Fire in the Water // [ xoxo vs. Aetherians Day 4 ]

are you going to age with grace?
are you going to age without mistakes?
are you going to age with grace?
only to wake and hide your face?

Don’t think about it.

She’s dying. Lyric stabs her in the back and she bleeds, crimson pouring from the gaping wound and into the already dark stained water. My chest heaves, my teeth bared at them like a wild animal, and as they take her away I snarl like one. “Run!” I shriek, sounding only slightly unhinged. Good. I’d rather sound crazy than broken. “Go! You touch them again and you die, you hear?” They don’t hear the guilt in my voice. They don’t see the flicker in my eyes as I watch the trail of blood they leave behind them. They don’t feel the way something deep within me twinges, my hands shaking when I draw back.

Don’t think about it.

A strange buzzing sensation courses through me, threatening to overwhelm all my senses. The anger does not shut off easily despite the fact that our targets are gone. Without any other outward source it juts inward at me like a knife into my own chest, burning hot and icy cold all at once. I struggle to control it, instead turning to the others - to my family - my heart still flying a thousand miles an hour. They look at me like a lost cause and I’m not surprised. There have been Victors in the past who have lost body parts to the Games, but I am no Heron Kimberling. The Gamemakers must be delighted, watching me torn apart piece by piece. What’s next? A leg? A head?

Don’t think about it.

I force my mind away from the train of thought, instead glancing at Claude. I wasn’t the only target of the monsters - he bleeds from several places, but especially his leg. I eye the dark stains against his skin warily, limping toward him. “You’re hurt, Cloudy,” I mutter, my voice only shaking a little. “Come here. I’ll patch you up.” I move toward the forgotten items of the dying girl, rummaging through until I find what I’m looking for - medical supplies. His cut will need stitches. I grab the needle and watch the way it glints in the sunlight.

I can feel their gazes boring into my back. My eyes squeeze tightly shut. Don’t think about it. If I think about it, it’ll hurt. If I think about it, it means it’s real. It means I really lost it. Don’t think about it. I stare at the needle. I need to thread it. I need two hands. Don’t think about it. “I - I need - " Don’t think about it. I’m choking on the words now, fighting a losing battle. “I need help. I can’t… I c-can’t - " Don’t -

I think about it.

My head whips around to stare at the limb, limp in a pool of blood, and suddenly the pain is there and fresh and threatening to overwhelm me. I need that arm back on my shoulder where it belongs, moving and working like it’s supposed to. I need it to fight, to throw two good punches in a row to my dad. I need it to carry Lucy to bed. I need it to hug Helen, to write with Nora and help Eva string up her bottles. I need that arm. It’s not coming back, though. It’s gone forever. There is white hot agony mixed with an undying sense of loss as I drop the needle and stagger away, my chest tight.

I look back toward Claude, my eyes desperate. “Claude, come here. Come here. You’re hurt. Let me help you. I can fix you. I - I can - " I can fix him. But not me. I can’t fix myself. My one remaining hand comes up to cover my mouth as something that sounds like a gasp leaves my lips. I sink to my knees, trembling. The blood still coats my side, hot and sticky, and it stains the water and ground all around us.

“You bloody monsters!” I tilt my head back and scream at the sky. My shouts are no longer meant for the fleeing tributes but the puppetmasters pulling their strings. “You demons! You come from hell! You had no right to take it! It was mine!”

They cut through my flesh, through my bone, and ruined me. And then, in a fit of anger, I did exactly the same thing. Is this what desperation does to human beings? Desensitizes them to all of the sins they commit by justifying them with the sorry excuse that we’re fighting for our lives? In that moment, it isn’t just my arm that has been taken from me. It’s my toes, my sisters, my life, my sanity. All the things that no other person has any right to so much as touch have been ripped away from me in some kind of brutal display of power. I’m a scapegoat, a young girl being blamed for the crimes of her ancestors. They tax me my blood and steal the grace from my aging struggle against life, painting me into a monster and pulling me apart like it is their right.

I’m blinded by pain and bleeding out, but I won’t bow down to them. I’m owned by myself. No one else. But then there is my arm, lying all by itself, evidence that the life I’m living does not belong to me. Every drop of blood in my veins is theirs to take. Every person I’ve learned to love is theirs to kill.

“Too much blood,” I whisper. “T-too much blood has been spilled for us. We - " Ripred, I’m crying, shoulders shaking and hot tears pouring down my face. “W-we have to go home.” I wipe desperately at the mutinous tears. These are the bloody Hunger Games and lost limbs are to be expected. I’m being weak. I’m being stupid.

But I realize, now, that despite my desperation to prove otherwise, I belong to them.

They taught me harshly and the lesson hurts.

“I’m s-sorry,” I stammer. I’m sorry for being weak, for being careless, for not saving myself when I had the chance. I’m sorry I ever let them become family in the first place. I’m sorry I hurt, and I’m sorry I care. I’m sorry for all my lost beliefs, for all my broken dreams. They were beautiful dreams. “I’m j-just… I’m sorry.”