What are you looking at [Kiah]?

What are you looking at [Kiah]? Oct 3, 2015 22:23:22 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Oct 3, 2015 22:23:22 GMT -5

I saunter my lithe body across the linoleum floor of the worn-in gym; my long, leather-clad legs carry me closer and closer to my objective today. My eyes focused in on the fresh, brick red fabric hanging from the solid, metal chain. The elder energy clashes with the youthful equipment they have put in. It is off-setting really. This gym has seen many of its occupants die in combat in far off worlds constructed for the viewing pleasures of our glourious Capitol. The air is ripe with energy and the distant memories of those that have gone before us. Yet as the years go one, our gymnasiums here in Two get constantly upgraded, always trying to build the best Career. Luckily for those of us who do not actually give two fucks about the Games can still use it as long as we are 18 or younger. I take a roll of tape and cover the skin of my knuckles and palms in a triangle formation, preparing myself for my own personal training. Powder helps to create more surface area for the rough fabric other than my skin, and my earbuds creates a world that I control.

Punch, jab, jab, cross.

I feel the momentum from each forceful throw ricochet back up to my shoulder, my hands become taut from the impact. I lean into each punch, throwing more force from my body into them while I keep my free hand up. Being lean as me can be both a blessing and a curse. I make up my lack of strength with my speed and adaptability, able to change directions at the drop of a dime. I use this advantage to get across my inanimate opponent, hitting it from all 360 degrees. I continue this routine until the powder has long left my hands, creates mark on the uncovered skin. I clean up, revealing the now barley used skin of the punching bag. The tape becomes disposed of, and I head for the tracks.

I have always favored speed and agility to strength and power. What’s point of being strong if your opponent can just run from you? You lose tactical advantage, it is not smart to be too strong. Yet the opposite argument is just as true, which is what just love reminding me. “You’re too skinny,” they say, “You need more muscles.” They chime on as if I can actually care anymore than I only pretend to. It is easy to paint a face of caring and listening, if only they could hear the judgements that I pass on them every day. I do not fucking care what these people think of me. I have no aspirations of a suicide death wish. I just want to train.

I continue running to the beat pumping through my ears, my blood pounding with each pounce forward. Our track is a standard Olympic size track, with each lap being roughly 400 meters. Which means that anybody in Two can still run it. After my 7th or 8th lap I start to notice a girl giving me a pretty stanky eye as she curls some weights. I turn to continue my laps but I can still feel her gaze judging my body. I can feel her eyes trying to penetrate me, trying to find weaknesses in my posture, in my stride. When I turn the corner I can see that she found something that she considers a weakness.

My lithe body.

Her judgment is very clear in her eyes as she starts to bench heavier and heavier weights, trying to show off her dominance over me. After a few more laps her peacock show hasn’t ended and her stare only getting more intense. I have finally had enough of her attitude and strut on over, making sure to accentuate my figure as I walk.

“What the hell is your problem?” I ask in anger.

What are you looking at [Kiah]? Oct 17, 2015 4:24:02 GMT -5

Post by k!ah on Oct 17, 2015 4:24:02 GMT -5

O C T A V I A

D I S T R I C T
2

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Thud.

Thump, thump.

Thud.

Driving my fist into the bag one more time I throw all my force into it, twisting my body to follow the bunch.

Thud.

My fist hist the bag, my wrist pounding with pain from the effort, but I ignore it, my lips pulling back into a wicked grin as I watch one of the guys who was training next to me quickly pack up his things and leave. One might have expected them to look at with their faced painted with something that was close to being impressed, but latey they just seemed to have a glint of fear in the depths of their eyes, averting eye contact and walking away. Maybe it was because only a few weeks ago I had bashed the trainer to a pulp for critiquing my form. He had said that I wasnt twisting my whole weight into the punches, I had them shown him that I was, his blood on my fist, his bones breaking under the strength that I wielded. No one had dared question me then, instead keep their distance. But I knew it wouldn't be for long before the incident was forgotten, some other wannabe badass would swoop in in the next couple weeks, claiming the tittle for themselves. So I had decided that for as long as it lasted I would bath in the looks of others, enjoy the way they quivered in fear as I approached.

Breathing heavily I step away from the punching bag, my fingers fishing up my water bottle quickly slipping off the lip and pressing the lip to my mouth. Tipping the bottle back I wait in anticipation for the feeling of cold liquid to slip into my mouth, sliding down my throat and soothing it, satisfying the parched feeling of my dry tongue against the top of my mouth. A sigh escaped my lips as I pull the bottle away, my eyes half closing, savouring the refreshing feeling that washed over me so quickly.

Walking over to the weights one my eyes follow the girl running the track. I watch as she speeds around the course. She was fast, even I'd admit that, her lethe body more suited to agility and speed rather that force and physical combat. She must catch my lingering gaze because she stops running, her eyes blazing with annoyance as she makes her way over to where I stand, my fingers wrapped around a weight I pretend not to notice her until she is practically standing on top of me.

Turning to face the small girl, Ignore the pathetic was her voice raises in anger. Snorting I turn away from her once again, curling the weight so that it was pressed close to my chest, my face tense with concentration.

"You." is all I say, the one word laced with as much venom as it would allow.

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