The Bloodbath

{The vacancy that sat in my heart
Is a space that now you hold}

Look at the name Asha Lumiere and there is a plethora of labels and presumed definitions, one half numbing (insane, strong, mad) and the other half rage inducing (weirdo, creep, blank). Every time my gears grind and my muscles creak, I hear the rattling of shackles at my feet. The spiked chain attached to a training score of ten is another definition branded next to my name. The whole world but me expected it; I'm the only one who sees the world in shades of grey, after all. Shackled to my ankles and wrapped in a deadly embrace around my throat, I think this is a label I can proudly call my own.

Personally, I labelled myself as 'caged'. Trapped between my personal white purgatory and my black hell; for all my labels, I was always an undefined shade of grey.

Before my very eyes, my downfall is one part determined but one part spontaneous. As I drag my body across that hallway, I can't help but wonder if my tombstone is prepared in District One. A grey slab to mark the end of the man who could never see anything but monochrome. In the final moments, I want to feel my own numb heartbeat. Undefined on a spectrum of absolutes, I wonder if I'll find the label that's true. Everything else up to now has just been shackle on top of shackle on top of shackle. Silver searing my skin and spiked steel piercing the flesh - I'm so numb to the torture.

Throughout the night, adrenaline formed a tidal wave through my veins, pooling at the heart and doubling its rate in the face of the impending bloodbath. Forever undefined on a spectrum of absolutes, I knew it wasn't fear that kept me wrapped in the white bed sheets. Whatever it was fueled by, I think I liked it. When I look at the name Asha Lumiere, I can confidently say 'fearless' is part of the legion of labels and presumed definitions. No pride, it only has the effect of numbing. So, when I wrapped myself between the white sheets (with my hand pressed against my rib cage), I questioned the value in a heartbeat that I had written of as numb the day I turned thirteen.

In the face of a preemptive funeral, I don't give myself time to say my goodbyes to Justice Fray or Opal Shore or thank them for their nonexistent help. I drag myself away, shackles and all. Parting words of advice taken on board, I step onto that monochrome hovercraft and sit in silence. No words for the damned, in the face of a preemptive funeral, silence seems the best course of action.

Flanked by two peacekeepers that would call themselves angels, I step off the monochrome hovercraft and into my cage of isolation. "I want blood." I mutter to no one in-particular. Downfall pre-planned, I sit and don't dare to contemplate the contents of that grey headstone waiting to signify the end of a grey world. The reason is zero parts fear, one part the rarity known as common sense. The moment I begin to search for the easy escape route, is the moment my pre-planned funeral comes to fruition. My survival should not be a strategy printed in crystal clear black and white, nor should it meet my fate and remain undefined on a spectrum of absolutes.

It can add to the weight of my labels and loosely presumed definitions. I can grip it between my fists and rattle it with the force that equals the weight of pure insanity. Unlike the sanity I never cherished, it won't crack and shudder.

I inhale and slowly exhale. I don't bother to track and count the number of numb heartbeats between my declaration and the door swinging wide open and my stylist entering. Numb heartbeats all amount to nothing in the end. But I swear, the rate increases once I see the clothes he presents to me as an offering like I'm royalty. "I'm not going into the fucking arena in heels." I sneer. What does he think I am, a doll?

Heated words are exchanged on the topic but I never had a choice. I wear everything, stiletto heels and all.

I wobble and teeter for a second but I'm still grinning. "What's so funny?" He asks, raising an eyebrow at my sudden mood swing.

"Nothing funny, I'm just happy. Today is the day it all ends, today is the day I feel. I explain to him before I tilt my head back in mad laughter and mock amusement. He shakes his head (similar to how father shook his) and sighs. "Fucking nutjob you are."

I do not think twice when I am called to step onto the silver pedestal. In that second I become a personification of sanity itself teetering off the edge of a cliff. One part insane, two parts bloodthirsty, when I break into open air I exhale in relief. The cornucopia is a beacon for the long term fulfillment of death itself. I stopped believing in death as an entity years ago, but death as a promise waiting to be fulfilled never quite faded away, just like the labels left behind when anyone dared to fill silence with the name Asha. It stands tall in its wooden glory, items practically overflowing from its mouth - it resembles a cabin for death's rest period.

Asha Lumiere; mad enough to still be smiling and clenching his knuckles when the countdown starts.

I don't know where to define the beginning. but when the number sixty flashes proudly above the cornucopia I look to I remember the beginning of my own predetermined downfall. I spot Desimae, District Eleven, standing on her own pedestal. Never one for rationale, I gave common sense the classic middle finger and gave in to a lust I never thought existed. When we laid on the rooftop in silence, I realized that my madness could extend to the point I would happily predetermine my own downfall. ('Where is the method to your madness?') There could never be a method to that. Hand pressed to my chest, even when I see her, each numb heartbeat still amounts to nothing even now.

The middle always remained scrambled between my white purgatory and black hell, but at the number thirty one Jenoah, the boy from Eight weighed down by his dead religion, comes into focus. Praying for a safe escape route, he should've realized a long time ago there is only one escape route that can be delivered here. Clutching my hand to my chest, I forget to count each numb heartbeat lowly amounting to nothing. Shutting my eyes, I try to picture him as a personification of the hunted (insides strewn across the ground and all) but each heartbeat remains numb. Nothing.

At number twelve I can no longer define the beginning or the end. Quickly searching, Mitchell doesn't take long to grab my attention. One part of him has piqued my interest, someone from such a low district has his shackles lain across his feet while mine still remain firmly on. On the other hand, my hands twitch at my side and I oh-so-desperately want to paint my monochrome grey in his blood. And despite the contrasting difference, not even he can quicken my numb heartbeat.

In the final five seconds, I lose track of what I can perceive as the end. One thing's for certain, I no longer want to remain a shade of grey. Lost between my own white purgatory and mad black hell, I realize that I desperately want to break free. My ears remain numb to the beginning of the end. Look at the name Asha Lumiere and there is someone insane enough to smile with silver shackles searing his skin. I do not care think how much the shackle of that final label weighs when clasped around my heart. After all, where's the value of a heartbeat I had labelled as numb four years ago?