how much can this ground raise? | [ mia & bill ] Feb 13, 2020 17:04:34 GMT -5
Post by D6f Mia Yille [azalea] on Feb 13, 2020 17:04:34 GMT -5
It's a weird place to be, and it's cold here, too. Not only because of how we're expected to mix with other people—but because we're expected to make friends. As if, friends can even be forged under circumstances that are bathed in doom and gloom more so than glory. Friends are ultimately what fuel the stories the Capitol thrive on: the heartbreaks, the attachment and eventual severing of ties tied too strong, the sense of normalcy that comes with feeling comfortable around someone else, the normalcy that makes tributes seemingly forget the world is watching, the normalcy that turns to vulnerability because finally, there's someone listening who understands.
No, there's someone listening who knows. Because understanding isn't the same as knowing—just like how being in someone's shoes isn't the same as wearing the same shoes. I've seen the games and know how it goes; even enemies manage to put aside their nightmares to find a common ground to dream on. In that moment, I suppose all they have is each other, and even if each other isn't enough—it has to be.
And though some imaginations are wild and vibrant enough to conjure friends that are contained within the mind, I am certain that my mind would only create a monster for me to confide in. I know that everyone around me is going to turn into a monster too, but there's at least a moment for interference, for some sort of cycle to be stopped, or altered, to stop someone from fading to a true black.
It's been a few days and nobody has approached me, not that I blame them—I'm destined to be just another statistic to them. In their eyes, I'm an easy target because that is what history says about me. All the girls who have come before me have died, all the stories they ached to tell died with them, and the people that could've saved them danced in their darkness. I don't want to think of myself as a victim—but sometimes I think the brutality of the word is enough to knock some sharp edges into someone. It might just toughen them up a bit.
It might just toughen me up a bit. It might just turn me to a spiteful survivor. Because Teddy has already said that there are no happy endings for anyone—to be just a survivor would be too good to be true.
Some people here are probably already survivors. A different kind of survivor, not the literal, still alive kind, but rather still standing after being tried and tested. I think those are the people I'd like to associate myself with the most—not the career kids, not the ones who have it all handed to them on a plate, not the ones who learnt life's hardest lessons through someone else's tongue and not through their own trial and error. No weapon, no glory, no crown can fill a heart-shaped hole in someone.
I glance at the careers and think about how I'd probably give everyone at home a false sense of hope if I were to associate with them. Yes, my odds would probably get better, but nobody bets on someone with short odds anyway. The dark horses are always the ones who win the Capitol over, even if said horse becomes too dark for their own good. Forget the other tributes—I think that's the real battle.
So I search for someone who looks a little sorrier, like life slipped in through the back door and happened to them without them knowing. But I think the boy from Eight knows that life has happened to him, and I think we are similar in that way.
"Do you reckon it would suit me?" I shuffle in front of him, "the eyepatch, I mean. I like the mystery of it," and then I hold my breath for a moment, contemplating. Because I could ask for the story behind it, but I think that is too much too quickly. Because I'm cold, and we are not friends.
He could be cold too, but we are not friends. Not yet, anyway.thank you celestials for the table!