paint the sky r e d {ss vs muttz}

The hilt of her sword steadied when Travers slayed the beast. She caught the last signs of life dripping out of its eyes, and the low moan of breath escaping its lips. Pulling back, the blood dripped thick and red onto the ground before her. She watched in the pale light. Life was fragile, life was unkind. Here time was measured from heartbeat to heartbeat, and so every moment was forced to count. Not like in all those days as a child, Travers had spent with her sister repeating the same footwork over and over again, time marching on forever, until their mother said at last practice was over. She would complain to her sister about how tedious each day was, how there was always so much time. Now it was ever elusive, and Travers was afraid to shut her eyes for fear that they would never open again.

A cannon shot sounded in the distance.

“I’m… I’m fine.” She whispered out, the goosebumps raising on her pale neck. She looked down at her arm, already oozing red and clear liquid on the sport where the loch had scratched. Iris had a sponsor—already receiving a little package for her wounds. Emmery, too. Who was it that thought they were so worthy? The lower districts had so far proved their worth only insomuch as they had not perished; Travers had managed to get a kill, which was the only thing that seemed to set her apart from the rest. But now that was rapidly fading with each cannon shot. More names would appear in the morning sky, and Travers would be just another that had slain a little girl in her prime. Percy. She mouthed the name again. A chill ran up her spine and she looked from Emmery to Iris.

“I…” Travers stepped forward, her voice soft. The blood gurgled around them. She thought again about the name—Percy, and Renee, too—and swallowed. Live in your truth, she thought. They were running out of time to be exactly who they were meant to be, and yet—why would she have to share, why would any of them have to know what was in her heart. Her arm burned once again and she hissed. Maybe if she waited to tell them, maybe if there was another time. At night, when they were close to sleep and she could speak to all the feelings bundled up into her chest. Darkness and fear went hand in hand. It was why speaking truth came so easily at night. But then what if, what if? They couldn’t understand, or know the fear that pressed up and into her heart.

She looked at Iris. This was the girl that had hardly a scratch on her, was showered in gifts from sponsors. They had barely said a few words to one another, only enough to know that they wouldn’t strangle one another in the night. How could she trust this soul? Was it in the wake of her shadow that Travers imagined Iris would welcome her? How desperately she wanted to be wanted, to be acknowledged by either of them. But Iris especially made her heart skip a beat; to tell her and to welcome her in faith would be—would take more courage than she’d seen in all her fourteen years. Conquering was easy, it was living that was far more dangerous.

And what of Emmery? What of the girl that had never spoken, that Renee had assured her would be on their side? She’d been a master with her flail, dodged and weaved with the best of them. Travers couldn’t know what she thought, and it brought another chill (or was that the poison?). They could easily turn their backs, or turn away. They had no reason to know Travers, to want to have faith in her. That was the point of the games, to break one’s soul against the rocks and emerge without a single care for the other twenty-three. She was supposed to be numb; district two had taught her that there was no other way to survive. And yet—the lower districts were different, they knew different. Lived different. Loved different. If only there was a sign, she thought, she would tell them if there was something that pushed her, that pulled her kicking and screaming away from—

At her feet landed a little tin, blinking with red light, its tiny parachute deflated.

She stared at the box of salve, and back to her compatriots. She twisted the lid and slid the greasy clear gel across her arm. Courage was, perhaps, living with the fear of their rejection and living anyway. The capitol would turn away, perhaps the districts, too. This would likely be the last of her sponsorship—she knew enough that without another miracle, they would be on their own. Alone. She took a breath. She was here, standing. Living. Breathing. That was enough, she could be strong enough. She had to be. When all that remained was the truth, there was nothing else that could be done.

“Please don’t call me Heathcliff.” She started, her voice a whisper. “Please don’t—I don’t know what I’m doing but, I don’t,” She fumbled, drawing another breath and looking to her dripping sword. This was far harder, far more difficult than slaying a loch, a thousand times so. “I don’t know either of you but—there’s so little time left.” She thought back to their heartbeat. To dancing. One-two-three. “I want you to know me, I want them, the world, to know me.” She breathed.

“Call me Travers, please. Don’t call me the boy from two, or just—you can call me the tribute from two but not—” She froze, looking to Iris and then to Emmery. “I just want to tell the truth. To live it. It’s why I’m here.”

[Heathcliff Travers does the following:

-uses needle/thread on self
-uses bandages on self
-performs first aid on self
-receives antidote
-uses antidote on self
-tells the truth]

Made by Frankel