disinfect the scene / fleur, day 3

Fleur should be used to death. It happened every day, even when hers felt lightyears away rather than a baby’s breath. She certainly didn’t mourn the loss of the mutts, even as she stroked the reddish-orange fur of the one she had slain, hands slick with what used to be a life. Thread made quick work of the sheep pelts, fluff peeling away to reveal abrased skin, and Fleur resigned herself to sitting in the grass with her knees pulled up to her chest. She was not grieving any of the lives that had been lost in here, but she was grieving something.

She was alive. She didn’t have to fear for her life for another 12 hours minimum, unless the Gamemakers were feeling particularly vicious today. Her back stung as she reached around to retrieve her bag, neon yellow marred by a bloody handprint. (Very chic.) She wiped her hands on her legs before reaching into the bag, bandages unfurling as she pulled them out. The roll was thinning. She knew she’d get more somehow - either her team would sponsor her or she’d find some in the arena - but the mere thought of needing more brought tears to her eyes. Whereas yesterday’s sad feelings pushed her to babble to Thread, today they pulled Fleur into a measured silence.

Her nostrils whistled as she finished patching herself up, rising to her feet. She eyed the hairless, lifeless sheep one last time (do they hovercraft these things out of here or do they just get swallowed into the ground?) before training her eyes in the distance. Every day, they kept moving. Every day, they chose themselves over others until the day there could no longer be others, the person who once slept at Fleur’s side becoming the one to drive steel into her chest. The things they did to stay close would ultimately tear them apart.

She wondered what it would be like to actually encounter another person apart from Thread. The machete, thankfully, gave her some distance that a knife didn’t, but she’d still have to be within arms length. There would be no flames, no ash to mask her opponent’s expression on impact. Fleur would have to face their pain, their terror, or worst of all, their rage.

She wondered if things would’ve been easier had she fought with Benjamin instead. She wasn’t strong enough, whether physically or mentally, to do it. She knew this. But a quiet, desperate part of her wondered if she had driven her knee into his windpipe, introduced a blade into his abdomen, shown him the hateful face of the girl he liked while remorse spilled from her mouth, if she wouldn’t feel so bad. If she hadn’t turned away so she didn’t have to watch him die, maybe she wouldn’t feel like such a coward. It would still be murder, without a doubt, but at least in that scenario, Ben would actually be dead.

Ben was alive. Fleur had betrayed him by shooting him, and she had betrayed her family by not killing him. She wondered if either of them would have it in them to forgive her.

Her nose stirred, and she smeared blood on her face as she wiped away mucus and tears.

”We should keep moving,” she choked out before walking ahead of Thread.