a/n: mid graphic descriptions of violence / double drabble
Her stylist once said blood tastes like wine. It doesn't. It tastes like bitter tears and hot iron and smoked beef and crushed dreams and death. It smells like midnight with no moon and sickly-sweet, rotten oranges and moldy dresses and history. In Two they say blood, bones, and dreams are all a person is. Blood's a million memories of the holder in one vicious fluid. And she's drowning in it – drowning in him.
She spits out One's throat, but mushy bits are still stuck in her teeth. Blood coats her throat, spilling into her lungs, and her breaths are ragged and desperate. She chokes on the boy's memories and dreams. His blood spills down her arms, swirls on her legs, and paints her torso. She's dressed in blood; it drips from her hair to kiss the blood-stained ground. She's a demon only the Capitol can romanticize. As she gazes at the scene, she bites back tears. Guilt seizes her heart, but she pushes it down and locks it away. Careers don't regret; they're invincible.
She tilts her head to the sky and prays for the hovercraft to come. She needs to leave. She's seen enough blood for her lifetime.