paper hearts // 78th D7 train

The train rushes past meadows, rolling forward on many wheels but Raven’s mind hasn’t. He is caught in that worn-down, russet train station of Seven, in a heated attempt to photograph as much greenery of Seven as he can with mere sight. The only aspect he’s going to miss is definitely not the false sense of security at home—it’s the trees.

Nonetheless, it’s a futile try—no image lingers for more than a moment in the maelstrom of his skull. They come and go, flickering in and out of frame like a kaleidoscope of thoughts has been activated somewhere deep within his cerebral chambers. A migraine is bound to occur in less than an hour.

It’s a life-and-death business, getting Reaped and Raven ‘ought to know that by now from each year’s ultra-violence that he witnesses in the silver-screen. But in reality, he doesn’t know.

There’s no weight on his chest exerted by a frenzy of emotions. His soul and mind as buoyant as a helium balloon on a 
                  s u n n y
                               d a y.

About a hundred thoughts, swarming around like ghosts—colliding against each other in frantic madness—yet they’re anticipation for a fogged future of either glory or gore waiting ahead.

Whenever Raven takes an array of educated guesses for a conclusion to this phenomenon, every road leads to one singular answer:


Poking at the sweet rolls with a fork in desultory fashion, he shifts his attention-span elsewhere—somewhere over the rainbow—anywhere other than towards these sporadic thoughts. Alone with the two Salazars and hundred ghosts in one compartment guarantees a dull silence that creeps up steel walls and replaces the crimson of Capitol meat with an insipidness. Even the air is leaden in taste.

He shakes a portable bottle of mints in front of Violet Salazar’s nose but the question is for Jacinta and the soul she crawled out of the arena with. “So, what’s the plan here? Just try not to fall off the pedestal?”

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