Dreams // Open

Help, I have done it again
I have been here many times before
Hurt myself again today
And the worst part is there's no one else to blame

I blink the severe brightness out of my eyes. For a second I'm confused as to why I need to. Ugh, I must have left the curtains open. Stupid me... I let out an irritated moan. I didn't want to get up. But I wanted to get out of the house earlier, so all of the stations wouldn't be all taken when I got to the academy. I sit up slowly, shoving off my light blankets. My arms are outstretched above me and I let out a yawn. Touching my feet to the warm carpet, I leave my bed, even though I want to stay. I put on the arm warmers I always wear to hide my scars from last night. They still sting, but I don't dare take a glance at them. Having a breakdown in the morning before training is that last thing I need. Most of the careers already hate me because I don't think like them but I'm still good, and looking weak will just make things worse for me.

I slip on a black v-neck and leggings and drum down the stairs. Mother and Father are at work and Valencia, I assume, is already at the academy. She always has the head start. She's older than me by 15 minutes, but older is never necessarily better. But I never say it aloud, it would be rude. I can be as loud as I want. I can take as long as I want. But I make a quick piece of buttered toast and head out the door. My sleepiness has subdued and I want to move around now. That's what happens. Once I wake up, I just can't go back. I never want to. I pull on some black leather boots and fashion my hair into a high and long ponytail. Swinging open the door, I'm out, without a jacket. I like being cold. It wakes me up more. And it soothes the wounds I've made on myself. No, don't think about that now, Tina. Don't lose yourself again.

My breath makes small clouds in the air. I like it. It flows away, like a little part of my going home. The academy is a ways away on foot, but I still walk. My footsteps makes soft taps as my slow pace quickens. I want to move. I need to move. I need to run. So I do. I sprint there, and I'm happy. My footsteps are quick and strong, my legs forming long strides. It's wonderful. I'm alive. I feel warm but my skin is invaded with goosebumps, I'm shivering but I feel like I don't need to. I am strong, I am strong, I am strong. I stop abruptly. I'm almost there, but I don't want to move. She comes back to me, whenever I think of it. I almost cry. I almost cry. But I hold it in because I don't want to let her down.

"You are strong, Tina. You are strong." Grams told me. She was dying and she knew it. So she brought us in one by one and had a talk to us. It ended with tears for all of us. I was so sad, so scared, I didn't want to lose her. I was with her last. She died with me, I was the last one she saw. And for many years, I always thought it was because of me she died. There was no comfort to tell me I was wrong. I lived in guilt until I had grown some common sense into me. The last words she ever heard were mine and only the two of us know. I could barely get them out. "I-I'll be. I'll be strong. I'll be strong for y-you, Grams." And then she closed her eyes one last time and fell into an eternal sleep. I ran out crying.

I open the door. My footsteps echo across the walls of the center. It’s odd, it’s never really this quiet. Here, it’s usually filled with laughter and snide remarks of competition. I walk forward and glance at everyone but no one staring at me. Then I look forward with contempt. I pretend I don't care, but the pairs of eyes are making me particularly self conscious. It takes all of my will not to look at everyone. And somehow I trip on nothing, nothing at all, and land with a loud thud. Then the laughter started. Many people already hated me. The teasing was going to start soon. 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... "Ha! Look at the arrogant little bastard! Finally screwed up, didn't you?" Other things were said. "It takes skill to trip like you did!" I strode forward, pretending not to mind. I did. But pretending was easy for me. I look at the knife and pick it up. I threw it, hitting the dummy on the heart.

We'll see how they like me now, the idiots.

Help, I have done it again
I have been here many times before
Hurt myself again today
And the worst part is there's no one else to blame

It's the boys with the swords that tease me. That make fun of me and pick at my mistakes. They're the ones who have too much muscle to look attractive, too much pride to be decent. They do it because I'm alone, I don't come with anyone, I'm vulnerable. I don't like them very much. But I don't hate them, because I know that they can change. And I'm not one for grudges. I keep on throwing the blades, stretching my wiry frame back and fourth, back and fourth. I feel like a machine. I don't want to be one. I stop, I take a break. I don't like that I'm in a pattern. I don't want to become a ruthless killing machine. I want to stay me. I want to stay true to my Grandmother. And something catches me out of the corner of my eye.

A boy, occasionally staring at me, probably thinking I don't notice. I pretend to, too. I keep throwing, but it sort of sends crawls down my spine. He's larger than me with slightly toned muscles, but nothing as monstrous as other careers. He holds a bow and arrow. I decide to ignore him, I know he's there, but I'd much rather keep throwing than spend all of my time here wondering why. But there's still an itch in my brain, wanting to know. There's a small sound, like wood on wood, coming closer and closer. Footsteps. I don't look to see who or what it is. Someone's trying to distract me, trying to bring me out of focus. Not this time. But it's hard to believe. The last person how did it to me nearly had his ear sliced off. And then a low, not friendly but no unkindly voice breaks me out.

"They givin' you some bother?"

The same boy, holding an arrow at his waist, looks at me. I raise an eyebrow. Nobody ever talks to me here. I've been outcasted here by all of the careers because I don't approve of the Games. I'm not a diehard. I almost want to ask him if he's been here before, if he's seen me, because he would have the common sense not to converse with me. Then I finally start to talk because it would be rude not to.

"Pft, they always are. All because I have skill and I don't want it. I guess it's not exactly an attitude valued here."

I sighed, glancing around. Everyone is still continuing doing what they're doing, not taking any notice of the two of us. I decide to get a better look at him. Young stubble creeps across his face and his big brown eyes stare at me as much as mine are staring back. I don't know what else to do, so I set down my knife, looking at all of the ones I had already launched at the moving targets. It's scary, how I can do it.

Help, I have done it again
I have been here many times before
Hurt myself again today
And the worst part is there's no one else to blame

I have a slight feeling he is going to walk away because of what I said. Confusion laces his face and, if he notices, he isn't doing anything to stop it. He looks down at the arrow again, as if to get away from me. It's what I'm used to. Once people know I hate the games and the only reason I train is because of pressure and being eager to please, I'm a disgrace. But he speaks. "Skill ain't a gift. You must come 'ere for a reason." His slang slightly annoys me. I'm good with grades and one for grammar, and this certainly is not music to my ears. And I know a thing or two about music. I hope my slight irritation doesn't show anywhere. I am good at hiding emotions. That's not necessarily a good thing though.

"I come here for one reason and one reason only. That's to make my grandma proud. It does not mean I like doing it. It means I'm driven by something more. I don't want to hurt anyone. But no one here really understands that." Valentina replied, trying to stay calm. Her voice broke for a second and then she smiled, taking a deep breath. "Sorry, I just... I just lose myself in words sometimes. If you're weirded out by me feel free to turn around and leave." I say, studying my feet and waiting for footsteps to start and then fade away.

Help, I have done it again
I have been here many times before
Hurt myself again today
And the worst part is there's no one else to blame

Still waiting, still waiting. But his voice tells me this boy is still here. "The others ain't proper careers." And you don't have proper grammar I reply back inwardly. He looks to the main group of careers, the ones screwing around with blades. I follow his gaze and then stare back at him, having nothing to say. "This lot couldn't manage a real challenge." I nod, trying to smile, but I'm not one for insults, whether it would be supporting, being a victim, or being the one who starts it. It always end with someone being hurt, physical or emotional, but people, I think, are just too scared to show it. Too scared to let weakness show through. But I welcome feelings and weaknesses and those who admit them, because they are brave. They should be everyone. But people don't want to become unpopular, that don't want to be like me. An outcast. I don't really blame them.

My lips open and then close, wanting to say something but having nothing to say. He sets the arrow down on a dividing counter, and, as if waiting for him to do so, an immediate hand snatches it. It belongs to a larger boy, much larger than the one I was conversing with. It intimidates me even more, but fear doesn't show in my eyes. I hope. His hair is a shade lighter than him, a black jacket dusts his shoulders and a quiver is slung around his back. The arrow notches and the string is drawn back and it is fired. The boy in front of my sees where it lands, but I don't. He's trying to impress, he's trying to make us feel scared, I'm pretty sure. So I just stare at the boy with the bow as he immediately reloads and fires, with surprising speed and limited aiming time. Even I can't go that fast. He looks at me with the same brown eyes as the other boy.

"We're the real careers."

I stare at him for a second and then he looks to the boy beside me. I don't have anything to reply back at him until it would seem awkward to say it because the response has been waiting so long. But I still let the words fall out because I'm a person who doesn't like to see a conversation die on my hand, no matter who it is. And, this time, it happens to be a large stranger with a bow.

"Good for you. But are real careers real people?" I ask him. Most careers I've asked were speechless. Most of them didn't know what I was asking. I've been waiting for one to admit no. Real careers aren't real people because they think killing is okay. Because they think that the games are okay. Because they think that hundreds of dead kids is okay.

Help, I have done it again
I have been here many times before
Hurt myself again today
And the worst part is there's no one else to blame

I wait. The first boy's face lights up a little, as if I said something funny. My eyes harden as well as my face, hoping to get the message around that I was being serious. e. He almost sees it as a joke, he looks like he may actually laugh at it but his mouth opens with words instead. "Real careers don't enjoy the Games. We do it for our families 'n our District. For our friends. Those over there don't understand any of those concepts." I look over at the sword boys. I cross my arms, giving him a you do have a point there look. "I can believe that." I say, staring back at the cocky careers again. "Look at my sword!" One said, waving it around like a wand. I turn back to the both of them with a raised eyebrow and laughing eyes. "So, what do you enjoy about being here, then? You must come here for a reason." I say, echoing a response he gave me minutes ago. I look to his, um, friend I would assume, and see his smirk is somewhat faded.

"The killing is a necessity to show the other Districts, the ones who rebelled, that rebellion will never be possible again. Me 'n Ty here don't get to decide whether that is right or wrong. It isn't our place to. It is our aim to minimize the suffering that happens for our District. None of us see outside of here anyway." He says, in a more serious tone than before. My lips purse with slight disgust. Real careers are ignorant. That's what they are. "Why would there be a rebellion to stop if there is no reason for it? People in the other districts, you've seen them on TV. They're starved. They say we have the good lives. I can't imagine what the Capitol does to them. But I can guarantee it's not good. There was a first rebellion because they're unhappy. And if others are unhappy, I'm most certainly unhappy along with them." I snap back. My eyes soften again, and an apology laces my face. Dived too deep this time, Tina. Too deep.

"The reason we train is so arrogance doesn't make it into the Games. We've had too many brutal killers who parade off on their Victory Tour bragging about how heroic their actions were. It isn't heroic when you have the blood of, practically twenty-three other children on your hands." I stare at him. He's waiting for me to reply, to see if I have something to say. I do. I've argued about this topic several times. "If we didn't train, there wouldn't be so many arrogant killers. It would be fair. But, I suppose life really can't be fair. It can't be perfect. I should know that by now."

I don't get how I do it. I hurt myself in the argument I want to win. I'm actually beating myself.

Help, I have done it again
I have been here many times before
Hurt myself again today
And the worst part is there's no one else to blame

"Peaceful." He says, flatly and simply, just an open book. I can't tell whether he means it, or, like most, is just trying to rid the topic. My life is boring, and people aren't really that sensitive about acknowledging it. His brother walked away after a few quick shots with his bow. It seems so brief and short, to come here for that much time. Unless he was present longer than I had noticed. But since the long distance booths are fairly vacant, it would be quite easy to pick him out when I first stumbled in. Unless, of course, he's skilled in other things. I always try to over think things, I see all the possibilities. Sometimes, it can be useful. But usually, the answer is right under my nose and I can't see it because my mind is just away. I don't pay attention to it, I just need to overcomplicate things to make me seem smarter. A bad habit I've been trying to get rid of all these years.

"Still dunno what a girl like you is doin' in a place like this." I snap my head alert. I nearly forget he was still here. But I do have an honest answer. Or, at least, I hope it's honest. "I don't really know either." I admit looking away and back at him and then looking away again. Right now, my boots are really appealing. My fingers tap the edge of the counter, making a swift, soft beat that I believe only I can hear. It started out slow but is now fast, as if I want this conversation to change rapidly like that. "I'm here to make sure they don't get in the Games." He averts his gaze to the boxing Careers and I follow it. Then we both look at each other. A small smile curves my lips and he rolls his eye. "What about you? What's your deal with the Games?"

My smile fades away. Isn't that an answer enough? I don't stop the disgust from creeping on my face and a hard look invades the warmth in my eyes. My fingers tap faster, faster. I hate the games. I absolutely hate them, the way they just send kids out to a death sentence. And this very Training Center houses the pigs raised for slaughter. I hate them. But hate is a strong word, even though I do hate. It isn't me, really, to feel so much loathing for something. But I have a good reason, don't I? Death. Death of the innocent, death of the helpless, death of the weak. Death that never should have happened. Too much blood has been shed. 1,491 deaths. All children. Every single one. I think that's a perfectly sensible reason to hate the Games.

"I highly dislike them. Kids dying every year? It's so sickening. Especially this Quell, picking from the youth. All of the fallen were too young. Much too young." I reply in a serious tone. "And yet I still come here because if I were to ever get reaped, I would know what to do. I just wish I had never started in the first place."