Ah, the night before the Games. It's the moment of calm before the storm, the lull before the madness. Let's take a look at our tributes, and visit a certain younger brother visiting the hospital to see his Mother.
I don't have much to say here other than this: the bloodbath drops this time next week ;)
Thanks to Remus98 and contemporarydancer2 who reviewed!
Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games in any way, shape or form. I only own the arena I have created.
"If one knows not what harbour they seek, any wind is the right wind." ~Lucius Annaeus Seneca
Shion Qing, Seventeen, District Five Male
Ah, finally. Silence.
The quiet of the night envelops me as I breathe in the darkness of the shadows, admiring the sparkling stars from afar. It took me some time to become completely accustomed to the light outside during the day. Most of my life has been spent in an eternal night, so this new brightness has certainly been disorientating for me. Weirdly, the world has been living in two states; the one of darkness and the other of light. Even so, I'm weirdly grateful for it.
A couple of nights I've gotten up when everyone's asleep, just to watch the animated flames crackle on my wall. It's almost as if I've found a place where I truly feel safe; dim lighting, warm blankets, fire roaring away in one corner. To be honest, it's kind of a shame that I have to leave all of this behind. I know I've only been here for a few days, but it's so much better than the sanatorium. It's almost as if I feel strangely at home. Sure, I'm not keen on the questions, but the lamps in my room dim, and the Five floor have had all their lights dimmed at the request of Nate Scourlion, my mentor.
My interview was well…whatever. The silver-coloured man kept asking me questions and I hated every minute of it, to the point where I flat out ignored him. He wasn't really worth my time, to be honest, so he didn't really get a word out of me. My mentor, Nate, has also been trying to get me to speak, but to what end? Speech is a futility; why must we use our words to get what we want, when we can express ourselves otherwise?
Someone at least seems to kind of understand me. My ally…what was her name? Femur? Ferra? Filla! She was kind of annoying at first, but she seems to understand me through pictures, so we're talking that way instead. I see no point in the baseless drawing, but it's nice, I guess. It's nice to be understood in a way that denies a need for empty words and pointless conversation. Drawing's not much better, but I guess it's better than nothing. I'm at home in the silence, so what's the point of making it noisier than it already needs to be just by talking?
Filla's been good to me, and as far as my suspicions go, I have no doubts that she'll stay with me in the arena. She's sweet, perhaps too sweet for all of this, and yet she's here, fighting for my corner, staying by my side even when I never asked for it. I never wanted an ally. I never wanted a friend. Somehow, Filla's become the former…could she ever become the latter? Perhaps, if I cared enough, I could make a real connection. But I don't. All of these alliances and interviews, fake smiles and scorings; it's a popularity contest as much as it is a killing one.
With the window open and the crackle of artificial flame beside me, I can finally feel a sense of contentment in being alone. For the longest time, I felt so fragile. Why couldn't I just go back into my little dark room to live out my days in peace? But no, they had to drag me out, pushing me into blinding light, a brightness that was too strong, too overwhelming. Yes, I love light, and fire has a mysterious attraction to it that lies beyond meagre description. However, there's a difference between an admiration of something and the feeling of drowning in it.
Am I ready for what comes tomorrow?
Nope.
What can anyone expect a teenager to think the night before their possible death? I'm just another plaything to them, another name on a list, another face to be forgotten. Let them think that way. I don't care about what they think or how they perceive me. I don't give a damn about people and what they want me to do. I just want to be back in Five, where I was before. Ugh, if only I could forget this Hunger Games bullshit.
My fingers rub over the rolled-up sleeves of my baggy sweater, tracing the outlines of the wool and the softness that is there. The sweater is gentle on my pale skin, a hug that reminds me that I'm here because I'm here. I'm just another cog in the ever-moving machine, another piece of the puzzle to make it complete.
I wonder, does anyone care about how much a piece might be worth on its own?
Maybe everyone underestimates me. Then again, if I saw me, I'd probably underestimate myself too. But I have uniqueness. My ideas are different, my mind is unusual. I see the possibilities that aren't there, the ones that nobody else can envision. Perhaps it's the mutual eccentricity that binds Filla to me, whether I want her there or not. This undeniable connection is something that I want to reject so badly, but somehow I feel like it's only deepening and I'm not sure how to handle that.
I'm not sure how to handle any of this.
Somehow, I'm going to have to fight, survive, and then get out of this arena to go back home. Even then I don't really know what they'll do with me next. Parade me around like some work of art? Somehow the whole idea of having to be something for people to invest in is immensely uncomfortable. Despite that though, I guess I'd have a house, my own space, and a life without Mom. It's a long shot, but it's a start.
A chance at having a normal life…
It's almost indescribable.
Parker Lidell, Eighteen, District Three Male
Three.
Three, three, three.
I'm surprised I got a score of three, but a part of me doesn't particularly care and I can't really describe why. This aspect of my meandering thoughts currently holds my attention – why don't I care? Should I care? Should I weigh up the possibilities considering why I should care? Is caring even quantifiable? Or can quantifiability be caring? My considerations offer up more and more questions, but I weave around them, my feet moving me backwards and forwards around my room, pacing once again.
It's a constant battle, forever trying to understanding myself.
When I'm in a mind filled with a thousand facts, I can't really pin one down about myself, despite the typical age, sex, gender identity, race, hair colour, eye colour…
Three. I got a three. Get back on track Parker. Where was I? Yes, quantifiable possibilities. Understanding myself. There are so many hidden parts to my own psyche that searching through every archived piece of information would be an insurmountable task. It's like searching through every possible number in every possible code.
One thing I do know about myself is the sinning. The desire to sin, no, the need to sin has been such an ingrained part of me for so long that I feel like I've been playing it safe. Smoking in the alleyway with Dom or refuting my Father's religious expectations no longer tests my boundaries. It no longer drives me to an edge where I feel like I'm truly rebelling. Honestly, not believing God, smoking – are either of those really offences that would concern my Father? Perhaps somewhat, yes, they would concern him, but there are worse things to understand and explore. Delving deeper into the temptation of so many sins is almost like some kind of forbidden addiction, a buzz that sends me delirious with delight. Gluttony was an easy one to tackle, for the food here is amazing and it's here for me to eat. But that's not technically sinning. Not really.
My feet are moving on their own, and before I know it, I've long left my room, taken on a wild adventure with my thoughts in one world and my body in another. The living area is deserted; I'm guessing that Naydene and Leila have gone to bed, leaving me to wander the floor free of interference. I don't know what possesses me to get into the elevator and press the shining number '10', but it's exactly one minute and forty-nine seconds before I find myself walking past the District Ten mentor (who's mumbling to herself, curled up in a ball in the corner) and knocking on the bedroom door of Dathan Corvair.
Lust.
That's why I'm here.
Finally, my whirlwind of confusions and my knowledge of Dathan's bisexuality have led me here. I remember Dathan being very proud of it. Lust is the perfect sin since my Father has lectured me many times of the importance of purity before marriage. At the same time, however, it's wrong of me to make assumptions. Why has my mind considered Dathan to be the perfect person to speak to at this hour, especially about the specifics of exploring one's sexuality? Why am I also assuming that Dathan would even wish to engage in any possible activities that may ensue? Why am I assuming that any of those activities will be occurring? Why am I-
"Parker? Are you okay?"
My eyes dart up to meet Dathan's careful gaze and angular face.
"Yes," I answer. "But also I've been having a cacophony of interesting but intensely confusing thoughts, and debates that are currently ongoing in m-"
"Come in," Dathan sighs, pulling my shoulder and bringing me into his room. It's a lot like mine but adorned in a 'District Ten' theme. Instead of the switchboards and light bulbs in my room that send rays spiralling across the walls in structured lines, Dathan's room gives off more of a natural feeling, filled with gentle greens and calm browns.
"Okay, so explain it to me," Dathan asks me, sitting down on to his bed with a huff.
"Well, the importance of considering oneself is to allow yourself to explore in all situations and to consider all possibilities, including that discovery and investigation into sexuality and the processes involved in it."
My rambling is quick, the words tumbling out of my mouth before I can really control them. My eyes are focused on the ground as the information flies from me, my mind a swirling mess, contradicting thoughts asking a myriad of questions and providing the answers as quickly as I consider them.
"You're questioning your sexuality?" Dathan raises one of his eyebrows, surprised. "Well, how do you feel about guys?"
"What about them?" I question. "Men are similar to women, despite obvious anatomical differences – oh did you know, it takes around seven years for all of your cells to change, meaning that every seven years you're expected to-"
"Parker, are you here to experiment with me?"
Dathan's words are blunt, but they're not forceful or firm; they're gentle. My ally watches me carefully as if trying to read my reaction. For once, I'm actually speechless. My mind has gone blank, devoid of the questions, the facts, the need to speak. I'm just lost for words.
"I…" I mutter, but nothing else comes out. Dathan's simple question has taken me off guard, and Dathan notices this.
"Okay, then how about this?" Dathan decides. "How do you feel about me kissing you?"
"Um," I say dumbly. "Well, I'd like you to! But I have no idea about kissing in general or what kind of an experience I would undergo when engaging in such an activity with another man such as yourse-"
Once again, I'm cut off, but by Dathan's lips rather than his words this time. For a second or two, I don't process much, other than the fact that kissing is rather strange. Nice, but a strange version of nice. I wish I could come up with a more specific, factual description, but my mind is just blank. It's oddly comforting. Dathan pulls back, observing my reaction.
"Please don't tell me that was actually your first kiss?"
It was a pretty good first kiss. Do I classify as 'impure' now? Fuck you, Dad! A small smirk pulls at the edge of my mouth as I regard Dathan, my head oddly clearer.
I don't answer his question, instead presenting him with another one.
"Can we do that again?"
Kile Fawkes, Fourteen, Capitol Citizen
I kiss the back of Mom's hand as she sleeps.
She's drifted off again, but I don't blame her. The drugs that are surging through her veins are more than enough to keep her unconscious.
I hate it.
I don't want to see my Mom like this. She's always been a wonderful Mother, with a smile that could turn thunderstorms into summer days and a broken heart into a healing one. Sure, she's Mom but I still care about her. Despite all of her concerns and her ruthless teasing, I can't help but worry about losing her. How am I supposed to live in a world where my Mom isn't in it? I can't even think about a world where that could be possible, but here I am, sitting in a nightmare that just might end up with the death of her.
I remember when I found her, face down on the carpet in our living room at home, a glass of wine staining the cream a deathly crimson, the same hue dribbling from her lips. I'd never seen her so vulnerable, her hair draped over her face, her body collapsed on to itself. I don't know how the paramedics saved her life, but they told me that if I'd rang a minute later then she probably would have died. I rang Luca next, sobbing on the line, telling him to come home as quickly as he could.
I wince.
The memories are triggering to me, images with sharp edges and piercing shapes taking me back into a place I don't want to revisit. To think that someone at my age would have to deal with something like that; I guess I just never thought that life could be so short. People have always told me I've got many years to go before I have to worry about getting old, but what if I never get there? What if, like Mom, I'm put in danger by powers beyond my control?
I try to think of something else, something happy.
A close friend of mine, Kent, has always made me smile. Deep red hair and dimples are anyone's weakness, but for adults, none of their 'natural' attributes are real. Kent still is. I'm sure his smile makes anyone's heart skip a beat just like mine does. He said he wants to dye his hair purple when he gets older, but I prefer it like it is now. Mom and Luca have never been the most extravagant; at least not until Luca went for his job as a Head Gamemaker. His blond hair and green eyes were swapped for golden dye and coloured contacts. I wanted to dye my hair the same colour, but Mom wouldn't let me.
There's nothing wrong with Capitol fashion, I just haven't really tried out a lot of it. Growing up in a less well-off part of the Capitol, I'm used to a life where we manage on what we have, not where we spend it on everything we see. I mean, I've always wanted money to spend, but I guess I'm just used to not really using it? That's changed now though. Luca's big salary covers our spending, and we've even moved into a new house since he got his new job! Maybe I'll bring Kent over.
With more money, we get to try new things.
Just a few months ago I got to go to a cool part in the Capitol, where everyone was trying a hundred dishes at once. I didn't know where they got their appetite from until one of the waiters explained Zint to me.
When you're full, a shot of Zint will empty your stomach so you can eat some more!
Curiously, I'd tried the drink and almost immediately ran to the bathroom to vomit. It didn't taste of anything disgusting, but as soon as I'd drank it, there was a lurch in my stomach, and I knew I'd have to run for it, otherwise, I'd make an unnecessary scene. I didn't realise that 'empty your stomach' was as horrible as I expected it to be, but in all fairness, I did get third helpings of the grape cheesecake, so I guess it was worth it? Kinda?
It didn't feel right, and now that I think about it, it still doesn't. It's nice to carry on eating, even after a shot of Zint, but I think there's a limit to what you can eat and you shouldn't get rid of it just to eat even more.
Mom stirs next to me and she squeezes my hand. I gaze at her worriedly with wide green eyes, watching her brow furrow as the faint wrinkles across her skin crease into lines of worry. What could she be dreaming about? It can't be anything good. She's been so worried about me and Luca that she hasn't stopped to think about herself. It's been a year since she was admitted on to this ward, and she's still worried more about us than how she's getting on.
"I wish I could stop you from worrying," I whisper to her. "I wish I could make you better so we can go home."
It's a stupid wish, to be honest, but what else can I wish for? She's been in here so long and I just don't know what to do anymore. Tears prick the corners of my eyes and I lean my head on the side of Mom's bed, trying to keep my breathing steady. I don't want to wake her up by crying because it'll only make her worry more.
"There's so much I want to tell you," I murmur. "So much I'm thinking about."
It's true. There is a lot that's going on in my head, but where do I start with her? Her illness? Luca? Kent? The Hunger Games? My own worries? School? Where is the Mom that I could sit down and talk to? Where is the Mom who tries to annoy me even when she doesn't mean it? Where's the Mom who'll listen to me talk about how I feel?
Can I not be vulnerable anymore?
As the beeping of Mom's machines drone on, I let a few tears fall before trying to compose myself.
Clearly, this isn't the right time to spill my secrets.
Hmm, so that's the night before the Games done and the Bloodbath is just around the corner. Who would've thought it? You guys of course! I know you're ready for it :D
Shion's finally at home in the shadows…until the dawn of the new day. How far do you think he'll go?
Parker's and his runaway mouth. At least he's exploring, huh? What do you think his reaction will be if he starts killing?
Poor Kile and his sick Mom. Honestly, can't the poor kid catch a break? What did you think of this little scene? Do you like what we've learnt about him?
So, are you ready? Hang on, not far to go now.
Over and out!
~Mental