The Bloodbath

He was a puppet on the stage. Arms wrapped in wire, his joints of timber and face caked in make-up, he spun wildly around, the flickering lights above revealing his jumpsuit and sneakers. The backdrop spiraled upwards, with a sloppily painted cityscape. A spotlight focused in on him—hot, fiery hot—his face suddenly beginning to sweat as he moved further along the stage, pulled towards a false concrete structure (the training center?). More laughs from the audience as he landed on his butt. Circling him were the marionettes—all dressed in their sweats, moving in rhythm—and as Benat got to his feet, he struggled to copy their movements. When they zigged, he zagged; when they went up, he was down. All the while the darkness laughed; he was their fool. The scene changed once more, his body pulled backwards and onto a rising column (a platform?).

And at once there were twenty-three others around him, their bodies hunched but ready. Here Benat tried to tug on his wires, but there was no give. A buzz sounded, and his eyes turned to focus on the red flickering light of the countdown timer. There were no laughs now, only dead silence from the audience, the buzzer sucking up any and all hope at reverberation. But when it reached zero, the others leapt from their platforms, their figures flying through the air, tangling with one another—leaving Benat to stand, and then to tumble to the ground. He let out a scream, his legs shaking—suddenly not in much control of anything at all. The other marionettes swarmed around them, their hands brandishing arms, knives, axes and reflecting in the glint of the spotlight. And here, they sliced at him while he screamed, cutting each and every one of his cords. When it was over, he lay on the ground, unable to move—a cannon shot fired in the distance.

He awoke drenched in a film of sweat. A faint light peered in from the window, and he tore the covers off of himself, still shaking. While he’d joked the last evening—even talked of the remarkable friendships he’d made in just a short time—all of that seemed false and foolish. None of this had been real, other than the looming thought of death. While he had tucked it far away, it hovered like a shadow, always behind him and easily remembered. But Benat hadn’t wanted to think of it—he’d failed in his training on purpose; thinking life was better worth lived in his last week he’d dozed off and tuned out. But was it that he never really wanted to try—and then fail—that had left Benat so woefully underprepared. His turned the nozzle to his shower, letting the cold water splash down onto his face. He went through the motions of preparation, knowing that soon he’d be poked and prodded by his stylist.

Breakfast passed without event; Benat shoveled all the tasty morsels he could find into his mouth. He blocked out chatter with bacon and eggs, toast with butter, mashed potatoes, a slice of pie, apple slices, strawberries, and several cups of coffee. He swallowed it all down, thinking how it may have been the last decent breakfast he ever had. He had nothing left to say to his fellow districtmate, nor did he utter a word to his useless mentor. A boy with a score of a two was as much of an asset as a lead balloon, and he didn’t blame them if they wanted to stay away. Belle could stay alive or die for all he cared. She hadn’t offered him anything other than a warm night in the train on the way to the capitol. He might have felt remorse if her face was up in the sky that afternoon, but couldn’t find it in him to care then.

He was taken to the hovercraft, and it was then that Benat felt uneasy. His stomach lurched as he was strapped in, staring right across at William and Elodie. They claimed that they were in this together—for as long as they could be—but Benat couldn’t shake the fear that all of them would be ripped to pieces somehow. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The soft fur of his token glided between his fingertips, and he let out a sigh. He could feel his stomach twist again, and a lump form in his throat. He didn’t want to cry here—that would show weakness to all of them—but there weren’t any jokes for this moment. Not the stone silence that weighed all of them down, just minutes from a fight for their lives. He could hardly think of their names—all filled up with nicknames he was—and thought it best to keep quiet.

A neon blue shirt with an orange pair of cargo pants, accompanied with a fine set of sandals helped to round out Benat’s tribute outfit. He said few words to his stylist—Blondie, as he called her—she was nice enough, but utterly useless when it came to advice. He didn’t want to ask her anything, oh god his hands couldn’t stop shaking then,

If I could fly at any point ever in my entire life, I would choose now. It wouldn't be when I'm about to get slapped by some lady that doesn't even know me, it wouldn't be when my mother left me so that I could follow her, it wouldn't be at night as I cry myself to sleep because the family I live with doesn't love me, it wouldn't even be at the Reaping where my name was scrawled on a piece of paper and called out to the world. It would be now. Just as the tube closes around me and I begin to see the light again in a world where I am going to be slaughtered by someone I just met. If I could fly, like the rest of my family does, how would anyone catch me? They would shoot flaming arrows in my direction or try to throw a spear at me but without wings they would never be able to kill me. Without any feathers, they could not soar through the sky. They could not follow me. My paintbrush sits against my skin and I have to look down at it's tip to make I'm not actually sprouting feathers from my fingertips. But isn't that what I want? To become more of a freak to escape this world and find a new one? A world where I'm not so freakish? Or disgusting or stupid or insane.

I look up and I see the sky above me, bringing with it a kind of light that could kill someone if they stood in it long enough. The air hits me and for a moment I cringe. Not because the air is cold or hot. Not because it smells funny or something silly like that. But because I am terrified. My heart pounds wildly in my chest, my hands starting my fist into balls, cold sweat dripping down my spine, my hair already beginning to stick to my neck. A sudden bout of dizziness overcomes me and I'm falling against the tube, trying to keep my knees from wobbling and my entire body from collapsing. I knew this would happen to me - this overwhelming fear. I had started running from the truth a long time ago, and now it has finally found me. I feel my mouth begin to sweat, just as it had this morning before I had puke up everything I had eaten. My eyes flutter and I wonder if I will be able to stay awake for this thing. For the past few days, through my interview and training, I have felt as if someone had been poisoning me with some kind of sedative, trying to get me to sleep. But how could I? With so much to be done? When I was busy running from the truth? I force myself upright again, covering my eyes as I continue to rise. Tears well in my eyes but I swipe them away with an anger suddenly rising within me. What the hell am I doing, crying, being so afraid? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

I look up again at the sky, wishing that it would turn dark and bring with it the glowing orbs that remind me of my room. Of District 5. Of home. I reach the small opening, still looking up at the sky. I watch for them. Flying across the sky, watching over me, waiting for me to follow, to grow my feathers and fly away with them back to District 5. But there is nothing there. Only a wide blue expanse. What are you singing my beautiful bird? It's nothing really, just a simple little tune. It pops into my head and begins to play over and over. It's sad, mourning, I'm not sure exactly where I remember it from but I know it's important. Special.What are the words to your song? I try to sing them out before it's too late and I'm forced to flee into a path that will soon be filled with blood and screaming, but nothing comes to my lips but incoherent notes. There are no words, at least none that I can remember. How can you carol when always denied the freedom for which you must long?

And then I hear a boom, something that breaks my concentration on the song, the one that I need to remember. I can see my sister's lips moving, trying to show me what the words are, trying so hard to teach me how the song goes but I just can't hear them. Nothing. I'm about to ask them what they are saying, to tell them to speak louder, to quit messing with me. But then the cannon makes me scream and they disappear, the words on their lips still unknown to me.

And I'm running. Flying? No, falling.