XXXVI. The Skeletons You Hide
All things of yours have their mortality,
Even as yourselves; but it is hidden in some
That a long while endure, and lives are short.
CW: The first and forth POVs feature depiction of psychological torture. The second POV features depiction of physical torture. Please proceed with caution, and if you want a summary, don't hesitate to ask me.
When he was just nine years old, his mother told him, "Icarus, you've still got a lot to learn about yourself."
At the time, he had still been so pitifully soft, so terribly weak and vulnerable. He was far less than even half the astonishing man he's grown up to be, and he made the terrible, horrible, unforgivable, mistake of asking Aelia St. Augustine, "What do you mean? What's wrong with me?"
Well… she was more than happy to tell him.
"Unambitious."
"Nowhere near what I expected in a son."
"Mediocre."
"A disgrace, especially after all that I've done to get you this far."
"Flawed."
His mother hurled his insecurities at him for what seemed like hours, said he was sensitive, inadequate. That it was obviously he didn't want success enough, that it was clear that he didn't have the attitude of a winner, and he'd never have what it takes to prove he's worthy of being her son.
Icarus swore to her, "I'll prove you wrong. I'll be better; I promise."
(He wasn't even sure what he did wrong.)
"We'll see about that," Aelia responded with venom on her tongue.
And he quickly learned, to be Aelia's child is to act with malice in your bones and death itself at the tips of your tongue. He quickly learned, those who are vulnerable deserve to be chewed out, and if he wants to be the top dog in charge of the pack, it's him who has to bite.
The Games brings him a much needed role-reversal of those long perilous nights where his mother would tell him that he isn't worth shit. The Games brings Icarus St. Augustine to a position of glory, where he's the alpha, Atlantis is his beta, and poor pathetic Beowulf Haleot is nothing but a worthless omega who means nothing to anyone else.
He stands facing the makeshift cellar where he locked the pitiful boy up, a smug look on this face as the door finally shuts and the screaming starts. Nearly laughing, Icarus tells his prey, "Yelling isn't going to help you dear. It's just going to wear out your throat, and I do plan on having a conversation with you."
There's no response. To be expected.
"You know, Wulfie, for somebody from District Two, the District built on being strong, you sure do sound a bit weak right now," he sneers, tapping his fingers against the cellar door. "Do you want Atlantis and I to come in there and have our little conversation with a knife against your throat? Would that get you to talk—"
"Fine." Beowulf grunts, cutting him off.
Rude of him to interrupt me, Icarus muses. But ah well, seems beggars can't be choosers…
"Fine? That's it?" Atlantis calls through the door. "There's not anything else you wish to say to us?"
… Silence.
She mutters under her breath, loud enough that their prisoner can hear, "Alright, Icarus, you go get the machete—"
"I'm sorry!" Beowulf interrupts.
Icarus sighs. "You're sorry for what? You know, you've done a lot of wrong, my friend. You're going to have to be more specific."
"For interrupting you," he answers, his voice a void of sheer desperation.
"Do you know why that was wrong?" Atlantis beckons him.
"It was rude," Beowulf admits. "It was really really rude of me."
"Rude it was," Icarus says with a smirk, circling around the area by the door. "I was thinking more along the lines… degrading though. As in, you were mocking me, dear boy. I don't take well to being mocked."
(Aelia didn't take well to being mocked either. Icarus learned that lesson when he mimicked her posh accent with one of his friends and was promptly called an imposter and undeserving of all his nice things.)
"I'm sorry," the boy repeats. "I shouldn't have mocked you."
"There's a lot of things you shouldn't have done," Atlantis adds. She turns around and mouths to Icarus, "You were right, I'm enjoying this."
He whispers, "Just like I knew you would."
There'll be a time when she doesn't "enjoy this," Icarus is sure of it. He's studied her carefully enough to know that even in her most devious moments, Atlantis Seasbane always flies to close to the sun and choses to burn herself with the flames of her own wrongdoings. She continues to bend and it's only a matter of time before she breaks. Unlike him, who thrives on the misery of others, Atlantis is a liar when she says that she genuinely enjoys suffering, and soon it'll be her demise. Soon she'll bend over in defeat and Icarus will be there to pick up her pieces.
"We saw you in the bloodbath, you know." Icarus says, brushing his mouth up to the door. "You may not've seen us, but we saw you Mr. Haleot. We saw what you did to the boy from Eleven. You know, the innocent child you slaughtered…"
"I'm sorry!" Beowulf screams. "If we're… being honest… Lethia made me do it. Yeah." He pauses, and Icarus hears him whimpering wordlessly for a moment. "She told me to make the next kill… You know how it is with Lethia more than anyone, right?"
"Bullshit!" He hisses in response, slamming his hand against the door. "You don't get to use Lethia as an excuse. There's no way in hell she wronged you the way she's wronged me."
"Plus, we know you're lying." Atlantis cackles. "Icarus told me about your little friendship with her. I'll admit, it was cute. Would've been cuter for you to admit you're so clearly in love with her, but the feeling could never be mutual."
"Exactly. I know Lethia better than you ever will, and trust me when I say that she'd never like a pathetic coward like you." He feels a small weight in his stomach, as he knows that somebody as docile and infertile as Beowulf is exactly the sort of person Lethia would be stupid enough to fall for. "She much prefers more dominant men, but not the sort who mercilessly kill children."
Icarus smiles with satisfaction at the sound of Beowulf's tears. More will come soon enough, but for now, he revels in his slight sobs.
"Did… you not kill people?" He asks through whimpers.
"Only the girl from Nine," Atlantis answers. "You know, the one who killed the mayor."
"That's right." Icarus licks his lips. "She said that she didn't in her interview, believe me, we heard it. But her last words were admitting defeat and guilt to the crime. Such a shame she couldn't embrace her monstrosity with the rest of the world."
Monstrosity.
That's something that Lethia used to call him from time to time. It was typically as a joke; whenever he did something particularly nasty, she'd chuckle and say, "Oh, you little monster."
After they parted ways, it did admittedly cause Icarus to think, Is it true? Am I a monster?
He laid out his previous actions in his head. Everything he'd ever done was for the sake of his own success. Everything he'd done was for the sake of ambition. He committed atrocities to pave his way to the top, because unlike a monster… he actually had hopes and dreams, duties to fulfill. Monsters on the other hand destroy purely for the sake of destruction. Monsters don't have aspirations, all they do is destroy. Icarus wreaks havoc on the world so he can benefit, and as a result, the entire world can benefit.
Maybe he's vicious, maybe he's cruel, but does he care?
…
…
Ha.
Of course not.
He's better than everyone else, after all. They should be grateful to have somebody like him existing during their lifetimes.
(Aelia should be fucking grateful that I'm her son and not anybody else. She should be grateful to have somebody who takes initiative like me. She should be grateful that I'm not a fucking pushover and that I actually get results. She should be proud of the way I've destroyed everything around me for the sake of a throne, and she should cherish the misery I've brought this world. She should be grateful I'm her son and not Hesson, or Alaban, or the other boys from Valhalla. She should be grateful that I'm living out her dream, and I'm not a cowardly chump like fucking Beowulf. Why isn't she grateful? Why isn't she ever even proud of me?)
"Oh Beowulf, you little monster," Icarus continues. "Why don't you understand your wrongdoings yet? Why don't you get that I'm not the enemy in Lethia's life. It's you."
"Keep her name out of your mouth," he grunts. "I've done nothing wrong to her; I'm sure of it."
"Other than distract her with your little pity parties?" Atlantis says. "I promise, Beowulf, all you do is make her feel bad for you. I'd feel bad for you too if I had to consistently listen to you whining about how nobody loves you and how you don't want to be here. Nobody forced you, you know. If you really didn't want to be here… well suicide is always an option… it seems you're too much of a coward for even that."
"How do you even know what Lethia and I talked about?" Beowulf asks.
Icarus glances over at his wings, resting gently in the cornucopia. His prisoner doesn't need to know the truth. "Well… she told us. She walked over to our base a few hours ago and begged us to take care of you. She said that you were an embarrassment to be around, and that she didn't want to hurt your feelings. Of course I obliged too. Even if she's ruined me, I'm always willing to make a little bargain."
He covers his ears as Beowulf lets out a guttural bloodcurdling scream. He glances over at Atlantis, her mouth puffed up like she's trying so hard not to laugh at him. Icarus feels the same… it's simply pathetic how easy the boy is to manipulate. Maybe taking the girl from Twelve would've been more of a challenge.
"Would you make a bargain with me?" Beowulf pleads.
Icarus chuckles. "I don't negotiate with the weak. At least Lethia actually has a backbone."
Again, the boy screams. This time, Icarus isn't afraid to unleash the hysterical laugh he's been trying so hard to conceal.
"Can you at least let me use the bathroom or something," he begs them. "Just… please. I don't feel so well."
"Isn't that a shame?" Atlantis mocks him. "I don't feel well either, dealing with somebody as obnoxious and annoying as you. If I have to cope, you do too."
"But I need to use the restroom…" Beowulf whines.
"There's room in there," Icarus says. "Just do me a favor and find something to wipe with. You already act like there's piss in your veins instead of blood; I'd prefer if you don't smell like it too."
A few moments pass before he hears what sounds like a stream followed by beleaguered groans.
"Lick it up," he commands. "I don't want your urine leaking through the door."
"It's dark… I can't see…" Beowulf cries.
"Didn't ask."
He laughs and laughs at the mental image of his prisoner lapping up his own piss like a pathetic little dog. He doesn't know that the door is insulated and nothing will get out, but he doesn't need to know either.
All Beowulf needs to know is that his fate lies in Icarus' hands, and he sure as hell is in for the ride of his life.
It's much more fun this way, he reassures himself. Nothing is better than fighting against someone who never was going to let you win.
May the entire world realize that a fight against him is not one they'll win.
(May Aelia realize her son has fought more than hard enough to win her affections.)
Quite frankly, they should be ashamed.
Beowulf, Letha, both of them… they should be fucking ashamed of the way they've disgraced her. Perhaps, Vancouver hasn't been the greatest ally of all time, but that was never her intension, and she certainly never asked for her poor pitiful allies to turn her into some sort of a demon.
The very word sends a chill down Vancouver's spine and twists her stomach into a knot. She scorns Beowulf and Lethia for making her feel like some sort of a wretched creature, when they're the ones who trained for these Games in the first place. How is she an awful, twisted, aberrant person for doing the very things that they were born and raised to do?
What she did with Nine was harsh, yes, but she stands by her previous statement. Putting the boy in the iron maiden was better than the alternative of slitting his throat and leaving him dead on the floor. Hell, it doesn't matter. Beowulf and Lethia would've still called her a fucked in the head sadistic degenerate as if they wouldn't have done the same in her shoes. Murder is the quickest way for one to prove themselves here in the Games, so why didn't it work?
Are the subconscious monsters in Vancouver's head right when they say that she's one of them? Has she always been a nefarious savage the way Beowulf and Lethia seem to imply?
(Yes. Yes she has. Vancouver Easton has been sick in the brain from the moment she sliced through her own parents' throats and left them in the bathtub to drown in their own blood and sorrow. She's been ill ever since she decided she could save District Twelve despite barely being sixteen, even though she's been destroyed by nightmares of her parents lacerated bodies scolding her because she's wrong.
What kind of murderess gets sick at the sight of blood? What kind of goddess grows nauseous at her own divine punishments?)
No. Vancouver Easton is not a fraud. She's a celestial being, every star in the sky and every flake of snow that falls from it, and it's been that way since her parents' cadavers hit the ground because they dared to deny her. Soon Lethia too will learn what happens to those who have the audacity to show contempt towards her.
She woke up unsurprised to see that Beowulf had departed, and even less shocked that he wrote Lethia a letter, hoping for a future where it's just them two. A shame Vancouver got to it first and had to crumble it before the One girl could wake up and see. Even more of a shame that Vancouver was all but forced to bind Lethia to the bench with ropes so she wouldn't move a muscle when she opened her eyes to see that her ally had finally won.
As expected, Lethia writhes and recoils when she awake, looking Vancouver dead in the eye and saying, "What the actual fuck is your problem?"
"What isn't my problem," Vancouver snaps back, admiring her handiwork and the way the One girl is forced to squirm if she wants to move even slightly. "Now that Beowulf is gone, I thought it would be beneficial if we had a little chat, just us ladies."
"What the hell did you do to him," her ally stammers, grinding her teeth together. "Wherever you have him, please just let him fucking go. Better yet… just hurt me instead… not him."
"I didn't do anything to him, I swear," Vancouver responds with a sheepish shrug. "He told me that he was sick of the both of us, so I was kind enough to let him go."
"You're lying to me," Lethia hisses, again trying and failing to free herself from the ropes which force her down. " Where the fuck is he?"
"No clue," comes her response. "It doesn't matter either way. I just want to talk to you."
"Well, I don't want to talk to you," the One girl says, her voice clearly strained.
Vancouver smirks. "Well, I don't think you have a choice."
She steps away from her and glances over to the array of knives she's laid out on her desk. It really is a shame that it's had to come down to this, but damaging Vancouver's pride is an irredeemable crime, and those who commit it have no choice but to suffer. She really did think it would be Beowulf who she was forced to mess with first, but of course, the opportunity to knock Lethia down a few pegs is one she won't pass up.
And to think, the two of them probably laughed at me because I gag when I draw blood, Vancouver muses. The One girl definitely won't be laughing the next time Vancouver beckons someone to bleed. And hopefully she won't grow nauseous either, especially because she's hurting somebody who most definitely deserves to feel pain. Vancouver is not a monster for punishing someone who wronged her, and therefore she mustn't hurl.
She selects a knife with a serrated edge and returns to Lethia's slide, tapping the flat part of the blade against her chin.
"What the hell are you doing with that?" The One girl shrieks.
"Oh wouldn't you love to know," Vancouver replies. She glances down at Lethia's arms and hand to remember, which one was the broken one again?
The girl's wrap is askew on the other side of the room, so it can't help her. Strategically speaking, Vancouver's best bet is to cut off the one in pristine condition, as having no working arms will certainly put Lethia at an even bigger disadvantage than before. Both her knuckles though are purple with bruises, and Vancouver is left with no choice but to guess. She takes solace in the fact that at least she has a fifty-percent chance at cutting through Lethia's one good hand.
She grunts and positions her blade on Lethia's right wrist as the girl cries out, "Please Vancouver… you're going to regret this."
"Oh am I now?" She responds with a cackle. "You're the one who questioned my legitimacy aren't you? I suppose it's only right that I prove myself."
Lethia jerks her head towards Vancouver and sinks her teeth into her upper arm. Though they're abnormally sharp, it doesn't hurt much, and she hardly struggles to push her face off backwards.
She begins cutting through Lethia's flesh, blinking her eyes to drown out the sight of her blood. Vancouver feels it on her fingertips, uncomfortable and slick, but she takes deep breaths and continues to move her knife in a sawing motion.
"You're sick," Lethia stammers, though there's no tears in her eyes and her lips are pressed together firmly in a line. "I hope you're happy that all of Twelve is seeing you do this to me, and that they're probably fucking horrified that you'd ever call yourself their savior."
Thinking of home does sicken her. Vancouver does worry, will this malicious action ruin her reputation in the land she's worked so hard to rebuild? She sighs. It's too late now, and she reckons they'll be glad to have a victor who successfully cut down her adversaries instead of a pansy like Haymitch.
Vancouver peels back Lethia's skin, exposing her bright white tendons. Her lifeblood continues to trickle off of her arm and onto the ground, droplets hitting Vancouver's shoes and legs. Her eyes begin to water, but she pushes through and deepens her wound. The fluid darkens from red to maroon as it pools and occasionally splashing on Vancouver's chest.
Despite the jolts of pain she delivers, Lethia remains without tears in her eyes and screams in her throat. Instead, she just grinds her teeth and occasionally grunts. Vancouver isn't sure if that makes what she's doing to her better or worse. Making Lethia scream would certify the fact that she's a monster, but at the same time, it just might give her the satisfaction she craves.
Digging through her bone itself proves to be the biggest challenge. Not only is the white substance hard to cut through, but with every movement, more gore spews onto Vancouver's body, and more bile begins to rise in her throat. She exhales. I have to do this… I have to fucking do this. I have to fucking prove to her that she made such a terrible mistake when she betrayed me.
The blade reaches the other side of Lethia's bone and swiftly cuts through her tendon and flesh, giving her hand no choice but to fall onto the floor, a splatter of blood brushing against the two of them. Lethia looks down at her wound and sighs, using her other hand to wipe away the blood. Once her sleeve is soaking wet, she rubs the fresh stump against her pant leg.
Vancouver feels her vision blurring and her head growing light as Lethia applies pressure to stop the bleeding. Even without the blood though, Lethia's mangled hand on the ground is a reminder of what Vancouver's done, and perhaps the fact that she's crossed the line. Impossible.
"Is that all you got?" Lethia finally sneers at her.
She cups her hands to her mouth and lets some of her vomit escape. She coughs twice, then laughs at the One girl. "Oh you wish it was, don't you? Give me a minute Lethia… I'm not quite done with you."
Vancouver turns over and hunches on the ground, a hurling noise leaving her mouth alongside her puke. Again, her vision goes blurry and her brain goes numb. She collapses on the ground, into her pool of vomit, and shuts her eyes.
(She doesn't see Lethia's teeth as they begin to gnaw through the rope.)
She should've realized years ago that there was no hope for her. Never in a million years was Hedy Lovelace going to grow into something even slightly resembling normalcy with the tragic upbringing she was oh-so-horribly cursed with. Her only mistake was thinking that maybe she'd somehow have a chance.
At thirteen years old, the kids would taunt her as she masqueraded through the halls, telling her that she was a "freak!"
They didn't even know about the murder. They didn't know that she'd had blood on her hands already for a year, and that she was slowly breaking into pieces. They just knew that there was something undoubtedly off about her, and that was enough to convince them that she was worthy of ridicule. She'd be shoved into lockers and have her hair pulled from her head, every word lacerating her like her father's nails against her back.
It was proof; Hedy is an abnormality and always has been. How dare she deny it instead of giving into the most obvious truth.
How dare she drown herself in studies, force herself to choke on calculus and chemistry in every waking moment, when she was always born to tear the world apart. How dare she act like she'll someday change the country with science when her brain is akin to a boiling nuclear action. How dare Hedy lie to herself by saying that she has a chance to make the world a better place, when she was born to destroy. She's Hugo Lovelace's daughter after all…
She never had a fucking chance.
She should've realized it when she was reaped; the world is calling on her to bring about doom. The world knows her darkest secrets, that she had a smile on her face when her father's skull caved in, and that her only regret is not killing him sooner. Hedy should've known that her role in these Games isn't to pretend to be docile, only snapping in the brief moments where she deems it absolutely necessary. Her role is to unleash the afraid twelve-year-old girl who lays dormant inside her with a smidge of bloodlust, but more importantly a desire to make everything around her burn.
Even if she was a freak, at twelve, Hedy was so terribly afraid.
No small girl should be afraid that her own father is going to kill her the next moment he drinks too much. No child should avoid the very man who helped bring them into the world because they're horrified that he'll be the one that takes them out of it. Nobody should spend their formative years in crippling fear that their end is near. Even if it led to good things, Hedy shouldn't have been forced to kill her father. It shouldn't have been her only option.
She deserves normalcy. She deserves a good life where she isn't constantly ducking under the shadows of her own demons or watching as her father terrorizes her from the corner of her room in her dreams. She shouldn't have to wake up paralyzed. She shouldn't be forced to ignore her own grief and guilt even four years later whenever she sees anybody who slightly resembles him, because she knows deep down inside that she's just as bad as a monster as she is.
If Hedy's mother was the virtuous angel her father claimed her to be, then she's her unassuming exterior that ultimately doesn't matter much when she'll always have her father's sins in her blood. There's no escaping the fact that she was forged in his name, carved from his flesh, and as awful as he was, he'd likely be proud of her for the person she's become. He's fucked, but he'd be glad to see that he raised a monster in his image, even if he had to die in the process.
Judas and the girl from Eight. Does Hedy really care that the two of them are dead? Does she really have sympathy for the small child she instructed to be slaughtered, or is she just jealous? Is she just jealous that Eight got the chance to be thirteen and jubilant instead of thirteen with blood on her hands; thirteen with a friend instead of thirteen with a corpse at her feet? And is she jealous of Judas too? Is Hedy really jealous of avarice encompassed just because he had something to believe in. Does she truthfully envy the magic in his palms or is she just so fucking tired of being herself.
She plucks a flower from the ground and crumples it in her hand. Of course I'm fucking tired of myself…
So many cruel things in this world get the privilege of dying, but she's stuck picking up the pieces of her own atrocities. Hedy's callous and miserable, yet still forced to live. She's been dead for four years, too afraid to tie a noose around her throat in fear of the headlines reading, "Hugo Lovelace's Daughter Killed Herself Just Like Him."
Perhaps the silver-lining to her confession is that now she's free to kill herself at any moment without fearing that she'll resemble him. Not that it matters, of course. What's the point in purposely dying if nobody is alive to actually miss you?
Surely Monet's afraid of Hedy after her televised confession and her preceding violent outbursts. Hedy can't even blame her caretaker for being horrified. She'd be scared shitless too if the child she was hired to protect turned out to be a monster.
And oh how Verdigris would cheer if she was dead. Oh how Verdigris would deserve to cheer if Hedy was finally dead. She's broken them the same way her father broke her, and the worst part is, she can't even say that she feels bad about it. If anything, Hedy's just jealous that the kid has spirit left inside them and that their alcoholic father never had the audacity to put a gun to their head.
The entire world wants Hedy Lovelace dead. They're cheering for her demise, hoping and praying that justice will sweep her off her feet and into a grave, and she's just supposed to live anyway with that knowledge?
Correction. Hedy will live even though she knows her District, her entire country can't wait to see her dead. Who would she even be if she ever gave anybody satisfaction?
She counts on her fingers. Fourteen down and nine to go… this doesn't have to be impossible. Verdigris is eventual but ultimately easy prey; Hedy knows how easy it will be to destroy them with their guilt in killing Eight, especially when she herself doesn't care in the slightest.
The Careers remain her biggest problem, have been from the start. It'll ultimately come down to her against them or her against the nut-jobs from Six who she fears for better or for worse. It's just a matter of being prepared. It's a matter of getting the country to again be on her side, so that they'll aid her on her quest for victory, and she won't be forced to stand idly by, waiting for a glorious opportunity to present itself to her.
She's low on food but high on spirit. Some of the flowers beneath her feet may be edible, but Hedy knows they lack substance, nutrients. She'll get weak if she doesn't eat something better, and Hedy cannot afford to be weak.
She has hell to bring up through heaven's surface after all. She has Verdigris to torment, their head to rip off the same way she did their idiot bird. Sure, Hedy didn't believe for a second that they were smart enough to orchestrate Judas' death, but she'll say anything to get them enraged enough that they're willing to fight. Hedy will do anything to bring the entire country to their knees, and whether that's a blessing or a curse is debatable.
(It's a curse. You're a fucking curse, Hedy. You don't deserve to be here; you deserve to be dead like your father. You've deserved to be dead for four years, because maybe then you wouldn't have grown up into this hideous monster.)
She's the country's sickness and she doesn't need a cure. Hedy Lovelace is fire and everyone else deserves to burn for doing her wrong.
Verdigris Ahane-Voclain deserves to burn first for continuously painting her in a light of villainry by playing the victim and bitching and moaning like there's no blood on her hands.
Hedy Lovelace is done playing nice. She's done being the polite young lady who she was raised to be, all proper and poised. That girl's dead and has been for four years. It's time for her to embrace that for better or for worse, she's Hugo's legacy and that means misery is in her veins, so she should let herself bleed.
So what if it makes her a freak? So-fucking-what if it makes her the bad guy? There was never a chance of her being good.
She finds that it's easier if she pretends Beowulf is herself.
With every word Atlantis spews — pathetic, stubborn, annoying, cowardly— she thinks of herself first and foremost. It makes hurting others easier, makes hurting them fun almost.
She's spent the past week and a half stuck in her head. Ever since leaving Four, she's been forced to think about how wretched she is and always has been, but today's mischief has made her feel different. It's made Atlantis Seasbane feel alive for the first time in a long time.
(She was alive the night before the Games when there were blades in her wrist and blood on the floor. She was alive when Calsin screamed at her in the apartment, telling her all the awful things that she deserved to hear. She's alive when she's given retribution for everything wrong that she's done, because she doesn't deserve the relief of death.
Atlantis may think that causing Beowulf misery is keeping her heart from giving out, but really all it is doing is slowly making her wish she was six feet under.)
But she's alive. She's excreting venom from her tongue and lighting fires with her words. Atlantis is destroying the world like the storm she was destined to grow into, and she'll never trade this rush for shallow water.
It's been hours, yet she still screams, "I bet your mother never loved you. I bet that she's so embarrassed to see her son sitting in a puddle of his waste as he confesses that you were never good enough anyway."
"It's true," Beowulf whines. "I was never good enough. I'll never be good enough. Not for her, and not for Lethia, either. I'll never be good enough for this world."
(Atlantis' mother never loved her. Abenahir Seasbane threw her daughter's nearly lifeless frame against the wall time and time again, reminding her that she's a monster just for existing, the reason she and Nerio divorced, and that if the world someday ends, it'll be her fault. She conditioned Atlantis to think that she'll never be enough, drilled the words into her brain until she knew they were true, and then forced her to repeat them. Abenahir is the reason this all feels so familiar. She's the reason it doesn't hurt to finally be on the other side…)
"Say it again," Icarus instructs, his voice still firm despite hours of interrogation. "Just in case the microphones didn't hear you. Don't you want the entire world to hear you?"
"I'm not good enough," the Two boy repeats, this time louder. "I'm a waste of space and I don't deserve to be alive. I deserve to be killed brutally, because I'm a horrible person. I wasted my moms time by voluntarily coming here and making her think that she had a chance of having a noble and worthy chance. I wasted District Two's time by making them think that they could have two victors in a row."
I wasted Shane's time, Atlantis thinks to herself. I gave him something to believe in even though I'm nothing. I gave him hope… and for nothing. I'm a mess, not a savior.
Too bad she doesn't have it in her to pity him, not after the hell he's put her through. Atlantis doesn't have it in her to feel bad for anybody who's used her for their own gain.
(She doesn't think of Alithiya as the words leave her mouth. She doesn't think of Talquin, and the way the two of them are likely cuddled together on the couch, hoping and praying she doesn't dig too deep. Atlantis knows that they have faith in her, that they don't want her to succumb to her demons, but she also… doesn't care.
Alithiya infantilized her and turned her into her little charity project. She never loved her; she just felt bad for her. Talquin left with father, 'cause he didn't give a shit about the twin he always swore he'd protect until his dying breath came. Nobody's ever cared about her, so why does it matter if she does something that'll just ensure it?)
"You're better off dead," Atlantis hisses, the weight of her words reverberating around the room. "Only the best get to die though; what a shame for the rest of us. What a shame that we have to deal with you."
"I'm sorry you have to deal with me," Beowulf responds, his voice growing more and more hoarse by the minute. "I'm sorry for anybody who's had the misfortune of dealing with me."
I'm sorry you have to deal with me. I'm sorry you have to be in pain because I'm too much of a coward to say the truth about myself.
There's something somewhat haunting about the way Icarus berates the boy with a smile on his face. It's nearly morbid how he says the most heinous things without even batting an eye.
She wishes she could be the same. She wishes she could be a monster without holding herself back. She wishes she could verbally tear people apart without thinking of herself, and she's almost jealous that Icarus is able to be meaner than her while showing no remorse or regret. Atlantis is supposed to be the best of using words for violence, yet Icarus has her beat. He gets worse and worse with everything he says, and it makes her feel sick. Her envy just makes her more ill.
But no— she can't feel sick. That's reserved for Beowulf, who continues to scream with every word he says. Atlantis can't get nauseous from the consequences of her actions, because she's no fucking hypocrite and she knows she's enjoying this for better or for worse.
Anything is better than having Icarus' words get shoved in her direction instead. He hardly hides the fact he's a monster, and Atlantis is afraid that if she doesn't make a good impression on him here, she'll be his next prey. Maybe she deserves to be torn apart by somebody who doesn't give a fuck about the fact they're a bloody awful person, but that doesn't mean she wants it.
It didn't have to be like this. She could've been nicer to Calsin when they were on the train, and maybe then she'd be with him instead of here, rotting alive in her own words.
Why would Calsin want me? Why would anybody sensible want me? I deserve Icarus. I deserve to be under the devil's thumb as consequence for everything wrong that I've done.
"You're not very fun to mess with," the One boy scoffs. Even though his words are directed towards Beowulf, Atlantis internalizes them towards herself. She's somewhat aware that she's fallen to the role of Icarus' little pawn, but she worries she hasn't even given him the satisfaction he clearly gets from misery. "You said that your mom abused you? Well, I guess she'd agree with me then. I bet she also got sick of listening to you weep and apologize like a pathetic little baby. If I make it out of here, I'd love to take her out to dinner so we can talk about how hard it is to deal with you."
"I deserved it then, and I deserve it now," Beowulf cries. "I'm sorry I can't be more fun for you. I wish I was better. I'm so sorry."
"You better be!" Icarus says, kicking the door. "Just think about how bored the people are getting."
Atlantis sighs, then whispers to her ally, "At what point is this going to end?"
"Why?" He snaps back. "Do you have a problem with this? I thought you were having fun."
"I am," she says, nodding resentfully, "but I have to imagine that this is getting a bit repetitive and boring, both for him and for whoever's watching. At what point do you suggest we… you know… tell him to move…"
"When I say he's ready," Icarus replies. "And that's not now, for the record. I've said a lot to him, you know. Do you have anything you want to add?"
Does he want Beowulf to choke on his own tears to death before he gets the chance to use the guillotine? Atlantis muses to herself. "Yeah sure… I'd love to have a word with him."
I'd love to have a word with myself. I'd love to throw myself in the abysmal black room of suffering, because lord knows I deserve to hear everything I'll say to him about myself. Beowulf doesn't deserve a thing… I deserve this pain.
She punches herself in the thigh, wincing at the pain. If I deserve it, why am I too stubborn to just punish myself instead?
Atlantis Seasbane is a hypocrite. Atlantis Seasbane is a bonafide monster. Maybe once Beowulf is gone, she'll finally have the courage to punish herself instead.
It's only a matter of time before she gets what she deserves.
Yeah… nothing to say besides I'm sorry Nell. I will see y'all soon.