Bravery & Stupidity Are Closely Related [Open]

No matter how frequently the nearly-empty skinny bottles of my safe-haven, my drug, my alcohol calls to me (like a shivering whisper in the fading wind), I can't convince myself that drinking alone in my room, the night before the games, is a good idea. (I can already feel the retching effects of being nicotine-free) Yet, when the red-clad slave, tongueless servant visits me with some sort of invitation, I jump at the chance of escaping reality once more. It takes me no time to throw the shining fabric of my dark coat over my tired shoulders as I make haste towards the roof.

"Come on, come on!" My rough voices bounces across hallow walls as I rush past the room of my district partner. I toy with the thought of sneaking into her chambers myself perhaps with the selfish motivation of seeing her naked again and pulling her irresistible form to the top of the building, but some distant, rational part of myself acknowledged that that idea could only lead to disaster. Cricket could make her own decisions, and if her decision was to be no fun, well then, I had no say in the matter.

It was questionable, my motives for joining the growing crowd in the airy garden. Perhaps I only wanted an excuse to drown the last bits of my bottle, or maybe it was the possibility of some other tribute carrying the key to my happiness in the form of a stick of tobacco and nicotine. Either way, I found myself falling...stumbling really... into the center of the circle with a goofy grin plastered upon my already drunk face.

"Oh hey, Benat!" I shout joyfully, "Fancy seein' you up here, buddy!"

Benat Izar

As the group began to assemble, Benat was more than pleased with himself, he was over the moon. While he had ventured to guess some would stay cooped up in their quarters, he was happy to see that a few other tributes seemed to have similar curious spirits. Scruffy was first, gigglingly drunk and light as a feather, despite his size, followed soon by bendy-legs, Elodie, and Buttercup. The lights of the little garden reflected back in their faces, and unlike the fluorescent bulbs of the training center which seemed to suck the life out of them, Benat felt as though he was gazing at the true faces of his competitors. They weren’t scary then, in that moment. Just a group of kids—similar to the little gatherings he’d had back home—wanting a night of fun. Before they flickered out into nothing.

If Axel was hoping to see a bashful Benat, he was sorely mistaken. The boy from eleven had been brought into the world stark naked, and for the first few years of his life had fought tooth and nail to keep out of his clothes. Hot summer days he was found shirtless, and nights by the swimming hole going nude wasn’t out of the ordinary. While his body may not have been a careers, he’d had nothing to be ashamed of—the usual teenage bafflement about body image was something Benat had shrugged off. He laughed about his flaws—after all, didn’t all of them more or less feel awkward in their bodies. Besides, he’d felt beautiful when he realized a bit of advice from his grandmother—that everyone is as handsome or ugly as they feel; other people have no business telling you what you’re supposed to look like.