it's an art form // zoë

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Onyx
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in between somewhere and nowhere

it's an art form // zoë Oct 17, 2013 5:56:11 GMT -5

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Post by Onyx on Oct 17, 2013 5:56:11 GMT -5

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WHAT'S WORSE THAN ALL the things that are different here are all the things that are the same. My bed might be three times the size, the mattress filled with real bird feathers and not horse hair, but I still wake up occupying the smallest space possible. Yesterday, I instinctively pulled my duvet off with me and carried it through to the dining area, bracing myself for the cold morning wind that always attacked us at home. In that moment, before the motion sensor noticed me and the lights and thermostat kicked in, it was almost like nothing had changed from the Autumn mornings every year before. I half expected Harmon to come tiptoeing in, having heard me walking past, and for us to have an early-morning breakfast together. It did hurt, when it was the escort who bade me good morning, and not anyone I loved better.

Our days follow a structure that is unbreakable and unavoidable. Breakfast either in our rooms or in the communal dining room, then morning notices – mandatory exercises of the day, mentoring intervals, notifications of any rule breaches from the night before – and then training begins. Seeing all these kids my age skirmishing angrily is something else that's familiar, reminding me of brawls over my few years at school. There’s name calling and face-making, the only things they can think of to intimidate their stuffed or painted enemies, and it’s so overly passionate that, in a playground situation, it would be ridiculous. But when one of them slides a sword into the stomach of a dummy with a yell of triumph, my fantasy evaporates.

From my analysis during rest breaks (when I'm not training hard to be impressive for the cameras), there are definitely two clear types of tribute here, a binary of fighters: those who know what they’re doing and those who don’t. The strong, angry ones, the ones who’d rather win than simply survive, are too alien for me to want to know better, but the docile few who understand the importance of good allies as well as good fighting skills seem familiar already. They remind me of my sister, never wanting to do anything to hurt another, but also cautious to protect her own skin. Talking to these children requires tactics, so they don’t see you as either a threat or as someone they could take out.

As if to prove my point to myself, I’m now walking over to the nearest survivor-type, patting her dummy-enemy with spirit, but little enthusiasm. “Hi,” I say, and she looks up. The District Ten girl, I remember her from the Parade – all dressed up and thundering along behind us on her embellished chariot. Doe-eyes wide and curious, she's almost offputtingly unassuming. However, determined not to back out now I've got this far, (the same mentality I have for this whole experience, truly) I finish the question, and hope that my technique is enough to start a conversation; “can I practice here?”

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Last Edit: Oct 17, 2013 16:49:29 GMT -5 by Onyx

someday we'll be drinking with the seldom seen kid

✨ zozo.
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bloomtodeath

it's an art form // zoë Oct 18, 2013 1:44:43 GMT -5

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Post by ✨ zozo. on Oct 18, 2013 1:44:43 GMT -5

SAFFRON LOWE

“but there are some things, child, that you should steal. that you must steal, if you have enough love and courage in your heart. you must snatch freedom from the hands of the tyrant. you must spirit away innocent lives before they are destroyed. you must hide secret and sacred places.”

✖ - ✖ - ✖

Every single person in this room is a threat. It's hard to believe when you look around - save for the few Career prospects - at the kids who struggle with swords taller than they are and knives as big as their hands. But it's true. Every single heart that beats on this floor is a heart I'll have to make sure stops beating if I'm to keep mine drumming on and home to Paige.

In my head my little sister looks up at me like I'm standing on top of the world and blinks against the sun above us, telling me 'You can do it, Saffron. Come home, for me.' It's hard to forget the last time I saw her, uncontrollable sobs staining my reaping dress, so I'd rather use my imagination than memory to plough me forward, attack after attack. Sometimes I think she's tugging at my hand or peering at me cautiously from behind a pillar, but when I turn around to find her she's disappeared again. I wonder if that's how she felt when I'd venture off to explore and leave her behind, watching and waiting and hoping I'll come home again. Only this time I regret that I may not be home in time for tea and to tuck her into bed.

For Paige, I think as I throw a knife into the dummy from a short distance. It flops miserably to the floor in a clatter, and grumbles arise in my throat. Pretend they've got Paige. She's sobbing, trying desperately to clutch at me as they drag her away from me, arms outstretched and tears flooding the waiting room by the second, screaming my name one last time. I let out a yell and throw, fury driving my actions to violent intentions - and although it only just manages to stick the dummy in the shoulder, it's the best I've done all day. (When I blink in surprise and turn my head to celebrate with her, she's gone again.)

They didn't take me away from my sister - they took my sister away from me. And it's my job to get her back again, whatever it takes.

A simple "Hi" startles me, pulling me from my determined array of thoughts and throwing me back into reality. The girl is familiar - as is everyone here - but she carries a similar sense of determination that is now, as I have decided only moments ago, a serious threat. "Can I practise here?"

"Sure," I blurt out before I can stop myself, yanking the knife out from the dummy's plush shoulder. "To tell you the truth," I say, words flowing easily from my mind for the first time since I've arrived here, "I'm not very good at it."

Stretching my arm that holds the knife in my palms towards her, a question - (or perhaps a challenge, I haven't quite decided yet) - bubbles to the surface of my sentences. "Want to try?"

Last Edit: Nov 30, 2014 1:15:48 GMT -5 by ✨ zozo.

“and men said that the blood of the stars flowed in her veins.”

Onyx
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last seen Jan 3, 2023 15:20:14 GMT -5

in between somewhere and nowhere

it's an art form // zoë Oct 22, 2013 3:35:36 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Onyx on Oct 22, 2013 3:35:36 GMT -5

TO SAY THAT SHE’S NOT good at this pursuit might be an overstatement, when she’s compared to some of the other lost causes in this room. In the far corner, a twelve-year-old shouts at the two sticks she’s rubbing together, as if this will make them catch alight faster. Closer to us, adult trainers put a damper on their moves to match the ability of the tributes – but it’s not just because of their age, but also due to their total incompetence for combat activities. In fact, Saffron seems to be one of the brightest, quickest tributes in the room, all innocent features but deep, sharp eyes. And the way she asks me to take a turn doesn’t seem like an invitation, but a dare.

I pick up a spear from the rack and test its weight in my hands. Where usually a lantern or branch would sit, this metal weapon looks almost harmless. Experimenting with holding it in different ways, like a pencil, an umbrella, a shovel, I settle on resting it along my forearm, and take a stab at the dummy in front of me. It grazes it just under the diaphragm and sends it swinging, but doesn’t cause any ‘damage’. I can feel my face reddening and wish that I could pretend that was just a warm up; but I’ve already taken a step back as if to assess my work.

Laughing, I shrug, “I’ve mostly been to survival stations so far. Did you hear that seven of us will die from infection or dehydration?” The statistic, given to us on our first day by the head trainer, is both terrifying and relieving. At least seven lucky ones won’t have to look into another child’s vengeful eyes as they expire.

While I wait for her response, I resume my fighter’s stance and prepare to take another stab at the now stationary dummy. This time I break the thin leather skin and the spearhead is embedded in the space between the ribcage and the right hip. I feel on my own body, trying to work out what I would hit. Not fatal, but it’s a start. At least now I don’t look like a total idiot in front of District Ten.

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someday we'll be drinking with the seldom seen kid