The //Sword// in the //Darkness// ~Open~

For the third time that day, Sam reached back to pull up his drooped bottoms before glancing around hastily to be sure no one had seen.

Pepper had woken him up early that morning with a toothy grin and a sing-song voice, “Rise and shine, Sammy!” He had blinked blearily pulling the blankets over his beefy head to shield from the bright sunlight only to have Pepper excitedly pull them away and tell him,“Your training clothing is over there. That’s your size, right?” And Sam, or to Pepper “Sammy,” had lifted his head to see a sweat suit several sizes too large, laid out across a large chair. Everything in Sam’s suite was large. The bed, the chairs, the table, all set to accommodate his enormous waist and then some. Sam knew that in his bed alone he could fit another approximately his size and as his cheeks burned, surveyed the oversized room, he tried to manage that extra person being a lovely girl, settled into his bed to warm the cold spots on either side of him.

The only thing that wasn’t overly large were his plate portions. Every meal served to him was miniscule, hardly enough for him to consume in two mouthfuls and there was no dessert in site and with each night since leaving District Eight, Sam went to bed hungrier and hungrier, whimpering in his sleep. He’d always though that there was nothing worse than District Eight, skirting down alleys to avoid the paths that his father took every day and listening to them giggle and point at his broad build, but now he knew.

Sam finished adjusting his over-sized pants (having been unable to tell an ecstatic Pepper that they were, indeed, far too large) and turned back to the rack of swords he had been eyeing. Around him, the clicking of fellow tributes rubbing two stones together in hopes of building of fire coupled with the clang and thwack of swords kissing briefly before swinging around again hounded him and Sam knew that it would be them with that sword into their gut or him.

He knew when he sat alone in the Justice Building, the back of his mouth stale and sour, tugging at each of his fingers individually. When no one even spared him a visit except for old Blind Elfric who came only briefly, turning his ear towards the boy and pressing the necklace into his hand. “This is mine, boy,” he patted Sam’s hand closed around the woven thread, letting to gold raven feather trinkets dig into his palm, “I made it when I was a boy. You were always a good help. I’ll miss that help.” He smiled with his toothless mouth as if he’d said something comforting. “Maybe we’ll meet again, Samuel.” And then he was gone and Sam was alone. No more visitors. No more gifts. A car ride, a train, the candy-coated Capitol. But, all Sam could taste was the bitter past tense Elfric had used on him. Used to. And the uncertainty. Maybe. Father surely was saying something similar as he sat shamelessly at a table set for three, himself, his wife and the only son he had, Sam’s brother. He had no other son. Only one. Maybe Sam was not even in his vocabulary anymore. His name spoken once, “Samuel Tulius,” and then extinguished, leaving Sam to sniff and snivel the entire train ride away and away.

The sword reflected his own trembling chins back at him as Sam picked one up and ran a callused hand over its sharp blade. His heart was racing as he imagined that very point finding its way into his stomach…would it hurt? Would he feel the blood dribbling down his skin? Would he cry? Or would it feel like nothing at all? Would he die quickly? Or slowly? Could a sword to the belly even kill him with all the fat there anyway?

Turning, Sam fixed his gaze upon a dummy a few feet away. Would it hurt the dummy? Tentatively, Sam stepped forward and poked it gently with the sword, right in the belly. For a split second, he cringed expecting it to the poke back, but it was quiet, no poking, no prodding, no “Boy, what is this on your body? Fat, that’s what it is!” Poke, poke, a handful of fat, “Let me go! Let go! That hurts!” “It won’t hurt you if I cut all this fat off. You won’t feel it. Too much fat to feel anything, you disgusting pig.” But, the dummy didn’t none of those things and this time, Sam poked harder.

“Does that hurt, piggy?” he whispered as he pulled the sword away and corn-colored stuffing poured out. Sam poked harder, staring at that double chin, the crinkled forward, those stuffed cheeks and the ripple of a belly. “It won’t hurt you, piggy. You’re so fat. Just so fat. You disgust me.” Spit dripped down the dummy’s unresponsive face like tear drops. This time, when Sam poked, he poked hard and the hole widened, stuffing dropping to the floor and some brushed up against his leg, tickling him. With a gasp, Sam dropped his sword with a clang and stepped back. His heart was racing, his tummy fluttering with the hole he’d tried to put through it, but only the dummy felt it.

Does that hurt, piggy?