Surrender [Rook;train;blitz!]

PATRICIA VALFIERNO

Living in a cruel world, drudging with my feet in the snow
On a day out, and it's a night now
Doctor, I've been walking by the side of the road
For a long time, and I'm going out of my mind.

Locked in a metal cage, travelling at two hundred miles-per-hour. Peacekeepers posted at every lock and door, eyes fixed on my every move. This isn't luxury, it's a prison. A holding cell. They can decorate it with fancy cakes, soft bedding and vintage furniture all they like, but I see it for what it really is. I wear many masks, so I'm good at seeing through disguises. The Capitol is all one big cardboard cut-out. Those with common sense know what it really is - Corrupt.

I have been sat frowning out of the window since the journey began. When they led me away from my sister and towards the station, I was filled with a cold dread. It was a death march, with all those pairs of eyes looking at me with a pointless pity. Sympathy means nothing. I didn't fight them, rather I accepted my torrid fate like the submissive little girl I am. All this talk of not giving up to my younger sister, it was all an act. Another mask to shield her from the truth - That I am as good as dead, and was fast accepting that before they slammed me in here on my own. Oppression breeds anger, and now I am filled with all the hatred in the world. What right do they have to do this to me - To anyone? Every Tribute ever Reaped has felt this injustice coarse through their veins, I bet. Maybe that's why so many of them kill without questioning it. They are all so angry. I understand them, I do.

I let it all out in an exhausting release of screaming and tears. It's normal they say to me. It's normal to react this way. I feel sick. How can the Mentors and Peacekeepers look me in the eye and tell me that I am acting normally to this - Like there is a normal way to react to being sent to your death.
"GET OUT!" I scream at them, throwing pillows and stray fists at anyone who steps into my personal bubble. Personal space is all I have left now. I am safe so long as I am in my bubble. My eyes sting with more tears as flashes of silver and steel come to mind, each stab cutting through my invisible bubble and into my body. I curl over on my bed into a foetal position, clutching at my stomach as if I have already been stabbed.

I retch again and again, each time trying to bring up the contents of a breakfast I didn't eat. Empty, empty, but still forcing it out, retching until I feel like my insides are bleeding. My face is red and wet, but no more tears come from my eyes. My mouth is agape, uttering silent pleas to whatever god is up listening. Is this all just a dream? I keep screwing my eyes shut and telling myself to wake up. I want to open my eyes and see my bedroom ceiling, and Ruze in the bed adjacent to me. I want to see District Five outside and know that I am home and safe, but when I open my eyes all I see is the metal cube they have shut me in.

In this moment, I am wearing no mask. I am very much Patricia Valfierno, and not the faux alias Trix that I created to make a living. I'm not a scammer, nor a trickster, I am just a weak little girl being screwed by the system. This is the true me, and I hate it. I hate how helpless I am. I have, at least, been given a chance to fight for my life. I know that there will be many trained killers in that arena, each with their own motives and morals. Do I stand a chance against them? I guess any chance, no matter how small, is a chance. I know in myself that I don't want to die, and would kill if it meant seeing Rose again.

I walk out from my train cabin, entering the glamorous and decorated carriage. They see my worry. All the time, it's all they see. Compassion and sympathy, but they are not weapons I can use to keep myself alive, nor are they motivation to keep me fighting. It's just a waste. A waste of emotion. I feel ten years older than when I woke up this morning, my eyes dried out and weathered, my mind exhausted from thinking, and over-thinking. I swat away our mentor, instead walking towards my District partner. What was his name? I was called first, and the shock hit me so hard that I didn't even hear his name called. He stands with a strange determination imprinted on his narrow face. I look to where he looks, seeing a boomerang on the ground. I screw my face up, and put a mask of compassion on. I walk over and pick up the carved, polished wood. Without being as rude as to inspect his personal belongings, I hand it over to him.
"You dropped this." I try to smile.

I step back, allowing him to form his own personal bubble. I reach over and grasp some baked potato chips from a floral bowl, cupping my left hand to hold them as I pop them into my mouth one at a time.
"What's your name?" I ask him, leaning against a chair. Sometimes it's best to think about others, so that you don't have to worry about yourself.

Sitting on a rooftop, crazy days are coming again
I'll be running, but I'll be hidden in the masquerade
So far from me now, but oh I can hear the sound
Can't you hear the bells singing alone? You will hear it on the radio

words: 924, graphics: rook
theme: hear the bells by porter robinson