I open the drawer and find some underwear that I slip on, bitter that my little moment of freedom is over. I pull on the trousers and the shirt slides down my chest and arms, almost as if it is part of my skin. I button it up, looking in the mirror all the while. Now. We really do need to do something about that beard.

I look back in the drawer of essentials, finding some toothpaste, a toothbrush, some socks and a razor. Perfect. I pull the socks over my feet and grab the razor. The realization hits me and I'm immediately annoyed. No sink. No sink means no water and no soap. A dry shave with a beard this long wouldn't be pleasant. After a few minutes of pacing the room for inspiration, and general cussing, I decide to take the toothpaste and squirt it all over my face. I make sure the minty blobs cover my entire beard, frothing them up a little. The cold metal of the razor on my skin sends a slight shiver through me. Slowly and with care I begin to cut away at the beard.

It hits me that I’m free. Right here, right now I am free. I am in my district with no chains to bind me, nor people to tell me what to do. I can do what I like, not having to worry about restrictions or powers watching over me. I can eat what I want, no more stockpiles of cold, grimy pulp served on an unclean metal tray. I can eat boiling, fatty meats and sweet, juicy fruits that are at the peak of their ripeness. That freedom alone is enough to make my hairs stand on end. I can go where I like, without shifts or hours or holdbacks. I can sit in all day and laze about willingly, or equally I can go out at nights and enjoy myself. Oh, and the pleasures. The delicious pleasures that the night hides. Alcohol, Cigarettes and Women. The three luxuries that no man should be without, three existences that kill all innocence where it stands, leaving only a scorch mark of addiction. Oh, I can’t wait to walk this earth again. I can’t wait… But I must.

It takes a while, and in places it's painful where it tugs, but I manage to do it without cutting myself. I leave the hair on my upper lip, carving it precisely and gently until I have the perfect mustache that I have worked so hard to trademark. Now, after five years it has made a reappearance. I clean my face with the grubby jumpsuit, using it somewhat as a towel. Delight fills me as I see myself in the mirror. The image of what I used to be, albeit with scars carved into my face and the eyes of an old man.

My hand smooths along the top of the trio of drawers, finding it’s way slowly to the final tray. I open it by the round oak handle, looking inside at what were once my belongings. They still are. I am surprised to find that there is only one thing in the drawer, I thought I had more than that. A lone book bound in a red leather cover sits nicely in the middle of the compartment. I stare at it, a smile begins to begin at the corners of my mouth, the mustache curls upwards as I do so. This book is everything. I reach in and delicately take it out, feeling the creases of it’s material. Sure enough there is a black pen attached to it by a thin piece of rope. The pen bows to it’s master, I do not need it now, but sooner or later I will take it in my hand and dictate. Slowly I open it, staring at it’s contents. Word after word. To others, it would mean nothing, but to me it makes perfect sense. I flick to the later pages, the most recently written words. There, in black and white, is confirmation. I couldn’t have forgotten in my half-decade, not something so concrete, yet I needed to write it down, just in case. I snap the book shut and place it at my side, ideas already begin to brew in my head.

My thoughts are interrupted a sharp knock rattles my ears. The Peacekeeper enters once more, hurrying me to put my shoes on. Even after all this time, my favorite shoes are still shiny. Maybe I am insane. Maybe I only see it because I'm looking for it. I lace them up briskly as the Peacekeeper ushers me to follow him out the door. I don’t protest his hastiness, I want to get out of here as fast as I can. I close the door behind me and follow the little man dressed in white. I see no crazy lunatic in a jumpsuit, nor do I see the bald head of Seventy Two. I realize I may never set my eyes on them again, not that it bothers me. Seeing as I have nothing to look at, I stare straight ahead at the white helmet of the Peacekeeper. In it’s clarity I see my reflection and wink at the devilish creature. Such a transformation in a short space of time.

We weave, twist and turn through the labyrinth of corridors, completely disorientating me. How much further? The pit pat of my glimmering shoes echoes around the walls and floors of the too white maze. So long as I stick with the Peacekeeper. He leads me into a tiny room, where he signs something quickly and a light buzzes green above a doorway.
"Ooh…"
He takes me by the arm and drags me through another door, like I’m a child. I allow him to as we enter a much larger room with a higher ceiling. I pretend to be amazed, making more gasping sounds and pointing at the glamorous chandeliers and portraits. I know where I am now. I am in the justice building. This is the reception and to my left is the entrance. In my case, it’s the exit. I stop with the joking around and shrug off the Peacekeeper’s grasp. He walks to the reception desk and leaves me standing on my own. I stab at the room with my eyes. A small glass table and more than a dozen chairs. The wallpaper spirals in floral patterns that make me almost throw up in my mouth and the oak flooring is overly polished. The receptionist is arguing with the Peacekeeper. She is older than time itself, very much resembling a vulture with her long thin neck and large black eyes. Her noise points in such away that it is almost accusing.

"Get over here." The Peacekeeper calls, snapping me out of my observations. How very rude of me. I walk slowly over, taunting them with my pace. I want to get this done as fast as I can, but where’s the fun in letting people get there way? They’ve messed with me for year upon year, and now it’s my turn. I reach the duo and the old hag starts typing away at her keyboard, looking at the screen from over her spectacles. We wait. The Peacekeeper shoots me a sideways glance, he tries to relate to my by rolling his eyes, poking fun at the woman behind the desk. He’s from this District, he’s just an ordinary guy who’s trying to get by. He’s no where near as harsh and brutal as those from the Capitol, but he’s still authority, albeit trying to lighten the mood. I do not change my drained facial expression, glancing briefly from him to the woman.

"Take a seat, Mister… Errmm…" She stops, looking down at the forest of paper on her desk, flicking through pages to find my file. I stare, my eyes bleed at her with impatience.
"Ah yes! Mister Three Hundred and Five!"

[/i] She smiles with as much venom as my stare. I don’t know how she does it, but she is just as sadistic as me. The cruelty of it makes me smile a little, but then it grows, it develops into a full on grin that poisons my face. A laugh. What I think is a laugh. I haven’t heard my own laughter in years. It’s a bark of mockery. She is cruel, but not as cruel as me. The red book sits nicely in my hand through the exchange of glares and it slowly makes its way up to my face, opening slowly. I take the pen in one hand, feeling it’s weight and power in my fingers. I flick the pages to the back, jotting something down quickly and snapping it shut again.
"Noted" I bare my teeth. Her smile fades. Writing feels odd, because I haven’t written since my imprisonment. I feel a need to write more with the black fountain pen, it’s sharp tip laced in gold leaf… but I stop. This book is not to be wasted.

I walk away confidently, looking at the row of chairs. I have loads to choose from, yet I choose the one closest to the door, just to get a glimpse of outside through the see-through panes of glass. As I sit, I feel the witch stare at me, I put on another grin as I look straight at the wall opposite me. What’s to stop me from walking out right now? No. You’ll ruin it. You need to be patient. I’ve done my waiting. Five years I’ve waited and I’m so damn close to freedom that I taste it in my mouth. I taste everything that I’m ready for. My mind conjures up idea after idea. I know what to do as I exit these doors, I know where to go: Home. But not now. Not yet.

A clock sits on the glass table in the middle of the room. Not a big one, a little replica of a grandfather clock encased in glass. It ticks at me, time being killed. It taunts me, plays with me. I tilt my head in boredom, wanting to grab a hammer and smash the thing. I sigh. At least I have my book now, my little red notebook of words that no one can know but me. I flick through it, laughing at some of the words, whilst glaring at others. I find a doodle on one page. A sketch, actually, and a quite detailed one. It’s a drawing of a dog, a German Sheppard, as they are known. I rub my thumb over the coat of the dog, as if I am stroking it in reality. My eyes are sad.
"Shianne"[/b] I hush, and now my hand covers the drawing, like I no longer wish to look at it. My mind blocks the past, a great black wall sits in my mind.

Shianne is a blur. Only flickers of me running through a meadow, it is summertime and the grass is very high, up to my waist. Of course, I am very young. So young and innocent. I am wearing shorts, my skinny knees are bared, one has a cut and a bandaid stretches over it. I am wearing a striped shirt. The thick-coated pup jumps up and down in the grass, only visible in glimpses. I am laughing and chasing the bounding animal, never matching her speed. Someone is calling my name, a whisper in the ushing of the grass. I turn around and see the house, it sits at the end of the field. A wooden structure built by a predecessor. Next to it is the much more modern barn. The slaugherhouse. The nightmare shack. The calling gets louder. I look and can’t find Shianne anymore, and then-… And then nothing. I don’t want to remember. There’s just pain, that’s all I know.

Tick tock. Time goes by and nothing is being done. Five years and I’m this close. I wonder if the vulture is delaying just to squeeze out every drop of my life that they are wasting. It wouldn’t surprise me. I look up to see that the Peacekeeper has left the room, and it’s just me and her. I force away a smile, staring at the clock in a glass, waiting as usual. Tick tock and she’s still typing away. I am impatient as usual, my foot taps away at the wooden floor. Tap tap tap, to the beat of the clock, my eyes darting this way and that. The hideous wallpaper, the dull flooring, the ugly faces of previous mayors, the glass clock and table, the chandelier, the desk, the woman… It’s all driving me insane. I want to smash it all into the ground, burn it and piss on the ashes.
Patience.

Waiting pays off, it always does, that’s why it’s called waiting. A man eventually enters holding a clipboard. He is dressed smartly, verging on Capitol style with a wacky suit that is covered in blue stars. His face is pastel white, all blemishes have been bleached away by this pure powder. His eyes flicker a strange blue that seems unnatural, glancing around at the wallpaper, does he think it vile too? His hair differs from his otherwise blue attire, a shocking electric yellow that is combed neatly over his forehead. He looks clean. Too clean. He’s probably the sort of guy who has nine showers a day and washes his hands every time someone exhales. He coughs sharply, as if to get everyone in the room’s attention.
"Three Hundred and Five?" He calls, looking around at the room. That's what my friends call me. I follow his gaze, looking around at the empty chairs. I look at the man and gesture to myself in mock surprise. I stand up waving at all the empty chairs, heading over to the man. Obviously I’m taking the piss out of him. His face is not amused.
"Oh, crack a smile…" I say, lightly slapping him on the cheek.
"Sign here…" He responds with a plastic straight face. I nod with a smile and take the pen, drawing a childish doodle of male genitalia where he said to sign. His face turns redder.
"If you want to ever get out of here, I suggest that you stop messing around and take things a little more seriously!" He says, a vain throbs on his forehead, a drop of sweat trickles from his brow, spoiling his otherwise perfectly groomed look. He’s right, I am messing about. I should focus on getting out of here quickly and efficiently. I stare blandly, taking the pen once more as he rips out the previous page and points to the same line for me to sign on a new piece of paper. I sign properly, a scribble of a name, returning the pen to him. Writing still feels weird and alien, yet the signature is automatic, because it was coded into my head in my previous life. The base programming in my head that doesn’t forget - Like riding a bike, if you could afford one.
"Thank you…" His stern voice lifts a little, but there is a lump ever present in his throat pushing at his collar and making him feel suffocated. I see it, all too noticeable against his otherwise marble stature.
"Oh, you’re most welcome…"[/b] I smile, my yellowing teeth are an unpleasant sight to the overly hygienic man.
"You’re free to go, now. The door is that way." He gestures with an open palm to the glass planes. The wicked smile is still printed on my face and I tilt my head, slipping the little red book into my pocket as I turn on my heel. This man isn’t worth sticking around for, especially when I am steps away from getting my life back.

This is it. This is the moment, the pinnacle, the crossroads. It’s my official return, my first new-born steps into the frontier of District Ten… That’s how it feels, like I am reborn into this land. No more waiting in the dark, cradling and counting in my head. No more scratching at walls and screaming through the night. Chains and cuffs the company I shared for year on year. No more. I am finally free. No more oppression, no more punishment. Elation fills me, but I mask it, like I mask every emotion. Even now when I am must vulnerable to emotion, I must fight it, because emotion is weakness. Emotion can cripple a man, leave him for dead. Emotions are something to be channeled, not let out into the open. Select emotions that can be used to my own advantage. Excitement isn’t one. I must remain focused. Focus on your big moment.

Into the light, purifying and cleansing in every way. My eyes are closed tightly as I push through the glass doors and into the streets of my district, but I see it all so clearly, in my head. The mad rush of people coming to and from work at this hour, the hagglers at the market pointing and waving their arms like puppets. I envision the Badger’s Arms, and it’s tables that sit outside, littered in the meat-sack bodies of nearing unconscious drunks. Those dim lights that throb in the evening, catching gentle groups of fireflies or gangs of gnats. The derelict buildings and old-era roofs, with grimy gutters and black-smoke chimneys, just the way I love them. I picture every last detail, right down to the horse crap on the pavement.

I open my eyes, and it’s everything I remembered it to be. The image in my head is in front of me, from the stone walls, right down to the last strand of hay. I am home, and there is no audience to greet me, no red carpet or spotlight… I don’t want any of that, nor do I expect it. It is so normal, and I am so thankful. So damn thankful. I walk down the concrete steps into the muddy path that many share with me. No one second glances me, or stares at me, I am one of the people at last, and now I can go home.

[/i][/size][/right]

"Say that again?"[/b]
"Your apartment was reallocated…" Comes the same drone of the barman, who leans over so close that I can smell the liquor on his breath. His eyes are sunken and tired, his face a prickly stubble. I pity the aged man, who seems to have decayed more over five years than I have, even though the quality of his life has been somewhat greater. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing his chunky arms that fold over his chest as he leans closer, I do not back away. My pupils retract in a moment of horror. I am homeless. I catch myself with a sneer.
"No, you don’t seem to understand… My home can’t have just been repossessed… I was still paying for it whilst behind bars!"[/b] I point a finger at him like a knife, and he backs off a little, leaning ever so slightly backwards. I read the fear and smirk. I made payments in advance, gave the gold to the landlord in seven year chunks. Now he stands before me acting like I never gave him the gold. The room would only gather dust, even if I was paying for it, he could still rent it out. Was he expecting me to die in the Capitol or something? It’s my room, and I expected it to be free once I came back. I can’t have this, I can’t have my little den above the tavern belong to someone else. I won’t allow it.

At least he’s courteous enough to pour me a drink upon my arrival. He was surprised to see me, to say the least, almost falling over. Many of the regulars probably haven’t moved since I last saw them over five years ago, like statues in the background. I stare at the tumbler of brown liquid sitting on a bed of ice. It’s fire. Drinkable fire. Whiskey. I haven’t drank whiskey in half a decade, and it’s fiery tinge tickles my throat in a way that brings back so many memories of this place. Memories that I had forgotten until now, stolen from me by the Capitol. All they do is take, take, take. I’m so fed up of everything, I’m only glad to be away from it all.

"Nothin' I can do, Rattlesnake…" He uses the old nickname to try and butter me up, but it doesn’t work, only doing the opposite and fueling me further. I spiral around, looking at the inside of the landlord’s kingdom, a cloud filled country of slobs and addicts all falling over each other in a drunken mess. Chaos, but controlled chaos. We are the kings and queens who stand above such peasants, that is the Owner and I. Those who resist temptation live long enough to see others be destroyed by it, and although we wear no crowns, we are the people who rule this District with an iron fist. If I can get power over this man, who has built his empire on the cravings of pathetic low-lives, then I can conquer anything. This is just the start for me, I originally needed him to get my room back, but now it’s much more. It’s about proving that I still have that ability that I build my life around, the ability to manipulate.

In the past I have cast my control over hundreds of people, using them to get what I want. It’s always been easy, in my youth I charmed girls and intimidated boys, a system that gave me power in my school. It wasn’t the best place for me to grow, and I was thrown out promptly for giving death threats to teachers. Oh, fun times. If I learned anything from the Panem education system, it’s that people never change. Inside, we’re all kids, and if I work hard enough, I can still be that kid who charmed the girls and scared the little boys shitless. It’s all the same, even after everything that everyone’s been through, it’s all the damn same. 'Cept I have a mustache now, of course.

So I look at the barman, the landowner, the king who sits on his throne of beer pumps and wine bottles, and I see a child. I see a little boy in an adult’s grubby clothes. The apron is too big for him, his sleeves no longer rolled up, but hang over his hands. His stubble is gone, replaced with the pebble smooth skin of an infant. I smirk, because that’s all he ever will be, that’s all anyone will ever be - Below me. My hand subconsciously finds it’s way to my face and routinely strokes the black strip of hair that reaches over my top lip. My confidence grows and grows into a fire that hearths in my mind, and I become a horse at the starting blocks, waiting for that gun.

And… bang…

"No, there is something you can do…" I begin, lunging forwards and pressing my forehead to his, close enough to look through his eyes and see right inside him. I judge every inch of his being from the flickers of fear that he hopes I miss. I lick my dry lips and grin again, feeling them crack at the movement, "You can make damn sure that that room is empty for tomorrow tonight… Because that’s when I’ll be back!"[/b] I glance at my wrist, but no watch is there, I know not the time, but the setting sun tells me it’s nearing half seven. He has more or less twenty four hours and I catch every drop of doubt in the ocean of his eyes. He doesn’t dare to break eye contact with me, but he’s slipping, he’s losing his nerve.
"Okay, Snake…" He caves.
"Okay…"[/b] I confirm, slapping him so lightly on the cheek that I barely make contact. It’s enough to feel the jab of his light beard, and that’s enough to make me smile.

He swallows hard, I watch it fall down his throat, the fear and the doubt. His confidence returns once he has given into me, but he is still very much mine. He retreats from the bar and walks to the side to grab a not-too-clean towel and start polishing pointlessly at pint glasses. He’s now avoiding eye contact, so I make extra sure to keep my gaze transfixed on him, just to unnerve him more.
"Can I ask where you’re going tonight?"[/i] He musters up.
I answer with a single syllable, so perfectly timed and executed that it makes the barman drop his glass. It falls so slowly, majestically almost until it crusades into the solidarity of the earth in a splintering smash that wrenches everyone’s ears. Nothing is left but a shattered mess of glass and suds. The word hangs on my lips, a dark smile formed in its shadow.
"Home"



I stand in the tall grass, it reaches my knees still, even after all these years. I am taller, but the length of the field stretches up to the same place that it did when I was just a boy. It makes me feel very young indeed, plaguing me with uncertainty. It is not like the memory, not like the bright sunshine and warm winds of that Summer evening so very long ago. Shianne is not bounding around me in a circle, teasing me and begging for me to chase her. It is dark now. It has taken me several hours to walk here from the Badger’s Arms, and I am tired. I have not pushed myself into exercise like this for millennia. In the Capitol I kept myself in shape with push-ups, sit-ups and pull-ups. Three core workouts that filled my daily routine more than they should. Kept me prepared for the outside. How could I prepare for a trek like this?

The night covers me in a blanket that gives me no comfort except for making me less visible. Something about the grass is unsettling, like something is hiding in the roots, waiting for me to drop my guard. I do not drop my guard. This field makes me feel like a child and fear finds me again, plays with my thoughts and makes me innocent. I killed innocence a long time ago, but it’s there, right there. Innocence is weakness, and I’m so obsessed with killing all weakness that I have forgotten what it’s like to care about anyone anymore. No family left. All I have is memories that I reject. Even whilst standing in the grave of my happiest days, I refuse. No Shianne… No Father, no Mother… No damn bandaid wrapped around my bony knee.

He was a skinny runt. Needed fattening up. Needed to be made a bigger boy so that he could chisel away at his large form to define into a man. He needed that, and he was neglected after the death of his parents. I look back at him and know that had he been nurtured like he should have been, then I wouldn’t be the size I am. I am not a physical force, I am thin although defined. I am not weak, but I could be stronger. He was underweight and underfed because of one man: His Uncle. His Uncle took over the ranch and slaughterhouse, told him that he couldn’t stay. Pushed him out. He found his own life, did the Rattlesnake. He became me. Maybe it was all for the best… Maybe I’m looking for an excuse to venture out this way.

I blink away the tiredness, but it only comes back stronger as I push onwards through the tall grass. I cannot see the outline of the hand built wooden farmhouse, nor the overshadowing barn that to this day haunts my memories with it’s eerie structure. More things to block out. The hoot of an owl is unmistakable, and I catch it’s outline as it swoops a few meters in front of me, cutting through the grass like a hot knife through butter. It probably was hunting a vole, or a shrew of some kind to feed it’s fledglings with. I can’t see through this curtain of night, but I bet that’s the case as it flies to my right, to where I know an avenue of trees sits. Even in the dark, even after three years of banishment from my old home and five more of imprisonment in the Capitol, I know every inch of it. Every splinter of wood, every flower and earthworm. Instinct. You can take a man away from his home, but you can’t take the home out of the man.

That’s why I know where to go. That’s why I know which direction the house is in. This field may be a good mile or two away from the ranch, but I know the direction. I hear the wind calling me over this dark plain, calling me to return to where I was born and raised. On a clear day I would be able to see the house sitting on the horizon, but not when it’s shrouded in the purple and navy night. The thought of what happens next sits dormant in my mind, it waits for execution patiently. It keeps me going, knowing that in a half hour or so, I will put this into execution.

I’ve done enough waiting today, must I wait any longer? You have to if you want to taste retribution. I was put in prison for fraud. I set up a life insurance company, run by me and only me. Of course it was a scam… People paid me money knowing that if they ever kicked the bucket, their families would be supported by the money gone to me. A deposit made monthly. The families never knew about it, it was all confidential, which made it so successful for me. I never paid the grieving families, I kept the money all for myself. It was so perfect. I was rich enough to become part of the upper class, I could buy acres of land. I even had enough to buy back my old ranch… Yet power got the better of me. My greatest desire was my greatest downfall. My Uncle Daryus, the same who took the ranch from my family in the Will, and refused to let me live there anymore, he took out life insurance. I assumed he was in danger from tax dodgers or something, and I was more than happy to take money from him. He faked his death. He proved me a fraud to the Peacekeepers.

Here we are five years later. Five years and I haven’t forgiven him. Five years and I will take back my ranch and my slaughterhouse. Nothing can stop the bleeding-hot fury that changes from the tired walk into an angered jog. I huff as my legs power though the plantation, like a current of water. I catch the subtle heartbeat of light in the distance and I know what it is. The pulsing life of flickering electricity. I know those lights, because they are mine. I am coming home. My pace quickens and the light grows into a spiral of inspiration that spurs me onwards. I stop for nothing, no fear consumes me now, only motivation. I will avenge, I will draw blood tonight.

After what feels like a lifetime, I arrive at the edge of the house. I stare at it’s large wooden frame, still in perfect condition. So cozy and isolated from the rest of the district. It took me hours to get here, it is now gone Ten and I doubt my cousins will be awake. My Uncle Daryus will be, as will my Aunt, I suspect. I wait on the perimeter where the grass ends and turns to gravel. I see the shadows dance in the light of the windows and I’m unsure as to whether it is people or something playing tricks, like the wind blowing the flame or some inanimate object obstructing the rays of precious light.

Then the oak doors opens and light scrambles out, escaping up into the starry sky. A figure, unmistakable in his sheer size, steps out. This is Daryus, the typical fat uncle look. Bald head, full grown beard that isn’t too dissimilar to the one that I grew during my detainment. He is so damn fat that it makes me shiver. How could he deprive me of growing up a strong, healthy teenager by casting me out in to the world to fend for myself. He left me for dead. I was lucky to pick up barwork at the Badger’s Arms. This man made me the skinny runt I was, starving and cold in the open. He framed me, he took five years of my life. Now I’m going to take the rest of his.

He pauses, something inaudible is being said from inside the house. He peers around the door-frame, listening to the voice of whoever it is, I assume his wife.
"I need to lock up the barn, I told you!" He calls, listening for the reply, "Well, you weren’t listening then!!" He adds, his face becomes a beetroot as he slams the door, killing the light. I shrink down into the grass and watch the fat man plod away from my home and towards that scary barn. That barn is where animals are made into food. Pigs to sausages, Lambs to chops. It’s so creepy, with it’s hooks and it’s chains. I used to have a severe phobia of it, but now I am a man. I have seen the face of the devil before, I have diced with death and lived. I am here because I am a survivor, and I will show my Uncle just why that building is so fucking scary.

I follow him inside.

The large barn is inspirational. The many grinding machines lay dormant at this time of night. There are no animals to kill or process when everyone is sleeping, so why he is in here is a mystery to me. I follow him, staying in the shadows, in the corner, watching him traverse to the control panel of the conveyor belt. I watch as he types in the passcode and pulls a lever, starting up the rubber traction. The whirr sends a second shiver through me, I hold back any noise. I am not afraid. I will make my fear my weapon. The production line leads to the grinder. It consists of several large blades that slash down mercilessly, and a roller to crush any remains. On the other side is the processor that turns the pulpy remains into whatever you want. In this case, it’s sausages, because this is the pork belt. Other belts have just knives for chops or special carvers.

The smell of meat is home to me, so fresh and raw that I just want to eat it now. Sawdust enters my nostrils as I inhale, causing me to sneeze. Daryus looks up and spots me.
"Oh, for fuck’s sake…"
"HEY!" He calls out, plodding over to me at an alarming rate. I stay calm in my corner, looking for some kind of weapon. You’d think that there would be knives lying around in a slaughterhouse, but I find nothing and begin to panic as I realize I am cornered. I am fast and agile, he is not. I need to remind myself of this to keep calm. I tense my body and lash out with fist to his gut. The cannonball of a man does not stop, he in turn hits me with his rock of a fist, striking me in the side of the head. It scrambles me completely and I fall onto my back, he is over me with his meat-hook hands and clasping my shoulder hard. He drags me to my feet and slams to the wall.
"Who are you?" He demands.

I smell his breath, and it’s the third time I have had the displeasure of someone’s stench on my face today. First was Seventy Two’s, then the Barman’s, now my favorite Uncle’s… I grunt and try to turn my face away, but he shakes me hard against the wall.
"WHO ARE YOU?" He bellows, the entire side of the barn shakes with me. I hear a commotion in the house, a barking of a dog. Shianne? No. Gone. Like everything else. I do not fight the man, I am tired. I cannot break his superior grasp. I have come here to get vengeance, I have failed. He doesn’t even recognize me in this light. The new mustache, the gaunt look, the ragged long hair that needs cutting. Disappointment fills me. Five years I have awaited this moment and I have messed it up. It’s nothing like the elation I imagined. So weak.

"You don’t want to talk? Fine!" He changes his tone and I am concerned for my safety more than before. The machine whirs in the background and it quickly becomes the foreground as he forces my back against the belt, friction eats away at the skin and I let out a wail. Tired. Tired of all of this. His sausage fingers press against my face and forces it to the rapidly moving rubber, I scream again, pushing desperately against his overwhelming weight that threatens to crush my body. My ribs rack with pain and I feel something pull, muscular for sure. My eyes are fixed on the slashing knives at the end of the track that will turn me into tomorrow’s cargo. I don’t want to be sliced and diced, if I can help it.
"Who are you?!" He repeats louder this time over the sound of engines, "Huh?"

I answer him this time by spitting in his face. His yelps and a hand reaches to wipe away the vile concoction of saliva and snot, that’s when I take advantage. I dig my elbows hard into where I imagine his kidneys are, and surprisingly it works. He stumbles backwards and I fall off the belt, crumpled on the floor, hay in my face. I only have a few seconds to take advantage before he would be on me again, so I push myself up to my feet, still exhausted from the long walk. I charge at him, hitting him with a barrage of fists at his upper body - chest and head. He is Goliath. Some glancing blows are in there, but none do enough damage to drop the massive man. He grunts and brings his coconut head to mine, clashing like a bowling ball to a soft melon, I fall onto my back again, the wind escapes me almost immediately.

"Ugh, this was a bad idea…" I grunt, rolling over onto my stomach. The hand clamps my shoulder again and I groan as he presses my back to the friction machine once more, burning my spine with thermal and kinetic energies. I have nothing. No knife, no gun, no weapon. My strength is drained and I’m facing my death before I’m out of prison for more than a day. The notebook is all for nothing, the names will never be ticked off…

The notebook.

The damn notebook. I have a weapon alright. My hand slips into my pocket as the man balloons over me with his crushing zeppelin weight, his cheeks puffing almost comically. I wait no longer. In one swift movement the pen leaves my pocket and swipes in an arc, stabbing my Uncle right in the neck, resulting in a squirt of blood and ink fused. He yells at the surprising sharpness of the fountain pen, but I do not give in, driving the makeshift weapon further into his neck. His grip on me loosens and I feel a wave of relief overcome me. I push to my feet, still sticking him the neck. He screams and I hear more barking. I can’t deal with dogs, not now. I need to get out of here. I pull away with the pen and he immediately falls against the wall, clutching desperately at his neck with both hands. Ink and blood, a purpley mess of color drips down his hand, his eyes cold and staring at me.
"The pen is mightier than the sword!"[/b] A shark grin is painted onto my face. He does not reply with words, but lunges at me again. He is slower this time, weaker. I read him like many I have read before, and this time I have carefully chosen when I am standing. I step to one side as his leg catches the lever, sending him toppling onto the conveyor belt. It slows somewhat under his weight, but I nonchalantly type a few keys into the all too familiar command screen and it speeds up.

Screaming, slicing and then silence.

My Uncle is now nothing but sausage patty. I laugh, I have won. Revenge feels good, and although I doubted myself at one point, I survived this thanks to my notebook. I slip the pen back into my pocket and turn away from the blood stained machines. I will need to clean this place up later, because I will return. This whole ranch is mine now. I killed the owner, now I must finish the job. My eyes peer at the house as I open the barn door and step slowly into the moonlight.

I am a blood stained shadow, slinking slowly to the door where my Uncle once stood. My Aunt is standing there, holding two children close to her. Concern floods her eyes, and what’s worse is that she is staring straight at me. She must have heard it all and saw me leave the barn. I curse, realizing this will be a lot more difficult now. I stand straight and walk forwards, my face cold and very much brutal. I have just killed a man, I very much doubt I will be merciful to them.

Yet they are all I have now.
"You have until morning to be gone…" The words escape my mouth without me thinking. What am I doing? I'm sparing them because I have nothing left? Keeping them around is worse than killing them, they could send me back to prison for what I've done. I will not go back there, not after everything I’ve been through.
"Okay…" She says, her voice frail. Her response is a surprise. She thinks me a murderer, some random stranger who came to kill her husband. Little does she know that I am that cute nephew that used to run around these fields with his German Sheppard: his best friend. I sigh, the kids run inside, away from this adult talk.
"I'll be in the Barn…" I add, in case she wanted to know. I'll keep my word. I will spare them, because I need some element of a family out there somewhere. I need to know I have flesh and blood. The loneliness will kill me.

I walk away from the house, producing the tiny red book from my pocket. I flick to the back, holding the blood covered pen in my hand. I stare at the writing in black and white.
To Elias Poers I add Priority.
Slipping the book into my pocket I slip into the dim light of the barn when I hear a call.

"Wait!" Comes my Aunt’s voice. I turn my head ever so slightly to indicate that I’m listening. She has nerve to call on me again.
"Who are you?" She asks, just like her husband did several times before I killed him. What am I supposed to say to you? I am your worst nightmare. Your past, your future. I am your enemy, not your friend. I am your retribution, your calling. I am your nephew.
"I am Doyle Lockyer" Comes my stern voice.
I slam the barn door behind me.



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theme:[/b] Slipknot - Wait and Bleed.

notes:[/b] Introducing Doyle with my first One-shot. Hope you all liked it, and more importantly him.

word count: 9698[/size][/color]