There was a certain thrill that came with being the reason why a person was dying, leaving the earth in a curtain of pain and despair. It didn't matter which choice of a weapon, he found all of them quite satisfying.

Using his fists and physical physique was the most intimate, but also the most risky. While he didn't doubt his skills, there was always the chance that they could escape. Though, it was usually worth the risk because he took pleasure in watching blood pour from their wounds, as hope seeped away along with their strength, and their eyes slowly glazed over as their last breaths were taken.

Any sort of long ranged weapon like the throwing spear or bow and arrow was never his first choice, but they were usually quite efficient at a quick silent kill. They were usually what he used when he was attacking at night, trying to surprise, but not alert, other competitors. He liked the way the weapon felt when it left his confinement and flew into the sky, peaceful at first, but then coming down in a blinding flash upon its unsuspecting target and impaling them.

His favorite weapon of all was the sword. The way the hilt was pressed into his palm, how the weight of the blade always felt balanced in his hand and the way he could cleanly glide the edge of the sword into another person so effortlessly or create large gaping wounds with just one flick of the wrist. It was romantic in a way, the sword gleaming in the sunlight in a standstill moment, before coming down to vanquish the bad guys, the ones who stood in the way of escape and freedom. That's what he told himself, anyways.

What he liked the most, perhaps, was the adrenaline rush that came when he didn't hit his target. When they were able to strike back and he was able to watch as they fought back, they lost, and they died. There was glory in striking down an opponent that matched his strength, and showed him what a true battle was. It was a chance to show the world that he was great. He was a great man.

He was supposed to be a great man.

It was so fast, and for a moment he couldn't even believe it happened. His hands were soaked in blood, and he couldn't tell if it was his or someone else's. He didn't even have time to register that Chaff was dead at his feet before he felt the cold tip of a blade pierce his chest. It was a strange sensation. For years he imagined that it would be something like a hot rod being shoved through your chest, and extreme pain would be all you knew before you died. This was different. There was a sharp pain, and then nothing. The heaviness of the blade made him look up to see the foolish blonde boy from District 12. In the young boy's eyes was complete and utter rage. He recognized it because that was what drove him all those years, but it looked foreign and wrong on the person in front of him.

The world suddenly began to turn and shift as his knees buckled from underneath him and he landed on the ground. And all he could think about until he died was what he should have been.

It's been about 3 months... I am so sorry. My life has just been completely dictated by track, sickness, and school work. I will be out in about a week though, so huzzah! Anyways, I decided to post this because I feel that Brutus didn't exactly have people he would have kept close. He's not really a person who would get cozy with anybody... So, I just decided to write his death. How nice am I?

Anyways, please review! I would love to hear what you guys have to say(:

xoxo