Awakening [Danny]
Jan 21, 2013 22:05:25 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Jan 21, 2013 22:05:25 GMT -5
[/color] Looking at the careers, they were in their element. Benat’s ability to make people laugh would get him little more than a stab in the stomach or a snapped neck. He didn’t have the self-assured bravado that came with arrogance, rather, he was pleasant enough—laughing at his inability to do much of anything instead of faking that he was certain to be a victor.Benat Izar
•••
Those you’ve known
And lost, still walk behind you
All alone
They linger till they find you
•••
He’d put off the seriousness of Tasmain’s lessons. A part of him had entertained the thought, if only for a brief moment, that he could hold a sword correctly, or launch a spear. But when he felt the metal between his fingertips, he could only think of himself—impaled, bloody, and crumpled to a heap. His hands shook with a nervous tick that came about when he thought about the games, and instead he turned his clumsiness into a joke. Shrugging his shoulders, he made a face and laughed about the terrible luck he had. He made silly faces, grunts, and pretended that he was a pirate with a sword. It helped him push down the thoughts—that he was silly, that all of this was foolish—he would never be the champion, and his biggest hope was to disappear into fantasy until the last possible moment. None of this would hurt if it felt like a dream, would it?
And so he was forgotten in his training sessions. A mess of sloppy footwork, he elicited groans attempting the proper fencing technique. Trying to put a fire together, he would clap his flint and stone to create a flurry of sparks and a poof of smoke, but no flicker of a flame. His arrow got lodged in the base of a target, which wrote off archery. It was all a sordid mess—more sad than comical—that the boy from district eleven was as hopeless as could be. He would have felt more initiative to study and do better, but he resisted. Why bother?
Still, he felt a sense of urgency—one that lingered in the cool of the evenings in his living quarters, which became more evident at the sound of his alarm in the morning, or the tick of the clock in the hall in the dead of night. Because as much as he played the fool—the one that downed every last treat he could get his hands on, or lips that tasted all the alcohol and fizzy drinks in arm’s reach—the gravity of the situation was stronger than all of his illusions. For during the day he could hide behind the impressions of Flickerman or the feigned ignorance of which way to hold a spear, but when darkness crept over him and sleep stole his vision, all was different.
He saw their faces the first night—like a Greek chorus, standing together, surrounding him in the center of a gray space. It stretched on as far as his eyes could see, out into infinity. They looked to him, one by one, motioning to their bodies—mangled, hanging bits of flesh, missing eyes, blood dripping from orifices. He could do nothing to escape, only turning from one to the other—all the faces of the district 11 tributes, lost to time. Zuka. Elise. Denver. Taylor. Guy. Theirs were the faces of those who’d gone before him, only to meet lonely ends in the arena. He cried out, his voice scratched and full of fear. He could do nothing but fall to his knees and bury his head. They moaned—they ached—for the boy, it seemed. They called to him, his name, a whisper, Benat[/color], echoing through this hallowed place. Did they see him as he saw himself? Did they know his fear? Did they know he was utterly, unbearably alone—that he pushed away everything and everyone, because it felt safer that way.
Yet in the recesses of his heart, what he wanted more than anything was to be able to be afraid. He wanted to take it seriously for just one instant—he wanted to become the scared young man he should have been. But it would’ve been defeat for him. It would’ve meant his head—to just give up and take the overbearing fear, one that didn’t even let him hold a sword—and so he would join their little circle of the dead. He wasn’t the fool. He didn’t have any jokes or pranks or pleasant messages to hide behind—only a fear that he would never, ever see his brothers, his mother, his father—anyone—ever again.
It woke him early, hours before training was to start that day in earnest. His restlessness brought him out of bed, and he moved to wash his face. He stared a good while, wondering just what kind of person he was creating—what kind of mask was he trying to wear before all of this began. He simply had to pull himself together—he didn’t have to think of the games, he didn’t even have to imagine what cruel and unusual tortures the game makers had created this year. No, he would be content to continue hitting on girls and stuffing his face, until the clock timer ticked down to zero. And then… and then…[/color] He stared at his reflection, one with heavy black bags under his eyes. He had no answer for the after, only the thought that he would get to the dining hall a little early, even if no one was around.
The lights were on and the staff was already setting up for their breakfast. They paid little mind to Benat, who stopped to grab a bowl of oatmeal—a reminder of home—and sit at an empty table. He stirred his spoon around and around, thinking over and over again for an answer to his question. And then what? And then what? And then, what? He stared off into the distance, not paying much mind to the sound of a door opening and closing.
•••
Without them
The world grows dark around you
And nothing is the same until you know that they have found you
•••
Without them
The world grows dark around you
And nothing is the same until you know that they have found you
•••
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