sins of our flesh; tris
Jan 30, 2018 12:20:48 GMT -5
Post by kousei ♚ on Jan 30, 2018 12:20:48 GMT -5
a e s o n kight .
The Capitol's sea of limelight fades and you're still caught in the process of building yourself up from a fragmented existence,
You've cast yourself away.
In this place of twenty four faces, where the promise of twenty three cannons hangs high above everyone's head as a cloud of crimson, there is no reason for you to be seen as anything more than the number that flashes upon your chest. You have no desire to prove yourself, no lust to look pretty for the gamemakers upon their perches of synthetic divinity. You lived to be hated, after all; yet you still moved as if you have something to prove.
It was only a matter of time before you surrendered yourself to the primitive instinct that encouraged you to break bones and split skin. Your knife finds its way into synthetic flesh and hold a false death in your hands. Knife buried to the hilt, you twist (that's how they feel it) and remember the echo of a scream laced with agony to fill the silence. For pain and pleasure has always been the driving force behind the movement of your autocratic joints, the grinding of gears and your caustic motion.
You wait for its knees to buckle until you remember -- this is only mockery, not butchery.("Oh Ripred, may our son's soul be shielded from this darkness, let him know no silence as you guide his way.")
This broken place isn't silent.
You let your hand fall from the hilt and sigh, rubbing the back of your head with your hands shutting your eyes. You wait for your skin to catch alight on the edge of sunset, but you don't give any attention to whoever disturbs your train of thought. You remain blinded by boredom but give yourself to curiosity, you open your eyes and let your vision wander over to the side as you roll your head to the direction of the source of the disturbance of your introversion.
And where you expected to find another face you fail to distinguish from the rest of the sea you're met with a silver flare that displaced the darkness creeping up her body. You narrow your eyes, immediately recognizing the number on her chest and her face. Another firestorm in a winter rage, she volunteered same as you and carried an air of superiority that you felt through the television screen. You sigh, one of the few tapes you didn't forget.
Of course, you noticed her -- you would've had to be blind not to. For she wielded weapons with an outworldly mastery you didn't quite care to comprehend and stood as if her heartbeat controlled the direction of the world's heliocentric motion. You didn't run into many of those kinds of people, but the few times you did you never really saw them again.("There's a special place in hell waiting for you, boy."
"Yeah, yeah.")
Those yellowed pages you traced with your eyes for the simple reward of a not-quite empty stomach spelled out the values of chasity and the pitfalls of lust. Six years old; scripture ran through your mind and detailed a map of punishments for transgessions. Eighteen years old; you still await for one to come to fruition for you don't have a single fibre of repentance in your body.
"Euley, right? You ask, calling out. Your footsteps echo through the almost empty centre as you smirk before coming to an abrupt halt. "So are you just waiting to be thrown out by peacekeepers or were you just that desperate to catch me alone?"
You never cared to count your transgressions, anyway.