The Bloodbath

I can not tell if I am scared or hungry.

It is the same discomfort, really, I sit with my hand on my gut and feet in the sand. Something I’m not used to, some place I have never been to. There’s a slow dying in it and it’s only existed in a world I have never lived, the starving of the lambs. And there is a hum in the colosseum, I can feel it in the sand I sit on. Above me is cheering, a righteous yell for my hand to draw blood of a sibling I have never met before.

It’s all so new.

I only wish I knew if I liked it.

They took me by the hand when my name was drawn, Beauden Mortuus and my mother stifled a scream. My father never took a look at me, and I can only imagine if the girl next to me had a family of anything similar. It’s strange, how I imagined leaving home seemed so much kinder in my daydreams. I imagined a sail boat, it seems a little too late for that now, but I can’t help but think of it again.

A sail boat, and I would steer with the casted cloth from one edge of the world to another. Dark ocean beneath me would roar with the hunger of twenty four starving soldiers, and I would keep my eyes on the horizon - that’s what my mother would tell me. Watch the sun set along its helm, the world’s cast, and I would reach my hand out like a gun and picture my gaze casting that single bullet to the coast.

I would sail away to Korea, with my sister by my side.

Now, I have none.

So I sit, until the guard brings along a sword, it hits the sand in a groan not unlike something human. The earth must be alive, because I am convinced I’m not. ”Am I supposed to kill with this?” There’s a layer of disgust in my voice and I don’t mean to be rude, it’s just conditioning. “Suppose so, either that or close your eyes and count to sixty.”

I turn my eyes back to the arena, count the other cells like tallies while I grip the sand. Just count to sixty, and it can be over with. Perhaps that is a kinder way, something religious, I lay my sword down and raise my throat to the sky, begging to be laid out like cattle. It can be that easy, that simple. It’s hard and uncomfortable to stay alive, but dying? That may be my last bed to rest.

But in me I know there is still a horizon, if I walk past these stone walls and past the city scape of false silver, there’s an edge, and a coast, and a way out. There’s always a way out, but I have just never looked for it before, not like this.

Perhaps, it’s my time to take my sword, already.

His mouth still tasted of ash even hours after the fact.

Babe leaned against the bars of his cell, eyes trained on nothing in particular. There wasn't really much to do but wait. He'd already eaten and had one last piss, he supposed he could fret or something but the practice of that just seemed useless and exhausting so he didn't.

He was waiting.

The want to survive should have come naturally and he was pretty sure it was there. He had no intention of freaking out or just refusing to fight at least. Maybe this whole thing was beneath him but it hardly mattered, he was there, the fight was in minutes and the choice had been made for him. If his choices were to fight or to die, he'd fight.

He'd cheated death once, maybe he could do it again.

Babe jumped up and down for a moment, trying to shake anything, at least one emotion loose but there was nothing within him except that quiet acceptance he'd been carrying for so long. He probably should have felt afraid, apprehensive at least, but there was nothing new for him here. He was a rebel, a gang member and a killer- he'd killed.

Never anyone innocent.

Babe blinked.

He had people who relied on him, people to get home to. Maybe they'd given up on him already since the reaping but he liked to believe that at least one of them figured he might be coming home. If it came down to it, Babe would have to kill Ximena to make it back. He was uncertain about the outcome of that fight, uncertain if he even could fight her, he didn't want to see any more of his family die.

Death wasn't an option for him either, there were still things he wanted to do before then. He remembered things from when he was really small, before the dark days. Cy zooming by him on a bike, a blanket spread on long grass and a perfect summer day. He wanted to do those things again. He wanted to spend an afternoon reading, go out and eat with friends, finally fly a kite and kill the president of Panem.

Cy had always told him it was important to have goals. The kite thing seemed kind of up there but a boy could dream.

The cage began to rattle and then to slowly move upwards and Babe straightened slowly, staring at the emerging gap of sky to acclimate his eyes right away. It was still too bright anyway. He raised a hand to shield his eyes as the cage door swung open. He knew what he was supposed to do, the rules were simple enough. Kill or be killed.

He knew that he should wax poetry here, that he should be thinking something beautiful but there is only sensation and the inability to express it. The wind on his cheeks just is, as is the textured sand beneath his sandals. He wants to remember it all if these are his last moments so he stitches them together quietly in the back of his cell as the countdown begins.

Since his first death, Babe has always somehow existed outside of things. Connections come with difficulty and most friendships are thrust upon him.He doubts he'll connect with anyone here, that he even can, they've lived entirely different lives.

The crowd cheers as the countdown ends and tributes cautiously exit their cells, so does Babe. He picks up a sword, hefting it carefully in his hands. It's much larger than a knife and it certainly isn't a gun but he can kill with it probably. A gun would get all this done much faster but maybe speed isn't the point.

Maybe a sword prolongs the torture.

"Sorry, buddy." comes a voice, "Gotta get used to losing before it's too late."

Buddy.

Sharp pain on his hip and Babe turns to see a boy, blade dripping dark already with Babe's blood. So it's like that then, not even a moment to breathe.

"Hey little buddy, what are you doing up here, it's not safe!"

"You can't call me that," he says, voice calm, "No one else is allowed to call me that but Cy."

He raises his sword and the sun catches it carefully, holding the silver gently in the palm of her hand. He hadn't gone into this particularly wanting to kill anybody but apparently this guy has and that's good enough reason as any for Babe to fight. There are so many reasons but only one has to matter at a time.

"You're really ready to die, huh Pal," he says and swings his sword at the other tribute like he's going for a goddamned homerum.

Elegance.