Three Count {{ Sue Oneshot(s)
Jun 19, 2015 17:13:16 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Jun 19, 2015 17:13:16 GMT -5
Eventually the weight of nothingness on his shoulders becomes too much for him, the slender body of a boy from Seven taking three steps back and it feels like he'll never take any steps forward again. One step, two step, he can't tell if it's anger surging through his veins or the consequences of the lies he tells.
They're equally awful, he assumes.
His hands clench, bloody knuckles turning white with the pressing of anger through his palms. And he swears, he swears he can feel the paper he's slipped into Stella's coat pocket, the stain of words written in ink tracing lines through his memories. We will kill them-
He wonders if they will, if they can because, even though they could talk all they wanted, a piece of their puzzle had been destroyed, had been demolished by a bag of skin with an accent that shattered eardrums. Teeth grind and a bead of sweat rolls rolls drops off his forehead, splattering onto the boots he wears below, and the blood that cakes them. For only two deaths, there'd been an awful lot of blood puddles on the ground, enough that the bottom half of his bow was wrapped in it, crusted blankets flaking off in small chunks as it scraped against his shoulder blades, bow string dividing his chest and all the lies and branches it carries.
There had been no sign of Noah, nor had there been any sign of a saving grace, nor had there been any sign that what they wanted to do, what he'd promised himself he would do, was possible.
Ha, he bites his tongue, hard, until a drop of blood rolls out and interlaces itself between his teeth.
His mind races a million thoughts per million guilt trips, bathroom chats with former head Gamemaker finally nabbing its place as the champion as he sits, legs sprawled out, away from the funeral.
Funerals always took their tolls on the weak.
My mom and dad left when I was a kid, no clue where they are.
Grid lock, his eyes stare straight ahead at whatever this arena has to offer, glancing up every one two three moment to check if there's an angel made of red cloth and beeping trumpet coming to greet him.
"And you are?"
He'd asked Murdoch Fenn his name, as if the man hadn't been drilled into, around, and through whatever mind Sue Tate had left. And as he sits, one hand resting in a puddle of his own blood and the other on a creaky floorboard, he's running through the conversation-
again and again, over and over, one two three one two three
He breathes, heavy, and stabs an arrow in the ground in anger, watching it vibrate as his hands leave it, it takes three two one moments for it to stop.
"Use your resources, kid, they'll be the only thing you got."
He'd refused to believe anything the orange haired man had told him, until now.
It paid to actually open the doors to his eardrums for a while in the training center, instead of worrying about what trees to cut down or what lies to tell.
"These are delivery words, used to send messages to other tributes. So, in cas-"
Tune out, tune out, but enough had been enough, and with Murdoch's words in his mind he stares down the gray eyed mutts that had landed beside him, heads darting every which way.
One breath, two breath, he holds it on the third.
Sue Tate lunges.
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1-4
