Off By A Hair{Tom{Kiah

VIVIAN MAYHALL


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Thoughts
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Jordan. That's not a male's name. Then again, we're not really known for average names here in Ten. Presk. While the boy turned away for a second, I mouthed the monosyllabic name to myself. The way it tasted was so interesting. It starts off tart, huffing the immediate air away from my mouth, P- then begins ripping the sides of my neck to shreds with a violent frequency that fortunately slides to the next sound before it can shatter my vocal chords, -rrrrr- suddenly it gains a sweet momentum, -ee- the penultimate component escaped past my tongue and forced air between my lips, -sssss- but it ends just as impactfully as it started, paying respects to where it began the final tone cuts off all further speech by slamming my throat shut like a bear trap, -k. I wasn't expecting that.

He turns back around and offers me his hand. That either. His grip was unusually firm, but he let go a bit too quickly. Tense and swift muscle movements are often indicators of one being in a rush or not where they are supposed to be. I know I've concluded correctly, but he's sitting on a bench, not walking in a haste trying to get anywhere. I'm lost in thought when he begins speaking again, but I quickly catch up with the implication of his speech, "You must be the one that told me this was your spot, right?" Shit. He heard that. "You can have it back." I hadn't meant to make him uncomfortable. He stands up suddenly and gestures to where he just was. Not to be rude, I simply slide across the bench and smile at him. He seems content with my actions and his eyebrows drift into a more eased orientation, the rest of his facial muscles following suit.

They're playing the recap of the post-Bloodbath carnage for the fourth time today. I've been making my rounds about the District, checking up on the live feeds, but usually Day One isn't that interesting. I can feel a heated sensation that tells me that Jordan can see my eyes flickering with the exact same mixture of excitement and intrigue that I'm feeling currently, which makes me self-conscious as a mist of guilt clouds my thoughts briefly before turning back to him. He spun around the moment I started to give him my attention though. I watch as he stands there with his back facing me, clearly engaging his personal Devil's Advocate in a speedy debate over whether or not to accompany me on this bench. I decide to let him figure this out himself. He's not very social. I'm sure I'd scare him off should I perchance the leap to steer his choices toward my own agenda.

The streetlamps begin their dance, each illuminating sections of the square, popping on in a haphazard fashion. They've never turned themselves on in the same order. I'm sure someone in a District like Six or Three could explain why, but it was another concept I couldn't grasp fully enough to form a conclusion on. I wish they taught us more about the trades of the other Districts, but I doubt District Two is that concerned with how to herd cattle. With my limited education in electronic circuits, I begin to theorize for the umpteenth time as to why then never turn on in a similar fashion. I'm down to two really promising explanations when I hear the scuff of worn-out boots revolving on pavement. Sweeping a glance down I see the mud caked onto them, which sends me off into another pondering journey.

I hadn't really given him a look-over yet, but I know a couple of things off the bat. He's moved around a bit and lost at least four family members to various causes. Early in life he was either abused or ignored, possibly and more likely both. He's working hard currently, desperate to better himself or distract from his past. I know it's rude to analyze someone to their face, but this is second nature to me. There's really no other combination of events that leads someone to have such a below-average number of social skills, not to mention his biceps, chest muscles, and apparent lack of care for the way he looks. Especially that hair.

Then I notice a group of Peacekeepers stomping, single-file of course, into the square. The feeds of the Games shut off and I know what's about to happen. I crane my head past the monotonous trail of suits until I can get a look at their captive. It's a woman, mid-thirties, black hair styled similar to mine, but hers have been styled like this for years. Then I notice the head Peacekeeper following- shoving her ahead of him, with a sly smile on his face. I can't watch this. I may have an appetite for the Hunger Games, but this is different. She's one of our own. Every time I see someone at the whipping post, I see my own mother up there.

"I- I need to leave. Hot tears spill over my eyelids and sear my cheeks before gravity strips them off of my face to crash into the ground and erode the pavement. I stand up, my legs complaining for the unexpected movement. He looks confused, and I can't help but feel bad for him as a brush past him. His eyebrows knit themselves together and his mouth hangs open, ready to speak but I beat him to the punch. "Meet me here tomorrow." The words come out faster than I had anticipated, but that doesn't stop me from silently walking as fast as I can away from the square.

The sounds of leather on skin begin to ring through the Square, as if orchestrated in sync with the wailing from the woman. It's not enough to make me turn around though, I don't think anything will be. My pace slows and the buzzing of a street lamp soothes my mind a bit, protecting my hears from the situation in the square. My hand reaches out to the pole, the cold metal overloading my senses and numbing my fingers. I stand at the lamp, content in the safety it has provided me, but with a crackling fizz it blows out. Glass rains down from above, shattering into even smaller pieces on the asphalt. By now the metal has warmed up to the temperature of my hands and the space around me sounds infinitely silent. Until the screams come again.

Life is a game,
The only way to win,
Is to fight.
And I fight for me.

VIVIAN MAYHALL


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Thoughts
Dialogue
Conclusions

My right sneaker smashes through a puddle, sending a cascade of droplets into the air that collect the moonlight for a split second before hurtling downward and sliding into the gaping hole in the ground. The sudden drop trips up my balance, and before I know it I'm on the ground myself. Spitting out the mushy material that has managed to intrude my mouth, -Damnit to Ripred, this better not be cow shit- I push myself off the wet earth and slip my way through the dark until I feel the familiar cool tone of a lamp post. Staring up, I realize that this particular lamp is blown out. "Hey there, nice to see you again."

Look at me, talking to a streetlamp. The memories of the previous night reverberate inside my skull like aftershocks from the earthquakes that are so common to Ten. I can't tell if my ears are ringing from my recent plummet or the sheer horror of the woman's screams. Using the pole as support, I rely solely on my slick hands to shimmy my way into a standing position. Catching my breath is the hardest part, it's so humid that breathing is almost a feat in it of itself.

I look over my injuries and, after a quick stretch, deem myself worthy of continueing my trek to the Square. Not before a stray thought catches my attention. Wet shoe soles can increase the risk for one to sprain their ankle. I slip off my shoes, deciding to risk the elements. There's a bit of a breeze, which would chill my bones on a usual night, but the humidity and heat actually makes me sweat a little. It's like swimming, but inside-out. This weather is so miserable that it makes it hard for me to think of anything else. My calloused feet don't pay much mind to the pebbles or shards of glass, but the moment I step on a thin, stick-like material, it cracks and I kick my foot up immediately, knowing exactly what I just snapped. Stepping back and bending down, I inspect the creature closer under the increased warmth of the lamps. "What are you doing up so early?" Tarantulas are nocturnal, so seeing one so early in the night is quite unusual. I swoop him up quickly, being careful not to make contact with his broken leg. "I'm sorry."

With my new friend in my inventory, I make my way to my bench. The family of the whipped woman are on their hands and knees, scrubbing the pavement clean. It's a District Ten tradition, I've seen people do it ever since I can recall my people-watching. Nobody else would wash it, and even though it's the raining season, nobody here likes to rely on anything but themselves to do the job. I turn my attention to the screens, noting the pair from Seven facing off against Motel and Erik. I quite like Erik. He's got this funny personality. Not funny ha-ha; funny weird. Looking down at him, I realize what I have to do. His leg isn't attached at the exoskeleton anymore, it's barely connected at all. "We have to amputate." I hold his body tensely, keeping my fingers away from his mandibles, and rip the leg clean off. The rest of his legs spasm, and he attempts to curl up and bite me.

I hear a man gasp behind me. Feeling horribly guilty, I spin around and shield my friend with my body. His jaw is as solidly locked as his eyes are on the screens, so I slowly look at them. The male from Seven's head is on the ground, staring lifelessly into the rows of bamboo that surround the area. Erik looks like he's just seen a ghost, but I can tell by his posture and the way he's holding his hatchet that he was the one to deal this blow to him. They replay the decapitation and my body shoots up, "YES!" My voice echoes across the Square, which makes me laugh a little on the inside. I look to my friend, undeterred from the stares I know I'm getting, and whisper to each of his eight eyes as I sit back down. "I'm going to call you Erik. Do you like that name? You look like an Erik."

Jordan hasn't shown up yet. I'm sure he's farming or something. I don't take too much interest in the trade of District Ten. Or Nine. Or Eleven. Or Twelve. Actually I don't think I'm interested in anything but thinking, but that's not a District trade. The screens shut off, as they do at midnight, and I decide to go back home. Anyone who stays outdoors past the shut-off of the screens are pretty much not the people I could really see myself with. I pass the lamp, making sure to avoid the puddle this time, and pet a now much calmer Erik. "You're so skinny. I thought only the people in the Districts were supposed to be malnourished. Let's go find you a cricket or something."

Life is a game,
The only way to win,
Is to fight.
And I fight for me.