specter of death {isaac vs zombo, day 3}

Fear is something mustily old yet refreshingly new - I'd long since forgotten the feeling that came with my father's hostility, for it had long since evolved into a shell of indifference as pain became second nature and the size gap decreased. Not that I was strong nor large enough to fight back, but with the lithe physique of young adulthood and the lean muscle that came with my training, it became yet another thing I could endure without the icy fear sending my heart into overdrive.

Nothing had truly scared me in such a long time, not the reaping days, not the bloodbath, not even when I was poked and smacked around the previous day. But this abomination, however true to the real Cynthia that it might be, sends chills down my spine and through my bloodstream, causes my heart to shake out of rhythm and my hands to shake so that what should have shaved her head above the nose off of the rest of her merely leaves a mark on her decaying cheekbone.

Eyes wide, breath hitching on every other inhale, this is death personified, and yet somehow it's all wrong. Cynthia Rose Delgado is dead, there's no mistaking that, and yet her face has been plastered on something inhuman, her very soul dragged from whatever afterlife she believed in to possess something monstrous, frightful, as if-

I gulp. As if the Gamemakers knew just how to get past my barriers and strike where I'm most vulnerable.

Death is the eternal sleep, the place where the tortured go to find peace - that's what I've always told myself. Like a black hole for the soul, it should be inescapable.

And yet the form of the girl who deserved everything that I did not, of whom I am likely being compared to even as I shiver from cold or from fear, has defied all laws of what I thought I knew.

She groans, then hisses, a sound that eerily sounds like "Traitor," and when her rusty pole of a weapon pierces my thigh, I lose all hope that this is not just some freeze-induced nightmare.

This is real, I realize, and had I eaten within the past twenty four hours, I might have retched. I am going to be killed by the vengeful spirit of a girl that I have no hope of living up to.

I'd felt disappointment hundreds if not thousands of times across my short mortal life, and yet I'd never been smote by the long-deceased spirit of a girl superior to me in every respect. And I'd never known Cynthia Rose Delgado, not beyond acquaintances at least, and yet the spear now coated with my blood and the snarl on her undead face feel so, so very personal.

And I know I should die, that I should lay down my axe and submit myself to her unyielding judgement. And yet, some part of me buried down knows that there is no redemption in death, only an end.

An end that I've wanted without wavering for years now, or at least that's what I thought.

I'm not sure what redemption I hope to find in the swing of my axe, and yet it sails forward instead of downward regardless.

"Die," moans the specter. And oh, how I want to.

At least that's what I keep telling myself. But man, it's hell of a lot harder to keep to a promise when you're being chased down by the decaying remains of the girl who preceded you as District One's prospective champion.

I want to die, but not like this.

Her spear swings, a long, slow arc, and the gash that Twelve gave me mere hours ago gains a twin. It passes close enough that I see the rust clinging to the metal, and for a second the worry of tetanus crosses my mind.

Then I remember that in the time it would take for me to actually worry about such things, I'll most likely be long dead and gone.

But not like this.

I hadn't entered this arena surrendering without condition - if I was to die, then it would be in a place of my choosing, against a person of my desire. Not at the crack of dawn against the very specter of the eternal sleep I am trying so hard to join.

Were I not paralyzed by fear, backing away from the shambling of the walking corpse, I'd find myself wondering about the legitimacy of such a beast. But right here, right now, I do not care.

I only care about living, a concept as foreign to me as a life without pain and emptiness.

Hah. How fucking ironic. A specter of death scares the desire of life back into me.

Gradually my heartrate slows, even as I slowly backpedal. Surprise wears off, replaced by a steely, if wary, calm. My hands still shake, but no longer uncontrollably. The fresh wound I opened up on her arm is testament to that.

And yet as blood drops into my eyes once again, as the adrenaline from fear recedes and the sharp bite of pain from my leg takes its place, I know what I must do.

Not like this. Never like this.

My choice, my terms, not some whim of a puppetmaster with a twisted sense of humor.

Courage bubbles up in me, enough to speak. "Sorry about what happened to you, Cynthia." It's awkward, maybe just a little bit forced. Words were never my forte, and how the fuck am I supposed to talk to something that isn't even alive? Much less the shambling remains of someone who isn't alive and I also barely knew?

But I continue, for one reason or another. "I'm not sure if you got what you deserved or not, or if you got shafted for one reason or another." God, why did I think this was a good idea. "But I am sorry. You were everything I was not, in all of the good ways."

How surreal. But I mean, what's a little self depreciating conversation in a snow-bound world with a zombie at the crack of dawn, am I right? Not like they'll do anything except listen and moan.

"And while I appreciate the fact that you're trying to fulfill my life's goal for me," I pause, both in words and in step.

No more retreating now. This is where I make my stand, for better or for worse.

"I'm not quite ready for it." Tense, a dozen different pathways laid out before me. "It'll be on my own terms, at a time of my choosing."

I choose the path I deem best, and make my move.

"So I'm going to have to put you back down."

And honestly, in the state she's in? It'd be a goddamned mercy.