86th Personal Training Sessions

I don’t have many things in common with my mentors, that I can confidently say. Dinner conversations have been quaint within the District 2 quarters, the small talk’s blade not being strong enough to cut through the tension or of Shy’s punctual musk. But out of the small decent words that Cricket and I exchanged, we could agree on one thing. Everyone loves a good performance, and fighting is just that.

Maybe I got the love for it when I was young, from when dad would always make a narrating spectacle out of even the smallest things. His cheering and mischievous comments always stuck with me; it made my cheeks hurt and my chest hum. Since no matter how my body ached from our runs or after he ceased, that glow never faded. Like a fragile flower taking root, its roots thicken and grew harsh, persisting despite the terrain. I never had any consistency as I grew, but his memory was the only thing I had left. His memory held alive whenever I’d make an audience applaud, when I heard others gasp, or of the frustrated grunts of my opponent when on my stage. Any reaction meant I was doing something at least, because silence is the worst. There’s a lot of weight to silence, and I don’t like that gray area. The white noise kicks in, then the faint callings of mountainous chilled gales whispers into my ears in a range only reserved for me. I’m not sure if Cricket felt the same way. I grew up seeing a few clips of her games, hearing most of her through tales until I found out about the bad. But beforehand, dad would always laugh at my fire, saying that another Antoinette had something to watch out for.

Keeping others on their toes is all that I know, it is how I survived, and it is how Cricket approved I would thrive. And so, through some bickering, wearing, and convincing, I told her my plan. It wasn’t one I dreamed up of since I was twelve, like some others or before. It wasn’t one I would ideally chatter about during lunch time sparring breaks, or between drinking with career friends I never had. Foot bouncing as I leaned over, palms pressed against the cool metal benches. The countdown has begun, one of the few till the last to come. As the two to my right left, the time before my curtain call had felt till long. I couldn’t let the other tributes see the caged bird that bounced within its cage in my chest as my name was called. As taught in Townsend, an art that would make Cricket proud, my head held high as I walked in. The only action that betrayed my thoughts were my piercing eyes. The only thing that swayed had been my bouncing espresso locks and the door sliding shut behind me.

My confident smile crushed the sides of the cage within me, forcing the birds to cease. “Don’t fall asleep on me yet, we’re just starting” my voice rang out hollow against the room, reverberating off the forcefield lounge before me. In the center of the room laid a steel table, boasting a modest box underneath and a weapons rack to the side. And as if an invisible timer had sounded, I didn’t waste time on further greetings, I fell into routine.

To train to be a victor starting from youth, we all had methods to our madness. I’d like to envision mine like a dance, as if there were placematted steps to guide me, similar to ones placed on agility courses. With a stride to the center and dropping down to my knees, I bounced up quickly after retrieving my needs. Lighter fluid and a box of matches sat to the right side of the table. While crossing to the left side and spinning around towards behind, the rack held the typical arrangement. My left hand plucked two knives, dipping them into my hip’s hem as I was taught long before. Now rested and mirroring the comfort of a capitolite browsing in a store, my right hand hovered and waved over several items. A tease as my fingers stroked the curve of the axe, a downward stroke of the sword’s hilt, then my hand rose finally to my prize. The wrapped leather bundle unfolded with ease, like a relaxed snake. With the kick of the wrack, sending it rolling back. The swivel of my hips and swaying of my hair welcomed back my audience to the lead. Following in line with the body, the movement guided my forearm inward of me, jerking back in ease. A sidearm crack of leather erupted within the room, commanding any audience members to sit upward.

As the whip fell, I lifted and dragged it in the motion it laid, guiding the leathered serpent straight across its steel platform. “I’m sure you all are going to be bored for the next several hours, watching the same shit, over and over” cut through the air, while the splashing of lighter fluid and rotating of the whip persisted. Abandoning the handle and lighter bottle, then came the lights to flash onto center stage. With a harshness and pressing stroke of the thumb, a gentle flame burned bright, merging into chaos as I touched it to the table.

Angered flames licked its tongues upward and vibrantly, igniting with a beating passion that matched the quickness of my feet on that fateful March evening. Gaze flickering up to the lounge before me, my left hand cupped my right elbow coyly, the remaining lit match held like a cigarette. Winking cockily, I then stuck out my tongue, quenching the single flame onto it.. After I flicked the burnt wood away, my hand then wrapped around the familiar handle once more. Kicking the table forward, enough to send the flaming metal towards the shielded lounge, the flaming serpent now laid forward. A simple forced raise of my right ignited a flaming coachman crack over my head, sending fading embers around my crown. “Hopefully this will change things. Let's have some fun, shall we?”

Dimming lights announced the show had begun, with clementine lasers honing into enemy cubes. The droned hum alerted me to the left, a pixilated swiveling knife shattering mid air against the crack of my whip. Another quip encircled the blobbed figure’s ankles in lit leather, a tug sending cubes to shatter all around the floor. Footsteps echoing the sound of would-be rain encroached from above. On an invisible banister in the center, a smaller feminine tribute had formed, moving in from the far right. Shifting from a crouched position, the citrine enemy raised up a spear, rushing forth. A dash towards the center allowed the makeshift weapon to crumble into the slate floor at my side, as warmth guided me.

Warmth has always guided me, sheltering me from the frost surrounding me. Life had always been frigid since dad became one with the snow. But as did a failing heater amidst my childhood cracked windows, its blaze kept me alive through the nights. The warmth in me motivated me to my feet in times of caution, spurring me to dash forward, to continue to survive. I felt his flare surge within me, coaxing the flame to rise above. And as it did, the scorching whip entrapped the smaller faux tribute. Its makeshift hands shifted to the burning leather, fingered cubes rained before a shower erupted at the grunted tug of my weapon. The shimmering tangerine dazzled my eyes, a beautiful show for the would-be death of a child. These parts of the games I could see, this is where the beauty lied. Yet, a final pattering hum emerged from behind. Shifting around, cubes entangling dying gold into my coils, the last stood before me. Yet it would be too close for my whip to breach, too close to shove past its pretend axe. So my hands as I swiveled reached into my back left side hem. And as was my searing leather guided previously, an invisible curve connected the cubed abdomen with my knife.

Then the faltering side stumble of cubes returned the lights slowly to the room. Head looking over my shoulder to the gamemaker lounge, the final backward jerk of my right forearm announced a departing fiery crack. Doors opened, encouraging the handle to fall limp against the floor. Avoxes were swiftly sent in, a peacekeeper forcing me to return the hidden blade before I was to go. Although this wasn’t a dream I manifested as Vibes would put it, it was one murmured from the dead; a prayer I would be cast for a leading role in this play, since everyone knows what happens to the supporting cast. They’re to die to the leads for the sake of character development, only to be forgotten or pathetically brought up later on. My existence is more than some pathetic dinner table conversation, yours was too. You didn’t deserve to die young, to have your bones broken under the weight of our district. If I am to die, it won’t be in snow, it won’t be prematurely, nor will it be by or for my district. Shall it occur, it will be how I decide. But one thing is for certain, I won’t be alone in the frigid cold, no matter if a flaming whip is beside me. Since I’ll have your warmth guiding me, as it always has.