they’re just pretty words, my dear | ezra; day 6
Jul 22, 2020 17:07:28 GMT -5
Post by goat on Jul 22, 2020 17:07:28 GMT -5
ezra valencia
He holds a funeral for the deer.
It looks silly, him kicking dirt over the battered body, tearing flowers off of thorned shrubs and sprinkling the crushed petals. He thinks anyone who comes across him would have a right to kill him over the pathetic display. Still, he reasons with himself, it’s the right thing to do. He couldn’t do anything for Cyro or Niko, not while he was trembling so violently, soaked in sweat and vomit and their blood. In a way, the deer is just a stand in. A false idol.
“Dearly beloved,” he starts, and then he can’t help but laugh. “Deerly beloved. Fuck.”
This is no place for laughter, this arena of shattered bones and gutted bodies, but he worries he’ll go insane otherwise. There are pieces of his old self left inside of him, somewhere, and maybe if he pries deep enough, he can yank them out, back to the surface, back to where they’re supposed to be, so he doesn’t have to be this amalgamation of stolen lives.
He says a prayer over the deer, a common one that everyone knows. He’s never been religious, and if anything, this experience would’ve made him believe less, but this is what they do at funerals. They stick the body in the ground and wish the soul safe passage to wherever it ends up next. He hope it ends up somewhere far from the arena, far from Panem, where it can run free, no mask or wounds holding it back.
It looks silly, him kicking dirt over the battered body, tearing flowers off of thorned shrubs and sprinkling the crushed petals. He thinks anyone who comes across him would have a right to kill him over the pathetic display. Still, he reasons with himself, it’s the right thing to do. He couldn’t do anything for Cyro or Niko, not while he was trembling so violently, soaked in sweat and vomit and their blood. In a way, the deer is just a stand in. A false idol.
“Dearly beloved,” he starts, and then he can’t help but laugh. “Deerly beloved. Fuck.”
This is no place for laughter, this arena of shattered bones and gutted bodies, but he worries he’ll go insane otherwise. There are pieces of his old self left inside of him, somewhere, and maybe if he pries deep enough, he can yank them out, back to the surface, back to where they’re supposed to be, so he doesn’t have to be this amalgamation of stolen lives.
He says a prayer over the deer, a common one that everyone knows. He’s never been religious, and if anything, this experience would’ve made him believe less, but this is what they do at funerals. They stick the body in the ground and wish the soul safe passage to wherever it ends up next. He hope it ends up somewhere far from the arena, far from Panem, where it can run free, no mask or wounds holding it back.
