bloodless night [suburban moms]

Between the beautiful things, there are the things people don't want to see. It does not mean they are not there; they always would be. Undying and unbreakable—they were the ugly things. The sights and sounds of trauma caused by monsters and beasts that would frighten children to the bone, leaving a chill that would be eternally lit like a flame of pure ice.

There are no beautiful things here. I look around and see a world that has been crafted together by some of the Capitol's most intelligent minds: the intricate details of atmosphere and habitat and climate and causation moving together to create a synergy that would take and take until there is no more left to take. I stare at the ground and feel sceptical; it isn't just the fact blood is draped over it like a velvet blanket, but rather the motive behind the land that laces its existence with threat. I could jump on the dirt in these platform shoes and see it wheeze a sorry plume of dust, a mimic of a final breath, yet I know that its exhalation is a warning sign that the world is just as alive—and just as dark as I am.

It does not make me walk carefully, though. If this ground is just as fatal as I potentially am, then there is no use treating it with respect. These platform shoes tread deep into the soils that emerge after fleeing the bloodbath, and though it takes a moment to get used to a few extra inches of height, I figure it can only be a benefit, and so I force myself to adjust. I stamp around with a sense of chaos about me: fire on my tongue as I throw caution to the wind with a hope that it'll catch light on my breath and turn into a brutish recklessness. That is, should I encounter a demon that rivals my own monstrosity.

The moments I have alone after the bloodbath are used as a time to reflect. Not that it is necessary because nobody died—rather, I consider it a point of expanding my logistical awareness. The Cornucopia gave me a few minutes to size everyone up, to see the competition in their most competitive state, to see whether they abandoned morals and social order at the door or whether they snuck it in under their tongue. It allows me to think about my own failures successes: a sorry looking whip is all I had managed to collect before someone punched me in the nose, their fist feeling like a comet falling from the stars.

The sad reality for some is that they can count their blessings on one hand. But to me, it is a privilege. It gives rise to focus, precision and drive because if one blessing is all someone has, that one blessing is all someone has to fight for: life. It leaves no room for something else that could get in the way.

After walking for some time, there's a trail of blood on the ground. Instincts kick in and my wrists cracks the whip to warn off a potential threat, but when I wade through the thick air to get closer, I realise it is Willow. Slumped by a tree, a sorry sight, her only aid comes in the form of Tristitia.

"Don't slump, lying down is better," I say frankly—Six was known for its medical practices after all. I crouch beside Willow and try to help her to the ground, pressing on her wounds to try and prevent further blood loss. It looks quite bad, though—and aside from the cuts and wounds all over her body, she's missing an ear too. "They had a good go at trying to take you down, but they didn't. You're okay and you're going to be okay," I say softly, trying to erase the desperation from her face.

Helping her feels like I am betraying myself in some way, but it manages to take my mind out of the darkness for a few moments and into something lighter. I am content with the darkness now, and the cold sensation has become second nature, almost like a home away from home—and though the time and place for darkness is always under these circumstances, I manage to find some peace in the bleakness that wasn't there before.

It isn't a beautiful peacefulness though, it is an ugly one. It's a sharp peacefulness, because like glass, it is exceptionally easy to break.

[ maint to come! ]
[ celestials ]