Public Training Sessions!

charlotte {♔} brownings

Pounding hearts and shaking feet bounced around the hallway with each passing moment, terror seething from the weaker tributes in each sweat drop, one doused in their own bodily fluids; Charlotte, however, felt fine, cool, fucking fantastic. Multiple layers of pants and short fabrics rubbed together unevenly with her crossed legs and her hands nor feet were shaky, the only tremulous part was her wavering mind, continuing to speak the same few words on repeat (calm, stay calm, stay calm damn it) in attempt to keep in one piece until she was free to enter. Which seemed to be taking damned forever considering she was the first person to perform, sitting in the district one female chair for what droned on to be forever, freezing into one position next to Jem, who she didn't care to look at. In fact, she sat in disgust for the rest of her row, Jem, Dan, Tiger wretched careers, like her, but they cling together like an ant colony, like they could barely survive the arena on their own, and those two district three kids were layered in pathetic expressions. Weak, Charlotte could manage to stay perfectly still, besides the faulting courage in her head, even with two jackets, a flannel, a shirt and an undershirt all from the capitol, while the two of them sat shaking like a damn fools.

Eventually she was cleared to enter, sweat already beginning to layer a film under the bottom crust of shirt, out of heat admittedly - although, she'd never admit otherwise. The door shut with a slam before flooding her hands into the first jacket's pocket, fondling the sweat off her hands onto the fur; ripred damn for letting her believe wrapping herself with half of the closet was a good idea. Heels clacked against the ground, filling the void of sound in the air in repeated strikes, yet her eyes were kept level to the amassed weapons and mouth closed. Was she supposed to say her name? Obviously they could guess she was district one, so what was the point, the thought filing through her mind before reaching the first dummy and dragging it towards the weapon racks.

Fur met with her fingers outside of the pocket, tangling under her nails as she rubbed the left sleeve before ripping it off, showing the leather underneath; the tip of a knife was drilled into the severed cloth, baring the tip through it. A pleasant grin tugged against the corners of her lips as she jammed the knife and cloth onto the dummy, pressing the knife hard into the potato sack skin turning her thumb red with the pressure, mimic blood patting down the gaudy fur.

"This is what I think of your fucking fashion sense!"

Once again, her nails dug into a fur sleeve, tearing the right sleeve off and shedding blonde-white onto the ground and leather that took guard under it, pinning it too onto the dummy, patching over its matching; red spurting onto the knife like the one Sonja sliced her own hand open with, twisting the knife with the pang of anger raising with the memory of that dumb ass girl from six. She slipped loose of the first layer of clothing, shredding the torso and pinning them with more knives, decorating the dummy into a pin-cushion, ichor camouflaging the thin strands of the jacket to match the lipstick licking her lips. The plan for the session throwing itself out of her mind, simply coming in and talking shit about the clothing she took from the closet provided became a bore, she wanted to destroy it, showing how quickly it became trash.

The cow-hide was tougher, chipping one of her nails that Caramel bitch warned her about, but now her hands were shaking, adrenaline blending between her veins from no longer forcing herself to sit down, watching other tributes breaking and tearing while she did nothing but judge instead of taking the stations herself. Being the judge was tiresome, watching people fuck up over and over again as if their life depended on them not being able to fight, and watching some succeed was even worse. The knife she planned to stab the leather with was now positioned in her hand, cutting through the thick of it while still on her (or at least, on the three shirts resting beneath it) before placing it onto the dummy's collar, hanging over its chest like a makeshift ponytail.

Repetitious motions became mechanical, ripping, shredding, cutting through the layers of clothes, stabbing cotton cloth to soak up red with a pole sword and fixing flannel plaid onto with a falchion, digging into the skin at every possible vantage point to secure more onto it until she stood in only the lowest layer of a tee and shorts, panting into the tangles of her hair strewn loose across her face. Close to all the blades sat transpierced into the dummy, fastening sleeves, legs, torsos, collars, everything onto it, mocking the ones viewing her, if they even paid any damn attention to it. Composure regained itself slowly, examining whatever the hell she created before turning into the glass pane for the first time.

Sweat beads littered across her arms and forehead cooled against the new found freeze with both the heat from material and motion beginning to dissolve, her permanently furred brows attempting to take in a face past the reflections glazed onto it, but failed with the absence of accurate vision. The nerves feasting off her rage and adrenaline chilled at the prospect of confusion, words fumbling uncomfortably in her mouth at the awkward silence; until flustering out a beaded statement before leaving the room,

"I am Charlie."

owen {♔} bowers-fox

The boys and girls that proceed me range from terrifying to amusing, and I count each and every single one of them. The girl from one goes first, with her dark hair and contentedly, annoyed smirk. She’s followed by the boy from one, and both the girl and boy from two. They all intimidate me to be honest, but it doesn’t take much to do that, so I’m not surprised when I find myself holding my legs down to keep them from shaking. The girls from three and four strike me as people hiding secrets close to their heart, far from my grasp, and so does the boy from three. However, the boy from four—Leon, shoots me a small smile and I recall our previous conversations as he walks by. He’s been nothing but kind to me, but he’s still from a career district, and I know his friendship is only an overlay hiding some form of power, likely to come out when faced with death.

The girl and boy from five don’t even shoot me a glance, and it’s not entirely their fault, for I refuse to make eye contact with them. The same goes from the pair of sixes’, and it’s only until the girl from seven passes me that I look up from the floor. She catches my eye momentarily, but I turn away before I can make anything of her, or her of me. The boy from seven doesn’t seem to kindle the same fire that so many before him have, and I find it easier to meet his gaze as our breakfast conversation comes to mind. I don’t know if I could call him a friend, for I don’t think that that word exists in these boundaries, but he is someone I trust more than others. It’s only moments later that the girl who I shared a few words with on the train here walks by, and I do my best to meet her gaze and shoot her a smile. She didn’t deserve this, and I felt the same sorrow in my heart that I hoped Duncan did for me back home.

The numbers in the room have dwindled now, leaving only nine others (not including myself). No one has said anything, and I’m sure that if someone dropped a pen three rooms over it would be able to be heard. It’s not that I mind the silence, for it gives me time to think, to ponder over the fact that I’m going to walk into that room and stand there like a complete idiot because I am nothing phenomenal. I’ve never been one to possess strength or wits or anything different because I’ve grown up realizing that I can never achieve what I want—perfection. It’s for that reason that as my name is called I space my steps so that they’re equal and push with both hands against the heavy, steel doors that stand between me and the whole world’s realizing that I am imperfect.

My steps resonate against the linoleum and I feel the eyes drawing to me, and I can only imagine pens beginning to scrawl against pure, white paper, tainting it with mistakes that I haven’t made. It only takes one glance around the room to realize that there is nothing there that would in any way make me seem desirable.

”Cody, it’s all wrong! The alignment and the angle and everything about it is simply wrong.” The paper ripped beneath my grip, and I did my best to calmly chunk it off the desk, however, my aim was off and it flew across the room, landing in the middle of Duncan’s empty bed. My hands ran roughly through my messy hair, and I laid my head down on the cold desk and waited for Cody to say something that would take away from my current distress. However, he didn’t say anything, but from the noise he was making I knew that he wasn’t just sitting there. I transferred the tears from my eyes to the sleeve of my shirt, my vision clearing to reveal him smoothing out the piece of paper that I had just previously made an effort to destroy. His words were gentle, yet firm, as he handed the crinkled piece of paper back to me before saying, “It doesn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful. Everything is imperfect.”

I’m sure that I look confused, or at least distraught, as I shakily walk over to the area of the room where miscellaneous paints for camouflage sit and pick up a brush and a few colors. The floor is a canvas draped in night, and I wield colors of the sun as I begin to paint the imperfect scenes that had graced my vision over the last couple of days. The train ride had revealed a world that had been hidden from me up to that point, and the lack of luster in each of the areas we had passed was reflected in the dirt browns and dull golds that crossed the floor at my feet. Blood reds accompanied my thoughts of the training center and its brutality, from those who struck each lifeless dummy with every intention of murder to those who sat on the sidelines in silence and wondered about how it would feel to be in either the place of the murderer or the murdered. I was just about to paint the vibrant pinks and blues that adorned the people of the capitol, when a surge of reality came over me. No one was going to care about this, not the people who sat above me, and not the people who would stand over my grave.

My imperfections did not matter to them, and they had no reason to. Everything I did was a work of destruction, not a work of art, and no matter how hard I tried to paint a perfect picture, it would never exist. My imperfections would be the only thing left among the ruins of my demise, and that’s how these people were going to remember me.

I stop midway through a stroke of purple before tossing the brush aside and wiping my colored hands on my dark pants. I clamor to my feet, glancing halfheartedly at the scene that sits beneath me. I can count the number of things I’ve messed up, from the shade of the dirt to the blood of the dummies that lay in pieces (no one could be proud of this, not even Cody). There is nothing right about what sits in front of me, and tears threaten to spill from my dark eyes. However, in my desperate attempt to keep my face hidden from the gazes above me, I catch sight of multiple swords lined up perfectly straight. I reach out for one, colors smudging the silver hilt as I hold the handle in one hand and run the other over the blade. I begin to walk back towards the section of floor I’ve already defaced, but before I can get too far away, I turn back and knock my shoulder into the metal rack, causing a surge of pain to shoot down my shoulder and into my arm. The perfectly aligned swords scatter to the floor, falling and landing over each other. Content with the imperfections that have fallen amidst that area, I make my way back to my painting, dragging the tip of the sword still in my hand through the still wet paint. My previous imperfections are marred even further by my anger, and it only takes a moment for a still interpretable picture to be turned into something that even I didn’t understand, and it only drove me further. The sword clatters and slides across the metal floor as it leaves my grasp. It’s not my weapon of choice anymore, no, it’s the little, wooden matches that lay on a table across the room, and I jog to pick them up.

They’re smooth and light in my hands, and I take about three of them before picking up a jar of coal black tar and walking back to my smudged section of floor. The jar of tar is heavy in my hands, and I position myself squarely in the middle of the area before holding it high above my head and throwing it to the floor. The black substance erupts from the jar, glass and tar spreading out around my feet. I pick up the discarded sword again and spread the thick substance about, letting its darkness seep over every bit of color I had previously thought would make a statement. I stand back and for the first time since I’ve stepped into the room, look up and address the people staring down at me. I take one of the matches and light it, watching yellow engulf the top as I hold it eye level. It begins to burn down, and just before the flame reaches my finger, I blow it out, dropping the smoking match to the ground at my feet. It takes every ounce of bravery to push things farther than I already have, and I swallow the stutter in my throat before looking to the gamemakers above me, silently urging my voice not to fail me at this point in time. “For a long time, I imagined art to be this perfect thing, something I could never reach, but I’ve decided that that’s not the case. I’ve decided this,” and with that, I struck another match, only holding it for a moment before looking back up to address the people above me again, “is just as good. In fact, I think it’s even better.” And with the last word I let the match fall from my grip, and I watch as flames of red and orange and yellow lick the black surface.

I step back a few paces as the flames spread from the central point of diffusion to the outermost edges, where my paintbrush had barely crossed. The colors are buried beneath darkness, the pinks and blues and yellows undistinguishable against the black that suffocates them. I stumble back a bit more, the flames consuming the tar quicker than I had accounted for. It’s silent again, besides the crack of the fire, and I take the moment to simply watch. The flames grow and then dwindle, until only an ember is left at one of the edges. I make my way over to it, pausing a moment before stamping it out. I’m sure I’m a sight for sore eyes, my once clean, crisp uniform coated with smudges of paint and tears streaming down my face. But the image that I display doesn’t matter anymore, for I’ve made the point I aspired to make, and with that I murmur out a “Thank you.” before walking with uneven paces to the heavy, steel doors, and pushing them open with only one hand.