d̶y̶i̶n̶g̶ dreaming in mauve {archangels}
Feb 10, 2017 20:08:29 GMT -5
Post by rook on Feb 10, 2017 20:08:29 GMT -5
"Why are you smiling?"
"Because you are afraid."
"And that's interesting to you?"
"Makes it more fun."
"Makes what more fun?"
"Killing you."
I can feel the weight of the words as they pass through his parsed lips and hang in the air like daggers pointing downwards. His smile is a cold-blooded, black-eyed shark grin that makes me feel dead inside, like the wind has left my chest. He is a chilling figure, leaning against the wall, playing with his knife faster and faster, all the while not able to break eye contact with me.
It's sort of in this moment that I realise just how fucked I am.
When I think about it, nearly everyone that is here wants to be here, meaning that the majority of the other Tributes are willing to kill. That's such a stark contrast to what I imagine it is like in other Games, where morals come into play. To volunteer for this, you have to be on a whole other level of fucked up. And this figure staring at me, fantasising about fuck-knows what, is on that level.
"Oh, well that's just lovely." I mutter as I stare into the face of this disturbing creature, a sharp flash of white in his grin as I lock eyes with him, finding a courage inside myself. Is it courage, or anger? I'm not sure, but I don't care. I was unnerved, but now I've found a certain gumption to stare these horrors in the face. I have to, else what will happen to me? You know what will happen.
"Given the week I've had, I might just enjoy that."
The boy stops fiddling with the knife, something catching his interest. I stand rigid in the middle of the room, my legs slightly apart, daring not to break eye contact with him. I feel a bead of sweat trail down my back, and my dry cracked skin starts to itch. Even before the claxon rings, and we're forced to charge towards the Cornucopia and fight for our lives - before we're taken away on the hovercraft, before we do our parade in the carriages, before our interviews and before the private training sessions, it starts here - the Games start here, and he's trying to play me.
"It's a date then."
He is something of a freak, not quite obnoxious but definitely egotistical and psychotic. He's not quite sane, some marbles are definitely missing inside that head of his. He holds himself in high regard, with a burning confidence that has me breaking out in a fever. I bite my lower lip, trying not to let him get the better of me.
It burns in my head again, Killing you, killing you, killing you. How two words could chill me right to the core, I'll never fully understand. Maybe it's the inevitability of it, the overbearing fate that is my death.
Because I sure as hell don't intend to outlive Castor, that's the whole reason I volunteered. Maybe I'm just realising that now - that I'm going to die.
And this freak wants to help me do that.
Pride always leads to a fall. I had an old book once, some pages were torn out or burned, but a lot of information was still salvageable, as is the case with most books from before the war. The fall of the great bastion of the east, it was about great leaders of the past, how corruption always looks to fester where men with power reside. There was a quote that I find myself speaking aloud to this dark figure across from me.
"Low and behold, the eater of worlds. Unappeasable is its ravenous hunger, satisfied only by its own self-worth." It is more to myself than to him, but he smiles nonetheless as I recite the paragraph that for some reason decided to stick in my mind. For that great calamity will devour itself.
"You're smart. You know what you're looking at." He responds, that thirsty shark grin baring on his face again. There it is, that ego. What he doesn't know is that ego is a ticking time bomb. He makes my stomach twist, but I do not flinch, I do not show weakness. If he wants to kill me, he'll have a bad time - I'll make sure of that.
"You get good at judging people when your life has depended on it for two years."
"Because you are afraid."
"And that's interesting to you?"
"Makes it more fun."
"Makes what more fun?"
"Killing you."
I can feel the weight of the words as they pass through his parsed lips and hang in the air like daggers pointing downwards. His smile is a cold-blooded, black-eyed shark grin that makes me feel dead inside, like the wind has left my chest. He is a chilling figure, leaning against the wall, playing with his knife faster and faster, all the while not able to break eye contact with me.
It's sort of in this moment that I realise just how fucked I am.
When I think about it, nearly everyone that is here wants to be here, meaning that the majority of the other Tributes are willing to kill. That's such a stark contrast to what I imagine it is like in other Games, where morals come into play. To volunteer for this, you have to be on a whole other level of fucked up. And this figure staring at me, fantasising about fuck-knows what, is on that level.
"Oh, well that's just lovely." I mutter as I stare into the face of this disturbing creature, a sharp flash of white in his grin as I lock eyes with him, finding a courage inside myself. Is it courage, or anger? I'm not sure, but I don't care. I was unnerved, but now I've found a certain gumption to stare these horrors in the face. I have to, else what will happen to me? You know what will happen.
"Given the week I've had, I might just enjoy that."
The boy stops fiddling with the knife, something catching his interest. I stand rigid in the middle of the room, my legs slightly apart, daring not to break eye contact with him. I feel a bead of sweat trail down my back, and my dry cracked skin starts to itch. Even before the claxon rings, and we're forced to charge towards the Cornucopia and fight for our lives - before we're taken away on the hovercraft, before we do our parade in the carriages, before our interviews and before the private training sessions, it starts here - the Games start here, and he's trying to play me.
"It's a date then."
He is something of a freak, not quite obnoxious but definitely egotistical and psychotic. He's not quite sane, some marbles are definitely missing inside that head of his. He holds himself in high regard, with a burning confidence that has me breaking out in a fever. I bite my lower lip, trying not to let him get the better of me.
It burns in my head again, Killing you, killing you, killing you. How two words could chill me right to the core, I'll never fully understand. Maybe it's the inevitability of it, the overbearing fate that is my death.
Because I sure as hell don't intend to outlive Castor, that's the whole reason I volunteered. Maybe I'm just realising that now - that I'm going to die.
And this freak wants to help me do that.
Pride always leads to a fall. I had an old book once, some pages were torn out or burned, but a lot of information was still salvageable, as is the case with most books from before the war. The fall of the great bastion of the east, it was about great leaders of the past, how corruption always looks to fester where men with power reside. There was a quote that I find myself speaking aloud to this dark figure across from me.
"Low and behold, the eater of worlds. Unappeasable is its ravenous hunger, satisfied only by its own self-worth." It is more to myself than to him, but he smiles nonetheless as I recite the paragraph that for some reason decided to stick in my mind. For that great calamity will devour itself.
"You're smart. You know what you're looking at." He responds, that thirsty shark grin baring on his face again. There it is, that ego. What he doesn't know is that ego is a ticking time bomb. He makes my stomach twist, but I do not flinch, I do not show weakness. If he wants to kill me, he'll have a bad time - I'll make sure of that.
"You get good at judging people when your life has depended on it for two years."
The air is cold tonight, and I regret not wrapping up in warmer clothing. You would think that after surviving two winters in the middle of the woods that I would be made of harder stuff, but you'd be wrong. I've gotten soft again, accustomed to nourishing food and warm bedding. It's a great contradiction, that they prepare you for such a hostile environment by stuffing your face with rich, sickly food and wrapping you up in a warm blanket in a comfortable bed. I'm half tempted to sleep on the floor tonight.
The sky is a screaming byzantium, with great mauveine zephyrs swollen across the sky. Constellations are like bruises on a dark skin. The wind is a soft whistle between the looming skyscrapers, and if you hold your breath you can hear the great distance between yourself and home. I feel like I have died, and I am in limbo, or hell, disguised as heaven. Everything here smells wrong, all the people wear their smiles like masks, and speak in words that aren't their own. It's like standing in a lie that is sinking and sinking, and when we get sucked under the quicksand of this fabrication, the reality will hit us like a freight train as we realise that we have to all kill each other.
I look a complete mess, I would say. Vomit stained yellow down my chest, dried blood at the corner of my mouth, black bags hanging under my eyes, but Castor has seen me in much worse states than this, for sure. At this point, I really don't care how I look to anyone, or what they think of me. So long as I'm strong, and brave, that's all that matters.
She makes me brave, which is quite an incredible thing when you think about it. How someone's well-being can be so important to you that your body literally is dissolved of all fear so that you can be brave for them. Quite amazing.
"You're not going to like him." I say as I walk over to Castor, staring out at the otherworldy view from atop the building - it's like we are underwater, staring into the great abyss of the big blue.
"But he'll kill people." I am hesitant to say keep us safe, because he won't.
I just hope he turns up.
"Who did you bring?" I am so overtired that I can't even look at the figure beside her.
The sky is a screaming byzantium, with great mauveine zephyrs swollen across the sky. Constellations are like bruises on a dark skin. The wind is a soft whistle between the looming skyscrapers, and if you hold your breath you can hear the great distance between yourself and home. I feel like I have died, and I am in limbo, or hell, disguised as heaven. Everything here smells wrong, all the people wear their smiles like masks, and speak in words that aren't their own. It's like standing in a lie that is sinking and sinking, and when we get sucked under the quicksand of this fabrication, the reality will hit us like a freight train as we realise that we have to all kill each other.
I look a complete mess, I would say. Vomit stained yellow down my chest, dried blood at the corner of my mouth, black bags hanging under my eyes, but Castor has seen me in much worse states than this, for sure. At this point, I really don't care how I look to anyone, or what they think of me. So long as I'm strong, and brave, that's all that matters.
She makes me brave, which is quite an incredible thing when you think about it. How someone's well-being can be so important to you that your body literally is dissolved of all fear so that you can be brave for them. Quite amazing.
"You're not going to like him." I say as I walk over to Castor, staring out at the otherworldy view from atop the building - it's like we are underwater, staring into the great abyss of the big blue.
"But he'll kill people." I am hesitant to say keep us safe, because he won't.
I just hope he turns up.
"Who did you bring?" I am so overtired that I can't even look at the figure beside her.
