Bad Blood? [Marchello and Zeki]
Feb 11, 2015 18:32:48 GMT -5
Post by Will on Feb 11, 2015 18:32:48 GMT -5
.: ZEKI WEBB :.
{district five : 69th tribute}
The bullseye.
That's what my eyes focus on. I leer across the ten yards, a bead of sweat forming on my forehead. It's itchy. It's so itchy.
As this bead of sweat on my forehead begins to form more and more, my attention becomes more and more diverted to it. It's ridiculous! It's right there on my forehead and there's nothing I can do about it! Why don't humans have a limb on their head specifically for itching their head when their hands are occupied. That would come in so much handy.
Soon my thoughts have totally steered from the target. I become totally unaware of the bow, locked and loaded with a gorgeously sharp and slim arrow.
The bead of sweat finally rolls down my head. Suddenly I'm aggravated by it. Why am I putting up up such a fuss about a bead of sweat? I couldn't tell you. For some reason, all of the emotions that have built up thus far are being relinquished onto this small, single drop of salty water that comes directly from my head. All of the rage from being totally powerless, the denial, the hatred, the happiness, the sorrow, the anguish, and the guilt. All of it just comes pouring out of me. Almost literally.
I reach up and swat at my face. I feel the wetness spread to my hand and I wipe it off. There. That'll show the Capitol. I can wipe sweat off my face. I'm such a mess. This whole time I thought I was doing incredibly. I thought I was coping. I was never upset, I was never angry. I never felt anything except delight at all of the food that was available to me. Maybe that's it. Maybe I've just been bottling up everything. It seems like such a cliche and predictable thing though. It has to be a deeper meaning than that. I find myself slowly drop to the ground, staring at the floor in front of my feet.
The gravity of what is truly happening is beginning to hit me now. Death. My death is so close. But maybe not. I can't afford to think like that. Thinking I'm going to die isn't going to help me win the Hunger Games. I never helped anyone win the Hunger Games. What helped them was decisiveness. A willingness to survive no matter what. That's what I'm going to have. That's what I have to have.
And in another wave of realization, I realize what I have just done. In my self-absorbed moment of insanity over a drop of sweat, I wiped the sweat off of my face. But with the hand that was holding the string back. I quickly look up to see what has happened. Where did the arrow go?
Oh! I think. That's where it went.
The arrow had landed seemingly right next to another tribute. He didn't seem like he was entirely thrilled by this either.
{table by zoë}