87th Bloodbath

Dissociation, that's what they say I'm the best at.

Putting myself in this separate subconscious so that all the other shit of life lives on the periphery. They say I'm some kind of god damn prodigy at it. They say that's "where I go" when I have one of my "moments." Of course, those moments being running my fist into the face of someone I used to be rolling around with and setting fire to some warehouse with a couple other kids in it. Now that was funny though, should have seen that bitch Mikayla's hair fry while she ran. But anyway, yea, I guess I'm apparently good at that which apparently is supposed to be good for the Games. Which like, makes sense when you take a bunch of hormonally short circuited teenagers and tell them to stab each other to death.

I don't fucking know, but yes this is exactly what's going through my mind as I wander through the night in my bed. That and how good a bowl of soup sounds right now for whatever reason.

Hold up...

So picture this, its 2 in the morning and I'm now sitting in the living room with a warm bowl of cream of clam. I swear sometimes even I wonder whether this whole thing is some twisted trip because of a bad joint I hit out by the beach. The moment the first bite breaks through the barrier of my mouth though, I know. This has to be real... the clams are just hitting way too right. I breathe in the sweet smell of their saltiness before burying the rest of the bowl inside of my stomach.

Back in bed, as sleep starts to pull at the corners of my eyes, my mind finally reaches reality. I don't feel the fear that I'm sure other boys have felt curled into these very silken sheets, aka Beck. I don't even really think about the idea of miss long blonde, beautiful, and badass from District one tearing towards me with a sword. It's more reflective, the time spent thinking of Nanette and Beck. Her so much like the others trying to crack through my crust with curiosity. Did she find the boy she was looking for or a corpse I wonder? I think of the way Beck looked at me, the way he does look at me, will he keep watching me? Fuck, my fists furl into balls because I don't know why it matters so much to me. I guess even lone waves like to be seen by a surfer. I get up again and find what I need to write a note, its short, scribbled, and my hand writing is bad enough to make a person go blind. I snort. I slip it under the Victor's door and head back to bed.

When I'm out there, don't look away. Watch me. ~ T.G.

In the morning, the flight to the arena is one of the funniest experiences I've had in my life. On the hovercraft, it's either faces slated from stone, casually clearly crafted "cocky" smiles, or eyes engulfed in fear. As for me, I start laughing. What else am I supposed to do in such a stiff situation? I've never been one to really read the room. Actually, scratch that, I read the room. I just don't give a shit what it tells me. By the time I'm done chuckling to myself we are beginning our descent. It's all fun and Games until someone gets hurt, right? Yea, and that's exactly the point.

Under the arena, I don't really talk to anymore. I guess I haven't much since yesterday anyway. Not much to say aside from the usual "see ya soon unless someone murders me" typical Tuesday morning coffee talk. Damn I'd kill for a coffee right now. Oof, kill, maybe not the time... well on the other hand. Whatever, whatever. The outfit I'm put into, not gonna lie, looks pretty fire on me. I leave the fucking hat on the bench in the room though, I don't do hats.

The last thing I see before they're calling my name is the mirror with me inside. My fingers fall onto the glass remnant echoes of the conversation I had with Beck. I told him to see me. Nanette thinks that's why I'm here, searching for something more. I take off a boot and shatter the fucking prism prison. I know who the hell I am. I don't need to see shit. I pull the boot back on and walk over to the tube. I breathe.

I'm underwater in the cold, I'll drown them in it.

Coming up through the tube feels like rising through the water. Absolute darkness and practical silence until... I emerge. The first thing I notice is the feeling, the sensation that almost... stings? My skin prickles as I stare at the interwoven steel and outward antennas. The air stenches of smoke and soot and I know this arena is going to be a far cry from the natural ones so typically favored. It reminds me something of one of the old Quells. The one with trains and the clock tower. Spicy.

Instead of searching for wear to start though, I take my final seconds of secure seclusion to use the eyes I told to turn towards me. I tap twice on my chest for Beck Hailsham.

See me.

Just like they all will.

S U T T O N

Surprisingly, everything felt normal.

Even though it was going to be a day filled with death, potentially mine, things were felt oddly the same. Maybe it was because Lysander banged on loudly on the door without saying a word, or maybe because at breakfast she didn’t look at me, not even once. However, right before we were walked out the door she grabbed my arm and pulled me in for a tight hug. There was no love, no affection.

But at least it was something.

The Peacekeepers led me through the tunnels without a word. The silence was eerie. The halls were dimly lit, but oddly clean. Underground, but untouched. It was interesting, mind blowing, and slightly suspicious. I shook off the feeling of dread, just as they led me into the room with my stylist. This room was better lit, and had a different aura about it.

For a moment, all my nerves disappeared.

Without a word my stylist began working vigorously to make me attractive for the cameras. Not that it would last long. Within minutes I would be blood stained and dirtied, and maybe there would even be Death upon my hands. Surprisingly, my hair wasn’t styled like Lyander’s. Instead I had two braids across the front of my hairline in opposite directions.

Maybe they were going to let me be my own person.

Maybe I was lucky.

Maybe they were speeding up my death.

A voice echoed throughout the room, telling us it was time to go. There weren’t any goodbyes, no final hugs, just a nod from each of us and I was on my way. I ascended slowly, and when the Arena finally came into view I had to squint to make sure I was seeing correctly. It was a wasteland of sort, one that never seems to see the sun. In front of me a good few feet away was a tower. One so tall that it grew lost in the clouds, but underneath was what we all were looking for.

Our lifeline.

3...2...1…

Everything was the same, but different all at once.

And I was certain it was still going to change.

G R I M

You're trying really hard not to think about Haven.

You think that's possibly the opposite of what you should do, think that if there is any moment to consider what she would do, then this would be it. Alone in the world for the first time, running the show yourself, trying to come up with a plan all on your own—you think you're not failing, but how can you be sure? Cricket Antoinette is a cunt who you refuse to even look at twice, much less ask for advice about the games and forming alliances, and Shy Aubergine doesn't even exist anymore, disappeared the second his crown was placed atop his head.

You don't like thinking about that either.

It makes your stomach roll.

What, you wonder, was the point of all that death? What was the point if you didn't do something with the life you got afterward?

But Shy doesn't matter to you, and neither does Cricket; Haven does. You think that's probably why it hurts the most thinking about her, why you're doing things like thinking about Shy and Cricket instead of thinking about your twin sister you very well may never see again. You hate the sick, toxic thing that twists inside of you and tells you that this is your moment to prove that you can do something without her, hate that there's a part of you that wants to believe you can be something without her.

You barely even notice your outfit as your stylists shove your arms through the sleeves, pull the belt on your jacket os tightly it gets hard to breathe. "It's not a fucking corset," you say cruelly to the assistant pulling the belt, blue eyes daggers. It's not his fault that you're warped inside, but you are either way. "I need to be able to breathe."

And the morning goes like that, you snapping at everyone that doesn't deserve it instead of directing your anger at yourself.

You're the one who got reaped, the one who could ruin everything, expose the academy and make the whole thing come crumbling down. You know that's a real risk, especially if you die late in the games, that people will want to know more about the career academy that trained you. They don't need that, the other angels, can't believe you may have put this on B's plate, but. You've never been any good at being responsible for yourself, and today is no different.

Standing in that tube, your hands are clenched fists at your side and you're doing what you can to clear your mind, to settle your nerves and ignore the aches in your bones from your private training session. You exhausted, and can feel your brain rotting from the inside out, know that you might fuck everything up here, but it doesn't matter. You'll keep going. You always will.

You girl turned weapon, you don't know another way.