the aftermath • leisure day 2

You were no stranger to ending a life, however meaningless or artificial it may have been. Though you'd never bloodied your own hands before stepping into the arena, you knew that would be your biggest weakness going into it - the hesitation, the revulsion, the sheer idea of ending another life that was unthinkable for the vast majority of the population of Panem, let alone a girl of eighteen who preferred her violence as a spectacle and many feet away from her person.

You were stonehearted, not sadistic. You could lock your feelings away and project a mask of cold indifference to the world that was only halfway faked. That didn't mean you desired to murder every single living soul that happened to cross you or your path.

But you knew you had to, if you were to survive. You were nothing if not pragmatic that way. But knowing you had to and actually committing the act - unthinkable both when taking your prior hesitation and your own capabilities into account - were two very different things. You were under no delusions that you were not a warrior - that fell in your late cousin's realm of influence - but moreso a strategist, someone who conducted and manipulated the battle from behind the front lines.

And yet...

The beast had threatened the life of one of your own. Mona had bravely come to your assistance when she didn't have to, and had gotten maimed as a result of it.

And you had thrown a spear through its heart as vengeance. Not a simple cut on the flank that only barely dealt any damage, like the attack before or after. But a solid, simple, clean killing blow. It had shocked you, that you were capable of such acts. Yes, even after your actions in the training center. Hypocrisy was nothing new in your line of work.

You look down at your hands, and then back up at the firepit, where Charlie was working on building a flame. Risky, when fire could attract all sorts of unwanted attention, but needed, as well.

The others talk, but you're lost in your own little world. You'd just killed a beast - in self defense, in the defense of your ally who you knew must die if you were to win - when you'd run into the arena with foolish expectations that it would be the others that would do the killing for you, right up until it was time to stab them in the back.

Knowing you had such capabilities yourself unnerved you. On the one hand, it was probably a good thing that, in a pinch, you could throw the long, spindly spears with enough precision to end a life. On the other, no matter how much you pretended otherwise, you were simply a kid of eighteen. You'd lie, and cheat, and steal if it came to it, but everyone had their line that they would not cross. Murder had been yours.

Yet your hands are already stained red as the snow beneath your feet, and you know that in order to leave - to win - you must add to those painted fingers several times over.

You've always considered yourself a pragmatic girl, head overruling heart when it came to dictating how things were ran. But pragmatism could only do so much when compared to the nausea roiling around in your gut. A weakness that must be purged before you run into another tribute instead of a mindless beast - or a weakness that would prove to forever be your undoing.

Which would it be, Iris O'Nyle? Of that, you are not quite sure.