The Bloodbath

And what is one supposed to do when the world turns to shit around him?

It's a question you've pondered many a time across your short fifteen years of life. A conundrum that's wracked your skull each time death caresses your cheek with her hand. When Mama was gunned down in the midst of battle. When Papa was blown up while trying to save an enemy soldier. When Amira was skewered attempting to stop a traitor, and Khaled was shot attempting to avenge her. When Fatima ran into the enemy guns to cause a distraction.

All done to fight for a better home. A free home. And all done to ensure that you could live a life in a world worth living in.

But now what? In the span of minutes - because it could never be that long, right? The first three games were over in a matter of hours, and that was without a common enemy spurring them on into a conflict from which they had no hope of winning.

For a moment, there's calm forging cracks in the tension. The instigator girl and the loud boy preach harmony. Your district partner shoots words back at them. And the fifth follows your lead, perhaps unintentionally - slowly inching over towards the living without saying so much as a word.

It's not fast enough for the Capitol. Nor is conflict so assured.

The next round of mutts catches some off guard. Horses, at first glance, shouldn't seem so threatening. But then suddenly one has lowered its head and oh there's the loud boy, impaled on an ivory horn now coated with a fresh paint of red, just like that.

Eyes widen even further, if that's at all possible. You flit your eyes to see not one, not two, but three more go for your district partner - and though she puts up a valiant effort, three on one are far too great of odds to contend with for someone with one foot already through death's doorstep. A slash across her chest, and just like that, your numbers have once again been nearly cut in half.

Your eyes flit towards the remaining two. One - the boy, quiet and unassuming, just like you. Two - the instigator girl, hanging onto life by a thread.

It'd be easy. Take your sword, ram it through his chest first before ending her life just as fast. Even the mutts would never stand a chance. And you'd be lying if you said the thought didn't cross your mind - you're a fifteen year old boy scared out of his wits with the idea of home suddenly no longer a pipe dream, suddenly a light at the end of the hellish tunnel that's within viewpoint.

You stare at the two for one, two seconds.

B-dump. B-dump.

Even with the din of the crowd, the screams of the dead and dying, all you can hear is the beating of your heart in your ears.

And then you set your jaw, and purge your moment of weakness from your system.

No. Not like this. Al-Amins did not turn on their comrades even in the face of certain death. Al-Amins did not betray the mission even when hope was snuffed out like a match in a hurricane. And al-Amins most certainly did not let fear rule themselves, even in the midst of a war.

You take a step towards the girl, towards the boy. Then another. And another. Until the girl is so close you could stick your blade right through one of her pretty dark eyes without exerting any effort.

And then you turn, so that your back is facing the warm bodies and your steel is pointed in the direction of the fresh wave of muttations wreaking havoc across the battlefield.

"Live, or die." Your words are dry, uneven, wear and tear sending a high pitched squeak through the first one. "That doesn't matter."

You lie. It matters a great deal, especially to someone like you who never learned to properly master their own fear. But words are not your strong suit - just a means to the end, while you let your actions spread the message in their stead.

"What does matter is how we face it." Calm, steady, raised just enough to be heard over the din. "And I've made my choice."

How is it that you're willing to die, Mohamed al-Amin? How is it that you're able to face the fate that is all but certain for you, even at the end?

"We'll do it." And you flash your steel in a wide arc, daring any muttation to approach the blade that had already slain two of their brethren.

B-dump. B-dump. Adrenaline flows. Blood rushes through your head and chest alike. And yet time flows like molasses, slow and steady and calm.

Because you've realized. Once you've accepted that which you fear, it ceases to have any hold over you.

So how are you ready to die, Mohamed al-Amin?

"Together," you reply, to no one and everyone all at once.

"As one."

I haven’t known what it was like to be held that way, held in a way that reassured that the weight of the world isn’t just on your shoulders. In a way that makes me feel reassured that no matter what happens, we’ll be alright. Mario offered that comfort, the familiarity of a brother that I haven’t felt in years. A presence that felt foreign, since for a while I forgot what it felt like to not be alone. Sure, I have Mili and Ernie, and before I had mom too. But mom was gone, Mili didn’t want to admit it, but she was.

It was in small ways, like not knowing where she was, seeming constantly disoriented and confused. In a different way, not like before. Before she’d sit on the steps out of longing, out of mourning, then it changed. Then it became because she forgot when Aarón died, or when papa died. It made Mili think then that they were still alive, but I knew. I lived in a house where people lived in the past where I was the only one who lived in the present. But then she weakened more. Her pains grew so much that she was constantly in bed or in a chair since it hurt to stand. I had to be the only one to work in the shop aside from when Ernie could, not that mama was ever good with tools. Mama’s tools were cooking utensils. She loved the smells of spices when shopping in the markets and pressing her nose against fresh fruit and vegetables. After her pain started, she stopped going to the markets. She stopped making her famous enchiladas or arroz con leche, and soon I had to take over.

I never was good with anything but oil, my hands full of calluses. They aren’t the kind meant to be held, they’re the kind meant to hold people down. I always would overwork the tortilla dough, accidentally overcook our foods, or seasoned them too dry. Maybe that’s why mama was so thirsty, and why she was always too nauseous. But the doctor said it’s because we weren’t giving her enough, but they couldn’t give us more either. We made do with what we had in insulin, rationing it out as much as possible. But life changed after the vultures in white descended, and even before. Before the attacks, they slowly cut off our imported resources from other towns, the prices growing higher. Afterward, it got worse, and worse, almost as if they enjoyed it. And soon no matter how hard I worked, we could barely afford it. Because what profits can a mechanic make when we weren’t allowed to drive anymore? Everything I did from then on was for them, and they paid me when they felt like it. They’d throw the money at me like a dirty whore, laughing at me when I scrambled to pick it up. Laughing as I would throw my tools around, searching for where they hid her medicine. They started disappearing from the house, which they sometimes visited. The doctor was closer to the shop anyway, so it was always easier to just keep the new shipments there and hide them in empty boxes. And one day, it was too much yet not enough.

I wasn’t enough; I wasn’t enough for mama, for Séui Ngàhn, for Drifter, for Coal, now not Mario, and possibly Mili. Mario thought I was, and he’d hate if he heard my thoughts right now. He spat blood on the sand towards the girl who approached with venomous eyes, tongue spewing blame. Even from before when I hadn’t known his name, he shouted support. That’s who he is, a hot-blooded fighter who would never back down for his cause. I wonder what kind of people knew him back home, and maybe what kind of person he was then. But there’s no use living in the past with your head in the clouds. Here there is no time to lay down your swords. For as soon as we did, the white rode in, all with horns like the kind Mili would draw. They swarmed the girl quickly, finishing her off; I wanted to tell her to go back for her sword, but she probably would have tried to cut my head off. Then another charged for Mario. He slid his arm off around my neck, his warmth slipping away from me. He tried backing away, readying to strike, but the beast was faster. And just like that, he was gone. The boy I had just held, the boy who pushed his body to the limit just to rush to my side when the coast was clear, the boy who would bend down and help our others who had fallen, the boy who we held the line with, and the one who voice rose above the rest; he was gone.

I knew our fate; I knew the odds. I promised myself I wouldn’t be so naïve, but damn it, couldn’t you have held out a bit longer? You didn’t deserve that fate; you didn’t deserve your passionate eyes to be pierced, as if the Capitol directly quenched your flame. And for the first time, I wailed.

This was the sound that the woman made, that my mama made when I’d try to pull her off the porch, and the one I made when I knew Aarón was gone. A painful cry, one no should make; one that the audience ate up. I hated giving them satisfaction. I tried to cover my mouth and bite my lip, swelling my mouth with more iron in the process, but it was too late.

It’s my fault, after all, because I knew this would happen. This is what happens when your heart gets attached. This is what happens when you get comfortable with not being alone. My hands are hardened with calluses, ones meant to hold others down; I’m not meant to be held down. I haven’t since I was ten, since when Aarón left and never came back. And I wailed that day. Not because I knew he was dead; I knew he was as soon as he left through the damn door. I wailed because I knew that’s when everyone was gone. That there were no more rainy mornings for me, there were no more days I could sleep in, play in the street, or get conchas from the panadería. I knew then that, that’s when I became an adult. That’s when I was truly alone.

I didn’t want the same fate for the others. None of us deserves to feel alone. So I can’t cry now, I can’t show weakness in the face of death. This is what Aarón and papa must have felt in their final moments. First was the pride, then came the fear, and next was the acceptance. This is where we die, where all of us die.

After his fortress fell next was the girl who hugged the walls, the one without a sword. She died defenseless and on her own. The boy who I had been running to earlier, who seemed lost after the death of his friend, voice rose amidst the massacre as he drew near. His words were grounding, tone calm, sobering my tears, and drying my eyes. A familiar glaze shadowed over my eyes, one of rage. “Live, or die. That doesn’t matter. What does matter is how we face it.” I swallowed as my hand rubbed the water off my face, smearing the blood that ran down my cheek, across my neck. “We’ll do it. Together. As one.” A shakiness quivered off my breath, my grip so tight my knuckles blurred into white. Tension swelled in my forearm and the back of my neck, rolling my head to relieve it. Bloodshot eyes barreled down the one who took the brightest light of all of us out of this world. “Fuck it, lets get this over with.”

[Paloma attacks JULIAN the unicorn]
1080 - shallow cut on back of head - 4.5 damage
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