The Bloodbath

there's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold

and she's buying a stairway to heaven

when she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed

with a word she can't get what she came for

and she's buying a stairway to heaven

For everything that happened in the past, Jabber liked to call it yesterday.



Yesterday, the Capitol made an enemy of him.



Peacekeepers were on both sides of Jabber, arms linked through his and rifles in hand. This was not how he had wanted to start his day. First being torn away from his family, and now being taken prisoner in his own district. There were hot tears welling up in his eyes, and he tried his hardest to force down the knot in his throat. He would not cry before them. He couldn't. He had already been publicly humiliated, being pushed out of the crowd and doomed to fall. There were bruises on his hands where stone had dug into them, and his legs were stiff. He was like a toy soldier now, being controlled by the Capitol.



Yesterday, the Capitol made a fool of him.



The crowd must have made a unaminous decision that Jabber had been standing with his jaw dropped for far too long. One of the boys beside Jabber gave him a hard shove, sending him falling forward onto the pavement. Embarrassed, Jabber slowly rose to his feet and made his way towards the stage.

Leeway to hell it is.



Yesterday, the Capitol shaped a cast of him.



Jabber was numb to all touch, and it was becoming increasingly impossible to fight back any more tears. They were just spilling out, like the dam behind his eyes had crumbled into a million and one pieces. Storm and Red were at his side, and the rest of the family was milling around. Their words overlapped his thoughts, and his brain seemed about ready to explode. There was too much going on, and there was so much to take in at once. His vision was blurred, and he dabbed wearily at his puffy red eyes. It was like he was a criminal, being sentenced to death by fire squad. There used to be an anchor here in District Nine, one that kept Jabber grounded, but now the chains had snapped and he was drifting away into the ocean. It was only a matter of time before he joined his mother and father in that world beyond; did heaven really exist in a world as dysfunctional as this?



Yesterday, the Capitol ruined his life.



Kissing Fawn goodbye in the morning never felt so painful. It was a quick peck, nothing too NSFW, but it hurt to let go, knowing she might be gone the next day. Jabber was never this upset any other day of the year, and especially never this quiet. It was this one day every year that he embraced the silence, wondering if he would get to stay home for the rest of his life, or be sent away in a package to hell. Nightmares seized hold of his mind again, and they would not let go. In the morning he rubbed his bloodshot eyes, straightening the striped tie that hung like a noose around his neck. He was afraid to tighten it, afraid that he would die right here in his own washroom. Fear was not really a word that Jabber liked to use, but in this situation it was only appropriate. His heart was leaping up his throat, and he closed his eyes.



And he waited.



The moment his name was called, he went into a full-state panic. His breathing labored, and he started to hyperventilate. The crowd was parting around him, creating a path to the stage. Why were they letting him go? Jabber wanted to cry like a little kid, and beg for mercy. He knew he couldn't be the only one plagued by nightmares of the Games.



A wise man had once said that death was your leeway to hell or your ticket to freedom. Destiny was something you could tango with, but it wasn't like you could take it to the school dance. The thought of taking on such a challenge made his skin crawl and his stomach flip; to laugh in the face of fate and spit on its grave? It was sort of comical to even think of such a thing.



At the reaping, he desperately wanted to see Fawn's face one last time. Then he set foot in a stranger's home, a house that was once his own. The last time he saw Fawn's face, he held a distorted image of her in his mind, blurred by his own tears. Splitting up with her was... much harder than finding the words to do it. He wouldn't have to do this if he weren't chosen for the Games. Even if he did come back to her, he would never be the same. Perfervid Jabber would die in that arena no matter what. A demon would return from the Capitol; something created with more than just corrupted DNA.



Today, Jabber craved revenge. He was tense as he stuffed sweet rolls into his mouth, his cheeks distending and drool spilling from his lips. Tanisha squealed in disgust, tossing napkins at him in a frenzy. "How inappropriate, Mr. Jay! You will not be displaying those kinds of manners here-," she started, stopping when Jabber held up his hand. Her jaw was slack and her eyes wide.



"There is no need to scold me for my manners today. After all, I am about to go into an arena on national television where people have sex in caves and act like absolute savages. I think this is only a minor thing." He could not help but feel triumphant when a melodramatic, high-pitched gasp was forced out of her mouth. "But if you insist, I shall use proper etiquette. Not like I will really need it."

The memories that flooded his mind were detrimental. They were slowly making his mind deteriorate as he receded into the darkest places of his subconscious. They poisoned his mind with false hope, capturing him in a place with pretty butterflies and mythical creatures that he wished existed. He didn't want to be plagued by flashbacks or memories of home. It just wasn't home anymore. Everything around him seemed to be poisonous; if he touched anything other than the ground it was like his skin would disintegrate. Everyone was out for blood, for his blood in particular. That was the way the Games were played.



He excused himself from the table, running his fingers through his dark, tousled hair. His fingers became lubricated with hair gel that he hadn't bothered to wash out the night before. The window before him was stained with fingerprints, tiny and large. There was a faded handprint in the top corner of the window. To think that 126 tributes had entered and left this apartment years before he had was frightening. How many of them even got a chance to bring honor and riches to their families? How many of them escaped the horrors?

The time had come. The countdown was beginning.



Jabber found himself beating against the glass like a wild animal, screaming obscenities at Lepitera. When he ran out of curses to use, he shouted mindless gibberish and tried to form them into coherent sentences. His pungent words echoed off of the walls of the soundproof tube, returning to his ears as empty whispers. Lepitera only smirked at him in return, nodding. She mouthed something that should have been encouraging, something that lifted his hopes out of the dumps. Her body language betrayed that she wanted him to die too. Just like the Capitol, and all the other tributes.

”Screw you! I fart in your general direction!”

Parading around in the Capitol like a clown had been fun while it lasted. He donned attire that, in District Nine, would earn him the title of "rich snob". He would have his hair slicked back, and a wildly eccentric bowtie around his neck. He had an "image" that he had to keep up; an angle that he had to keep playing at. Jabber had to laugh nonstop and live up to his name. His shoes were always too tight, his stylist team smelled like wet paint and of course, the world was always watching him. They were judging him already, deciding whether he was a keeper or just another addition to District Nine's cemetery. By the end of his Capitol experience, he just curled up in his room, tossed all his nice clothes aside and prayed that he would at least make it through the first day unscathed.

The dreaded words burst suddenly out of the loudspeaker, causing the walls of the tube to vibrate. The floor shifted beneath him, and the metal plate began to rise. His throat began to burn as it constricted into knots, and he could already feel the thin layer of sweat building under his uniform. He balled his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms and breathing heavily. A bead of sweat came trickling down his face. So this is what it feels like to die.



A blinding light filtered into his eyes, and the sun beat down on his neck, setting fire to his skin and igniting his weary bones. The arena was now waiting before him, a vast forest waiting to be explored. The head of the Cornucopia was just feet away, prizes and weapons spilling out of the mouth. The blades waiting at the outskirts of the majestic horn may as well have been the sharp teeth of a monster, one that hid under children's beds and ate them in the night. It was just about time to tame the beast and fight for his throne.

Sixty seconds. Jabber had sixty seconds to thaw the rigidness in his bones, and let the fire in his veins consume his entire system. He could already feel the translucent blades whirring through his hands, and the wind kissing his face. A training score was only a number assigned to tributes to show what the Gamemakers really thought about them. Sometimes it was biased; sometimes it was out of spite. It was only a symbol on a television screen, one that sent little jays soaring or spirits crashing down. His fellow tributes had to expect the unexpected from him.



If he got his hands on the right tools, victory would belong to him.

There were less than ten seconds left to gather the rest of his wandering wits. His soul would be sleeping somewhere cold tonight, somewhere far away from the blistering heat of the battlefield and the explosive emotions and dead bodies dropping to the floor. It was time for him to morph, for all of them to become the creatures beyond even the most wild of nightmares and untamed thoughts. It was time, to abandon all that he knew.

Three seconds to find Bae and Nightshade.

Two seconds until he had to prove himself once more, and carry the Jay family name around on his back with pride.

There was no more time to waste. The ominous toll of the gong sounded like an alarm going off in Jabber's head. Fire was raining down, and fists were formed, preparing for flight. Heavy footfalls were heard all around, and the closer he got to the Cornucopia, the more Jabber felt like he was treading on thin ice. The baby bird had left the nest. Fingertips grazed weapons and supplies, and in a flash, the carnage began.

Everything happened in a blur, my mind moving at high speeds, my body slow, trying to catch up with what is happening. Had I just hit someone? I had been in the arena for less than two minutes and already I have caused someone pain. Already the capitols game has taken over my thoughts forcing me to attack someone. Or was it the capital? Or was it just a natural instinct? An instinct that tells me to do anything if it meant keeping my life in my hands? Yeah, that may be right, but I am only having this instinct because of the capitol. Because the capitol sent me here. Because the capitol sign my contract with death. They wanted me dead. Of course they wanted me dead, I meant nothing to them…

Not even once do looked at the tribute who I had attacked first. I don’t turn my gaze to them fearing what they may see in my eyes. Again, without thinking I fling myself at the tribute again, putting as much energy as I could behind my attack. I was not going to be that pawn who dies first. I was not someone who backs out. I will finfish this, I will pass this test. If not for myself, but for my sister.


[Attacks: sword: Jabber ]
[dice=200+1000]
[severed right ear 8 damage]

picks up: satchel
[rand=29040235327556731541353962384164343512740381993353594540883321315]