Public PTSs

I guess I don't know
How to live with a good thing
And not break it into nothing
Self destruct just to feel, or so it goes

Faith; strong belief in the doctrines of a religion, based on spiritual conviction rather than proof.

Caught between a web of silence and the promise of blood seeping into your skin, you bite back laughter and wonder what melody will ring true for you. Your mind drifts in tangent from the motion of the world's movement, but you don't let the sight of the careers drift from the edge of your peripheral vision -- the polarized don't have the privilege of seeing your back.

It would be as illogical as blind faith.

("Oh Ripred, guide our son's soul through this darkness we pray --")

There isn't an ounce of spiritual conviction coiled around these hollow bones of yours. It's taken eighteen years, one hundred scrawled letters inked upon yellowed pages and notation inked into your skin and the only being that has the privilege of your faith is yourself. You only believe in yourself but you still wonder if that crown of brimstone and blood will drag you down to that special place in hell and your tired feet will be chained to hell fire.

You refuse to flinch at the notion of perishing beneath the pressure of welded metal and silver, the world spins at the call of death and the fate of decay but your mind drifts in tangent. You're deaf to the promising rhythm of cannon fire and blind to the line that thins before you as more and more tributes drift through the door. Had you bothered to care, you could count them them like the scars twisting along your shattered skin. Isaac and Euley long since faded to background noise but Violet just behind; time passes and you tend back towards lucidity.

Apathy upon your skin, hellfire in your lungs -- "Aeson Kight, District Six."

You chuckle to yourself, wrist clutched between your forefinger and thumb as you step through the unknown. You lose track of the footsteps that echo across the room but you spot kings and queens sat upon their thrones. You're reminded of the scripture inked beneath your skin, Ripred a concept brought to life by the shadow of starvation that twisted across your throat -- sitting upon his heavenly thrones as you counted your ribs and wasted away at an arbitrary snap of his fingers.

But that scripture's unreadable now by the red iron peeling into your skin, blind faith was never your saving grace. And that fact is surely seen by the way you take the pressure of the judgement of the Gamemaker's gazes in stride. You pluck a knife from the rack, it's essentially an extension of your arm with every black and blue bruise that painted your knuckles and red line across your arms.

You were once captivated by the Capitol's technology. They did their best to simulate slaughter, made moving targets out of synthetic joints and fighting men out of engineering.

It doesn't come as a surprise when it moves once you've turned it on, mechanical joints clicking as its footsteps make no impression other than sound. It takes its first weapon, a sword, in its grip and suddenly it twirls, a pinwheel of silver and you quickly step back, blade narrowly missing your face.

You wonder what would happen it it was to cut through arteries and veins, if it were to fuck up their perfect games. It's a nice thought, the way your death could reduce kings and queens upon golden perches to prisoners with bullet wounds in their chests.

Then maybe you could see that special place in hell, the last fragment of blind faith attached to your tired bone and body.

It lunges forwards, blade glinting red for the kill, and you dismiss the musing from your mind as you deflect it with a lazy flick of your wrist and the sound of steel song fills the room. You step backwards again, willing it to try again.

("There's a special place in hell for you, boy."

"Then take me to it.")

You always send them there first.

It brings its sword arching down and the only impression it makes is a thin line against thin air. For your figure is lithe and years of violence and broken souls beneath your boot has taught you -- don't let them touch you first.

Then it makes it fourth and final mistake, stepping forwards with a calculated lunge. Quick but ineffective against your similar speed. You step to the side and then forwards, slipping into its guard.

("You're already dead.")

That's the thing, muscle heads with spiked bats and over sized sticks thought no one could touch them because they had biceps bigger than their brains and bats bigger than your arms -- "compensating for something?" However, the fatal flaw came with their lack of mobility, once you slipped past the reach of their weapons with your own smaller and more manageable blade, they were already dead. You wouldn't stand idle be a target for their makeshift torture devices.

It's a familiar motion you've performed hundreds of time, stepping in and bringing the knife into its gut and putting your free hand on its shoulder so you can pull it closer. Swift and fluid. Its sensors recognize it's in pain.

You twist the blade and its sensors recognize it's in agony.

You pull the blade from its synthetic skin and it stumbles backwards, for a second, you mistake the fake blood for something real and the distant memory of thunder echoes through your mind. It stumbles forwards, its swing more sloppy and you lazily sidestep, slipping past its guard again, it twirls, raising its arm and but you catch its wrist and drive the point of your blade into its armpit and twist.

With the number of veins and arteries there, that blow would kill it and it would slowly bleed, no armor covers that spot. You've memorized kill points and chinks better than scripture fed to you through starvation; you read red easier than notation now.

You gently shove it and it collapses to the backwards, sword clattering against the ground. A torrent of life's blood pools around its body.

("Don't fuck with me")

But they always do.

No time for a moment of silence or a mockery of a funeral, you've already heard its footsteps before you've seen it in the corner of your eye. Brandishing a knife not too dissimilar to yours, it barrels towards you with a speed practically identical to yours and it brings its knife down in a flash of silver. You don't have faith in your own knife to stop its attack so you sidestep. But it's already gathered itself and brought its blade arching up towards your gut.

You parry, knocking its momentum off course and it cuts nothing but thin air.

(It's adapted, learned from the last ones mistake)

It matches your fighting style of speed and unrefined brutality.

But, unlike it, you don't fall to blind faith to yourself; when it goes on the offensive once again, barreling towards you knife in hand, you meet it. Ducking underneath its blade and tackling it to the ground. Caught off guard by the unpredictability of human reasoning, it doesn't have time to gather its bearings before it finds itself pinned to the ground and its wrist pinned to the ground by the point of your knife.

You press your knee against its free hand and you no longer care how its sensors respond anymore.

You curl your fingers into black and blue fists and bring your fist hard into its nose. Your other hand kisses the edge of its jaw and your next blow finds its eye. You strategically place your punches, the softest parts of the face that won't break your knuckles when you hit them hard enough. Eyes, nose and lips (just so you can have the satisfaction of knocking their teeth down their throat when its a real person).

If blind faith was valid, you wouldn't be able to keep doing this for as long as you had.

You've lost count of your blows, the rhythm of fire and brimstone dissolving any sense of logical reasoning you may have had but eventually its flailing fades to writhing and its writhing to twitching.

Then it just stops.

("There's a special place in hell for people like you.")

You stand and stick your aching knuckles within your pockets and step from the mockery, you didn't come here for mockery and synthetic fibers constructed by Gamemakers styling themselves as monarchy.

("Then take me to it.")

You look up to their golden throne of judgement.

So tell me how you want me here now
Keep crying down the phone
Yeah, that's all I seem to hear now
Keep lying through your teeth

Come away, come away

'Cause I love my soul
A fighter in need, a lover restrained
I'm telling you it's not for gold

The golden glow of the familiarity rising in at dawn brings him to life.

Eyes awakening from a night that never was meant to end. A night that he wanted to last until there was no possible way that death's cold dead eyes don't appear. An entanglement of white that he escapes from with a yawning, too loud for no one else to hear if they were close enough. All he can think about is the dread of standing in front of the people who decide if he's worth the time and energy to keep alive. A moment of sunlight basking upon his skin as the noise of hooves clatter in his ears with the drumming of his own heart as doors open with a creaking sound.

Morning was the time of day that his brothers strive in. The early chill of the morning waking the body and soul with a renewed energy that no one truly understood unless they got up at an ungodly time like him. Jed would have gotten up earlier than him, sitting on the porch with pajamas that were red, plaid, and absolutely destroyed from years of wearing it. Jed would have smiled at him with the annoying toothy grin that he had while telling him that sleeping beauty finally has woken up. The edge of the roof is lonely, but he can still remember Raven's hand holding his own, the tingling of a touch that just barely was there. A forest of green mixing with a dusty land, either way, the night lasted longer than he expected. Morning had come just like the one in front of him with the sun shining and the warm of the light soaking into his skin. They would call him down to prep for the show of all shows.

For now, he'd just bask in the sunlight imagining what his brothers and parents were doing back home.

Heaven have mercy upon him.

---

The sound of fire burns in his ear with a flicker of a spark. They sit waiting for their shot at impressing the gamemakers. The whole thing reminding him of how the ranch would show off the cattle they raised to butchers, the biggest and healthiest to be slaughtered. Pa would always show up with arms crossed and eyes narrowing in on the other men with a determination that sets the world aflame. That's the thing he needed as he sits in the chair with his arms crossed, back slouched away from the front of him. Eyes narrowing in on a spot on the floor like it was the most interesting thing in the world. Pa would be worrying if he knew what the day was. Jed would have been cheering him on from the sidelines. Ma would have screamed at him to give it his best. His younger brothers would have just watched with innocent eyes as he waits for the big moment to prove himself.

There's trouble along the names that come with numbers. Eyes glancing from individual to individual as they get called. Careers, strong individuals who seemed to have their mind set on impressing the gamemakers, or maybe not, he couldn't read them from this distance. Exar's looking as impressive as ever, at least in what he could remember of him from the theater. All he can do is keep his arms crossed and continue tapping to the sound of hooves in his mind nervously. Whistling would normally ensue, but his heart's racing too much to have him put his lips together and give out a pleasant sound. Instead he taps in ten beats, to remind him that he's still there. Still alive. Still has a chance to get home.

One. A cautious breath of air and a small smile passed along to Cade, who probably doesn't notice him there, or maybe he does, he didn't bother checking. Two. Footsteps clambering forward of someone else whose got determination in their veins. Three. The flash of Raven that comes across his eyes as he looks up for a moment and then back down with a fire that burns in his chest. Four. A little girl bowing to the person who called for her. Five. Bella's wrapping her arms around him as he questioning stares, but lets her do so. Six. Heart beating rapidly as he knows that his name is coming soon. Seven. The tapping grows more panicked than before. Eight. A deep breath comes into his lungs and clambers out of them. Nine. Caine Winchester is called forth, an animal to the slaughter.

Ten.

The cowboy hat is perched atop his head and the words leave his lips as he approaches the door and past the person who called him.

"Pardon me."

---

Doors open to the room that reminds him of the slaughterhouses that they sell cattle to. Many lives that have traveled through the well made room with deadly weapons sorted out for everyone to mess with. Footsteps echo lightly as he moves forward with a silence, arms at his side, eyes narrowing forward as he moves to the center of the room for a moment. Eyes glancing up, less narrowed at the people who would be giving him a number to base his skill level. The fire that burns in his mind lights as he gives a small smile up to them, hand reaching to his cowboy hat, tipping it politely. No voice comes from his throat, even though Ma would have told him to keep his manners. Words didn't do justice for him. Actions were better.

Instead of going towards the deadly shining weapons on the other side of the room, he goes in the opposite direction, to a place where rope and knots were learned. The Winchesters were never a violent family. They weren't like the Lumieres, the Frays, the Hammerfells, the Salazars, or any of the families that he could think of from the top of his head. They weren't violent, but they knew what was deadly from a young age. Running a ranch created a world where death wasn't banished from, but surrounded. A deadly career of being trampled by cattle, or accidentally kicked off a horse, or even an accident by one of his brothers.

They were told to never use the rope on each other for the danger of it. Only on the cattle where it wouldn't hurt them, if they were skilled enough to learn. Young ages of learning how to tie knots in the barn and roping fake cattle in order to be safe. The idea had come to him when he approached the trapping trainer with a plan in mind for a trap, instead eyes landing on a rope that day had given him a reminder of how deadly a rope can be. Glittering weapons of gold and silver wouldn't always be around. No smile upon his lips, only a blank slate of emotion to not give away his plan.

The rope of white is made of a nylon like the ropes they used back home. Taking a decent amount rope that wasn't too much to be heavy, but enough to get a good distance from him to his target. Other ones tossed to the center for later use. Quickly, he moves to an end, tying a knot that his father taught him with a few loops quickly in only seconds from years of practice. The feeling of the rope in his hand reminding him of the dust that coated his clothes. Jed's voice echoing in his ears about giving it his all. Ma's tears of how the Winchester's were next. Pa's nod of encouragement that resides in his skin. A moment of closed eyes as he moves back towards the center with a huff of air as he points to a trainer who was clearly quick. The endurance trainer, if he had to guess which station, a small smile on his face as he challenges him.

"You! Charge at me!"

Footsteps clamber to the floor quickly rushing at him. Eyes scanning the trainer as he runs swiftly towards him, ready to tackle him down. A swinging of the rope starts with the loop extending in the air. A moment that freezes as time feels like it slows down. The circling above his head keeps going and then he moves the rope forward, letting it gently slide along his hands. The rope goes under his legs as his mind moves quickly. The sight of cattle in his eyes, holster at his side, Abel under him, and then he pulls. The rope tightens, clinging like a snake to the pants of the trainer, all of this happening in a matter of seconds. The sound of the fall echoes in the room before he's pulling him towards him. A trainer caught in his trap. One hand tightly wrapped around the rope caught on his legs, Caine reaches for another rope with one hand. The trainer is reaching with his hands to get the rope around his legs untied, but Caine's already got another lasso ready with a knot.

The swing comes as the trainer reaches forward, the twirl in the air as Caine tosses it with ease around the man's hands and pulls, tightening the knot. A small smirk pulls on his cheeks like the animal that he's caught is unable to escape, so he pulls both ropes forward, dragging the trainer to him. The fire in his stomach growing with a slight amount of excitement. Home was always with him in his skills. The trainer fights back with as much strength as he can muster, but it's useless to struggle. Caine's already set in the bait, if only he could rope the moon to stay forever.

As the trainer gets by him, his hands move closer to the rope that's keeping the trainer's hands together, probably uncomfortably. Foot is placed upon his chest keeping the man at a distance. Other hand moving down the one attached to his legs as Caine ties the two ropes together tightly to signify that the trainer is caught. Letting go of both ropes, the trainer is tied like an animal that cant get away. Trapped in a knot of ropes that were difficult to untie with just hands alone. A blank face back on his face as he ignores the cries of the trainer to let him out of it. A shrug of his shoulders as he grabs another rope from next to him that he quickly tied a knot to make a lasso on.

A moving dummy comes with a mechanical whirl, moving from side to side. The spinning begins with a whirling of air sound. Eyes glued to the sideways moving dummy thinking about what Pa told him about never getting a rope around his brothers, especially their necks. The time he jokingly did it to Jed and their Ma punished him with a spanking at the age of seven. The fire of excitement in his chest as he toss it around the dummy's neck. Caught in his rope, he pulls as hard as possible. Muscles tensing with strength from ranching and lifting hay bales over his head. A sickening snap come from the dummy as it collapses to the floor, slamming it's head against the hard ground.

A moment of silence as he looks back to the gamemakers with a blank stare. The sound of whirling wheels and the wails of a trainer who wanted to be released from his confinements echoing his ears like the sounds of hooves against the hard dirt of District Ten. Home was with him, but he wasn't with home anymore. Eyes scanning his mess as he brings a hand to his hat tipping it to the gamemakers, preparing to leave his mess to whoever has to deal with it.

As he approaches the door, he stops with words on his tongue.

"I reckon the dummy's neck is snapped."

The doors close behind him as he climbs the stairs up to the golden light of afternoon.

Heaven have mercy upon his dummy.

Come away, come away
'Cause I know who I want
The fire in me, the trouble I see
Heaven won't you let me go?

the air is silk
shadows form a grin
if I lose control
I feed the beast within

The wolves have gone silent — but Euley Sarasin is still howling. What purpose does a wolf-tamer serve when she's been stolen from her forest? Distanced from her pack and stripped of her rank? Trick question. District Two's female tribute has come to the slaughter willingly, and even without her army at her disposal, the witch-queen will not yield from the forces that have arrived with their swords drawn. Throat bared and jaw clenched, a pyre won't be her burial. She's her own secret weapon. If they want to set a bomb on fire, then so be it. She'll gladly detonate.

Don't mistake confidence for arrogance. Euley's never claimed to be better than her peers; the only woman she's ever had the right to challenge is herself. The battlefield is bloody, a dead space where only black flowers grow, but from each war a stronger version of Euley rises. She's kissed the lips of a thousand corpses, but she's only ever buried one. She always claws her way out of the casket. Give her a blade and she'll slit a man's throat without flinching, but she's hardly a master swordsman. Dress her in satin, make her look like sin, but all women are equally beautiful. She's no better than the rest.

Not mediocre, but not without fault, so where does she stand? On a lake of black ice, a spiderweb of fractures beneath her, but you can't sink if you're not ashamed to fall. Let her hit the ground and shatter, tell the world to come feast — they'll only choke on what's left of her. The key to Euley's strength is to accept all possible outcomes. Either she's the first to die or the fated victor, scored a 1 or a 12, but the former of each combination can't hurt her if she doesn't expect the latter. Who can shame you for losing if you've never gloated over your assumed victory? No men bow to a vain queen.

All throughout the week, Euley's been preparing for the final rehearsal. It's not in her nature to care about the opinions of others, she's never once allowed her worth to be defined by a number, but she won't refuse the chance for a little theatricality. Not the prettiest, not the sharpest, but who before her could ever claim to sleep in the wolves' den and awake unscathed? She knows her true talent, takes off her skin and calls herself vulnerable, but she'll make due. The wolves have gone silent, but just listen. There are monsters here. And if they're searching for a leader, they've found her.

The Mutt-Tamer station is the closest she can get to her former life. An assortment of creatures trapped in cages, a trainer droning on about their abilities and how best to combat them, but it's maddening for her to listen to such idiocy. Show a child a picture of a lion, tell them where best to stab, but throw them to the pride and they'll be ripped to shreds within seconds. Some beasts are meant to be feared, not tamed. Euley realizes this is not her home and that her beliefs have no weight, but she can adapt. She'll never domesticate a muttation, will never claim to be capable of such a thing, but she can direct them. There's a difference between a dog and a hound.

Each day of training, she's brought a handful of meat with her. Just a few small cubes, enough to hide in her pocket without making a noticeable mess, and she's used them to tantalize one of the caged Dart Jaguars. Felines aren't her area of expertise, having trained more with the habits of canines, but two of her sisters specialised in big cats. She's not here to tame, just to make suggestions, and she needs a bargaining chip to be heard. It hisses, fangs on display, but the meal is never given. The cage is never opened. A week of temptation. A lifetime of being studied, of being bred to kill — and then used only for its prey to dissect. She'll change that. They should have stronger locks.

It's a quiet morning before the Private Training Session. A cold shower, fresh uniform pulled over her curves. Hair loose, a stray strand tucked behind her ear with a bobby pin, and a small breakfast eaten alone. Her favoured meat on the plate like always, scooped up by a stealthy hand and tucked away. She already reeks of death. The officials come to guide them to the waiting room, her partner and herself given seats in the front row. She doesn't look to anyone as she waits. They have nothing for her, and she has nothing for them. Isaac's first.

Two more sessions are ahead hers, but she's not anxious while waiting. No trembling hands, no shaky breaths, just the bareness of a stone. As if anything could erode her. Remember the golden rule: accept all possible outcomes. Best, worst, or average — what does it matter? She's come to play. Her all will be given, she'll follow the rules with her own twist, but all pageant queens break their trophies come midnight. The bouquets by her bedside have already wilted.

"Euley Sarasin, District Two," and the thunder begins to roar. She rises, electricity coursing through her bones, and she makes her way through the entrance without glancing back. She doesn't have time to waste, looking up to the Gamemakers and nodding. They hold the thread of her existence in one hand, scissors made of stainless steel in the other, but they can't feel any vibrations through the silk. She won't break for them. They don't need her name, they've already read the entirety of her story, and all that matters now is executing her plan. The clock's ticking, but her heartbeat remains steady.

Bobby pin removed from her hair, she enters the Mutt-Tamer station and kneels before the Dart Jaguar's cage. Its fur shines, body coiling for the kill, and its poison drips from its jaws. She doesn't pull back. It's suicide to release such a creature, the guards will be at the ready to interfere, but it's too late. A few twists of the accessory and the right amount of pressure applied, and the lock is cracked within seconds. She steps back with a satisfied smirk. Only one soul in this room needs to trust her — the rest can simply watch.

She opens the cage and backs away, reaching into her pocket and taking out the meat. "Easy," she starts, stopping as the Dart Jaguar exits, shoulders rolled back and ears flared. She throws one of the cubes down to its paws, narrowing her eyes and watching to see if it picks up on the scent. Its memory is triggered, a week of tantalizing brought back to the surface, and it shrieks in hunger for more. It inches closer, but she has the food it craves at the ready. She will never own this creature, is unable to assert her dominance over it like with her wolves, but she has control in this moment.

As long as she has a meal to offer, there's no reason to kill her. Man and beast are of the same nature. Give them what they've been starved of and they'll give you something twice its worth in return. Another cube is thrown, walking backwards without averting her gaze. She stops at a rack of throwing knives, reaching behind her and taking a belt strapped with the more slender versions. She goes to where the dummies are spread out in rows, dropping a piece of the meat beside her and not flinching when the jaguar hits the ground with a loud thud. She's not here to tease, to keep it from what it wants. She just wants it to work for its meal.

Another cube is taken from her palm, but this one is skewered on a blade. She holds it down, letting the Dart Jaguar register the familiar scent, and then she backs away once more. She steadies her breathing, arching her back, and the knife soars. It hits the neck of a dummy a few feet away, blood trickling from the wound, but that's nothing compared to when the beast pounces on the mannequin and tears at its neck to get to the food. Red pools beneath the big cat, torn fabric and crushed plastic strewn all around its writhing body, and she readies her next blade with her precious cargo. She whistles, jaguar turning to face her, and she waves the knife before letting it fly. Right at a dummy's face.

How ruthless. Teeth dig into artificial skin and the previous mess pales in comparison as the dummy's head is ripped from its shoulders. She repeats the process two more times, aiming at chests and legs and watching the jaguar finish the job following each lunge. An impressive display of her accuracy and her taming skills — but this is her performance, not the mutt's. She can't be outperformed. All her blades have been used, the last cube placed away, and she goes to grab a sword while the beast gnaws at its latest prey. She stalks closer to it after arming herself, longer blade twirling, and she stops right beside of the creature. The sword is lifted, but don't mistake her intentions. She turns on her heels, slicing the throat of the dummy behind her.

She'd never harm an animal for something as simple as a showcase. They're partners, a duo of carnage, and she's here to pull her own weight. A series of kicks and shoves causes another dummy to hit the ground, where her blade sinks into its stomach, and she pulls it out with a crimson spray and turns to stab the nearest one. A plastic jaw is torn off by the pressure of her grip, a red flood following, but she bathes in it. A growl sounds behind her, and she turns to face her companion. Its mouth is slick with fake blood and it's looking for more food. They're a ferocious sight to behold. Who will slaughter the other first?

Euley laughs, reaching into her pocket to take out the last cube. "Good job," she praises, proud of her plan's execution, and she tosses the meat into the jaguar's cage. It's too occupied with eating to notice as she locks it safely away once more, sword tossed aside, and she runs a hand through her hair when she's finished. A messy display, but still calculated; it's the best preview she can offer of her abilities. She salutes the Gamemakers as she exits the room, stopping at the metal doors and turning to peer over her shoulder at them. No words are spoken. Just a smile.

They can see her teeth.

cage me like an animal
a crown with gems and gold
eat me like a cannibal
chasing the neon throne