everything is not about me (but what if it is!) [benson]

[clover ❁]

o c t o b e r     r h a p s o d y     f r a y 

o c t o b e r     r h a p s o d y     f r a y 

 the crown is stained but you're the real queen
flesh and blood amongst war machines 

. . . 

as i walk, i talk to the camera. 

my tone is cheery. this is because i am an actress, and i am good at what i do. inside, everything is sludge. i have braided my hair, though - it is neat, and out of my eyes, and i know that it suits me. it makes me feel just a tiny bit more human.

when they see the footage - what will they think? will they like me? will they realise that i am not here to hurt anybody, that i am not violent or vengeful, that really, i am just here to perform? i do not know if i have put on a good enough show. i do not know if i have delivered my lines with enough passion, if i have seemed strong and kind and brave and fair. that is because i do not know if i am any of these things, and it is hard to act when everything around you is dirty and disgusting and you want more than almost anything to go home. 

not more than anything, though. not more than you want to stand on that stage, and wear that crown, and for the crowd to cheer. not more than you want to kiss babies on their fat little cheeks, or have teen girls squeal and beg to take a photo with you. i tell myself the grime is simply an investment, the blood on my hands just a price to pay. i did say i would be willing to pay any price, so here i am. 

"i think that some people have been badly hurt," i say to the audience, wading through the waste water. "i heard screaming, coming from this way." i hold my knife out, just in case, because i although i am not mean, i am not stupid, either.

in reality, i heard screaming coming from every single direction. if i squint, i think that all of the water runs tinted with blood. some of it is my own, but not much. i don't mind a flesh wound. a cool, jagged scar, perhaps. not anywhere too obvious - not on my face! - but on an arm or a leg, perhaps, to show how tough i am, how i have triumphed. when they make dolls for children based on my image, they can include the scar, an easter-egg hidden beneath the frills of my dress. i hope desperately that i am somebody's favourite character. 

i think i am alone, until i step on a body. at first, i think it is a dead body, and i panic, squeal, step backward. when i realise the body is alive - it is a boy, i do not know his name - i am even more afraid. 

"i'm so sorry!" i say, "i didn't mean to step on you." this is true. i would much rather stay away from the other tributes until this is all over with. 

i extend a hand to help him up. "i'm october. are you okay?" 

there is not much light, but i am struck by the impression that he is very handsome. not as pretty as me, but with big blue eyes and teeth that shine white even in the darkness. he better keep his mouth shut if he doesn't want anybody to see him. and he should probably stop lying in the water, if he doesn't want anyone to step on him.

you're the new god we're worshipping
promise to be dazzling 

[Benson Sharpe D3M [Tom]]

The cannon had been loud; echoing along the walls and his teeth.

A body falling as he can see death in another boy's eyes. The pain, the mysterious vision of death, he had seen those emotions briefly for a moment before the guy slumped. Dead. Another boy killed by the hands of another. Kaisa. She'd done it. The voices of the others had bounced off the walls. In the loud shrill of the cannon, he'd ran. Stumbled through the darkened tunnels and away. Away from the knowledge he'd left his humanity behind. Away from the fear of death; he'd left himself there bleeding and scared. All he can feel is the tension, the pain, and the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

A monster by all means. Blood coats the blade at his side. Benson Sharpe, the man who attempted to kill a little girl. No matter how much she had smiled; the venom she spilled, her words had struck true. An arrow to the chest as he falls over and over with blood dropping from his shoulder and cheek. The sting of metal no longer there, but the wooziness of his head is enough to make him cling to the walls for a bit. Sleep. Ben wanted to just crash for the night and forget about all of this, but he can't. There'd been too many times he's seen people have concussions and known that sleep was the enemy.

A hero no more, he rests on the ground; water gently still near his body, but he can't care about the feeling. Easy enough to let his vision start to adjust with the pounding of his headache. Always wanting to have been a hero in the films his father had done, there's a bitterness to his thoughts. A hero no more, but a monster born of bloodshed. Survival meant becoming someone he never would have wanted to be. The war had long since passed and he could only remember the vaguest of details about it. The war was over, but films never ended. Would they portray him as the villain? A boy too scared to fight for the Capitol.

The screams were the worst part. The sounds of screams across the place where cannons echoed along walls to show he'd not been the only one spilling blood. The voice is what he hears first. The gentle sound of someone talking to the air; as if he could comprehend that others were still exploring these tunnels. The stench still having gotten stuck to his skin, it would never leave him even if he escaped. The moment passes as he stays low, his head still spinning with the collision of earth to flesh.

Weight on his side is what makes him jump in pain; there's a burst of white hot pain as he groans. The girl, who he can now vaguely make out after she'd stepped on him, panics with a squeal as he's rolling over, almost getting onto his back. Knife almost held up defensively, but he stops. Was he really about to strike another girl again? "I'm so sorry!" Hesitation in his veins, his eyes swirling as he watches her. "I didn't mean to step on you." Curiosity fills his face as he almost breaks the hesitation with a smile.

Pretty. His mind supplies despite the initial worries. A bad moment by far as he grimaces in pain, but he watches her reach out a hand to him. A ploy? A trick? "I'm october. Are you okay?" October. An interesting name for sure. Instead, he decides to take his chances, curling the knife back into the length of his arm, holding out his other hand. Accepting the help up, he waits for a brief moment. Eyes scanning across her body, there's blood, but not enough to be too concerning. While he's got blood stains across his cheek and shoulder, he's not as bad as he looks.

"'ts okay." The words taste sore; almost a metallic twang to them. "Was just resting. Hit my head on the way down, didn't want to attract attention." The words almost drip out as if he can't help to explain his situation. There's a pause as he looks down the way she came and back the way he'd just come from. The girl is pretty. Bright eyes, long hair that seems to just shine the right amount in the darkness and a compassionate heart to have reached out to help him. Benson could hear his mother now. The question she'd ask about October if they'd been from the same district. A small blush seems to dust his cheeks, but he's pretending it's not there.

"Benson. Benson Sharpe. Just call me Ben though. Everyone else pretty much does." No matter how much he says it, the truth was that he preferred Ben, but he's not going to outright tell someone to call him by a nickname. His father had been proud of his name, so he wasn't going to stop anyone from saying otherwise. "I'm..." Words seeming to be lost as he looks around once more. "...managing. What about you?" It's a little pathetic, but his head still hurts and really, he didn't know if she was going to strike like the other girl he'd just fought.

[clover ❁]

o c t o b e r     r h a p s o d y     f r a y 

o c t o b e r     r h a p s o d y     f r a y 

 the crown is stained but you're the real queen
flesh and blood amongst war machines 

. . . 

the body unfurls. he is bloodied, i realise. i tense up a little. perhaps he is aggressive. maybe i shouldn't have offered to help him up.

he doesn't, though. just looks at me warily, although he is nearly twice my size, like he thinks i might bite. 

"'ts okay," he said, and the gruffness of his voice surprises me. he sounds like he is having a pretty bad day. honestly, i could say the same thing. "was just resting." he explains away the lying-in-the-sewage thing as though it is nothing. "hit my head on the way down, didn't want to attract attention." 

he looked as though he had attracted attention, though. there was a great big streak of blood right across his cheek. i get the strange urge to clean it off for him, but not even an inch of the fabric on my body is clean. i'd probably just smear diptheria into the wound, or something. 

he accepts my hand and gets properly to his feet. 

"benson. benson sharpe. just call me ben, though. everyone pretty much does." i like the insinuation that he will be alive long enough to bother with diminutives. i smile at him. a little positivity is nice, after the morning i've had. even if it is a little stupid. 

"i'm... managing. what about you?" 

managing was a good word for what was happening. i shrug.

"when i volunteered for this, i didn't realise there were going to be so much..." i find myself without the words to describe the poor sanitation. "...shit." 

suddenly a thought occurs to me. 

"wait... you didn't... kill anyone, did you?" i take a small step backward, just in case. 

you're the new god we're worshipping
promise to be dazzling