at cruel angles . Shelby x Mekhi
May 19, 2020 23:58:36 GMT -5
Post by pogue on May 19, 2020 23:58:36 GMT -5
Life is a funny little thing, he has discovered.
Whenever he catches a glimpse of himself in a mirror he cannot help but think of his time in the colosseum of what was once the largest underground attraction in the Capitol. Metal laced in between his fingertips, specks of blood lining against his cheeks as the sword plunges into the neck of some beast from hell, wails and bloody gurgles escaping the beasts throat. The sounds reach no ear but his own, drowned out amongst the wails and jeers from the crowd. He had proceeded to slice through the beasts neck for no other reason than entertainment, relishing each bit of blood that seeped from the beasts wound.
No, not relishing. Selling.
He had been able to learn that everything in that world was just a fantasy to be sold. The crowds, the beasts, the Avox, their lives, his body.
Yet, when the sales stopped and the blood of the Capitol spectators ran thin he had been passed into a different arena, pressed white outfits and shiny silver platters. Life is a funny little thing, yet he had never been able to laugh.
- - -
"That's enough."
His hand shakes slightly as he gently pulls back the tea pot, three crimson colored droplets of tea splashing from kettle to tabletop. They stain the white cloth surface red before he can move to correct his mistake, and amidst the soft sigh of the Capitolites who notice it he withdraws from the table, focusing his gaze away from the table and to the window.
He supposes he should feel some sort of return to form within his bones at the sight of his former district, but in truth he never had been able to call Eight his home. Instead, he only remembers the blood leaking from his mothers stomach, from his fathers neck, from his mouth when they took his voice.
Whispers and rumors were the life and blood of the Capitol, but they had paled in comparison to the blatant fear that swept the city at the news of the terrorist attacks within the district. Terror they had brought and sadness they had left in their wake, and as he steals a glance towards the victor of the 75th Games he cannot help but feel some sort of sorrow. Whether it is for her or the one she lost he cannot tell.
He knows why he has been brought along to help cater to the victor from Eight, he can count the reasons in the scars that litter his body, reminders of the beasts he had once fought. Avox or not, word had spread fast of the fighting instincts and knack for survival of the Avox that had made it out of that dungeon alive, and with the growing concern of Capitol and district citizens alike amidst the criminal activity of the districts, it was not uncommon for Avox like him to be sent to serve, tend to and, if needed, lay down their life for those deemed more important than him.
They are a sight to see amongst the forlorn cloud that hangs over the district following the attack, a shadow of Capitol citizens cloaked in black, Shelby Leviane taking the lead. He and the other Avox take up the rear, and they had even given them a fresh new pair of black Avox uniforms for the occasion. Drained, lifeless, and dead, his clothes match his life and his life matches that of District Eight, its somber mood hanging heavy over each citizen.
The funeral is nothing short of beautiful, the air of black stained only by the white uniforms of the myriad of Peacekeepers that guard it, their guns at the ready and patience worn thin. There are already citizens gathered, their dark clothing significantly less tailored and refined than the Capitolites he arrived with. Yet, he can sense that their mourning is genuine, that the sadness within their eyes comes from a place of understanding, not of Capitol aesthetic. Wordlessly, the crowd finds their seats, the coffin at the front commanding silence. Life is a funny little thing, he thinks. Yet today, Death is the court jester, and they are in for a show.
Piece by piece the dead fade away, piece by piece they join them.