Boats and Birds}* [Welodie]

[arx]

Look at me. You may think you see
who I really am , but you'll never know me.
Every day it's as if I play a part.
Now I see if I wear a mask I can fool the world,
But I cannot fool my heart.

I'm laughing. I'm poisoned, probably going to die within the next day, and I am laughing. I'm not sure if it's the stuff pumping through my veins and clouding my mind or if it is actual joy that I am feeling. Maybe it was just force - a sound I expelled from my lungs in the hopes that it would make me feel better about dying. Or not being able to paint. Funny how dying and not painting are equivalent in my mind. I suppose it's okay if I die then, right? I wish night would come, I wish the day would end, wish that I would disintegrate into nothing more than stardust and float away on the breeze, up into the sky where I would shine and paint pictures for all eternity. But I have this feeling that if I died now, that if I just gave up now without even putting up a fight, that the universe wouldn't let me turn into stardust. It would keep me grounded to this Earth - this place where hopes die and dreams never come true - and I would turn to dirt instead and forever be tethered to the ground. Forever be stepped on. (Is it possible that I am already dirt?) The ground beneath my feet is mud, still a bit damp and mushy from yesterday's rains. The tall grass surrounding the stone tomb swallows me whole, like the ocean swallows sailboats. I float on the surface like the boat floats on water, my hair waves in the breeze like a sail, my feet act as a helm, the blood spattered across my shirt like the name of the boat etched on the side. I guess I'm not a bird anymore but a boat. I don't soar, I drift. I don't flap my wings, I sway in the wind. I don't decide where to fly, I let the ocean carry me as it wishes. I drop my spear in the grass - the sea - hoping (again with the stupid hope) that I won't be able to find it later. But I will. Because life is never the way I want it to be.

My feet keep pushing, forward the breeze pushing me along, farther and farther from shore. I remember the nights I used to dream of disappearing. Not from existence or from anyone's mind, but just from view for a little while. Become invisible to those that look at me like a fish out of water or a flightless bird. And then shine as bright as a star for those who looked at me with indifference - like I was just some girl from some family from some house with some name in District 5. That's why I snuck out every night. To disappear for a while. And now I'm on television, my every move being watched and monitored, in a place where 14 other people live and die with me, where eyes are on me at every point in time, and I feel more alone than ever. More invisible than ever before. And I hate it. It's all I have ever wanted since I was adopted and now that I finally have it, I regret ever asking for it in the first place. And then I am running, my heart pounding, my shoulder burning, my veins threatening to burst, my head throbbing, my lungs and legs and feet screaming at me, as I try to catch up with the people I have tried to run away from for so long. Where are they now? Sitting in their rooms? Walking in the streets? Sitting in front of the TV? Do they see me now? Do they?! Are they watching me run, fly, sail, trying to catch up with them? Can they hear my thoughts screaming, "I'm sorry!!" at them? Can they feel this little boats outer core cracking, see the water seeping in through the cracks? It's slow at first, a sort of dripping, a crack that almost no one can see. I try to stop the leak, try to cover it again as I have for so long, but then my knees are buckling beneath me as I stumble and fall to a stop. It hurts as the emotions rush to me, as every memory floods my brain and every one I've pushed away runs through my mind. And I sink as every sturdy board that kept me afloat for so long creaks and bends and bows as the pressure of the emotions and memories and people continues to fill me up.

And then I'm drowning as I sink into the grass and tears fall from my eyes.

I gaze up at the darkening sky, letting silent sobs rack my body uncontrollably. The grass makes a rustling noise as the breeze flows over it and I can hear the hum of insects as night begins to fall. I wonder if there will be any fireflies. I can remember trying to trap them in jars and use them as lanterns when I was younger. But I always forgot to poke holes in the jar for air and the little bugs would all be dead by morning. And I would bury them back behind the orphanage. And cry. Because they didn't deserve to die. And because I believed that they were the stars babies and that I had murdered them. I thought that I had killed the light. All I ask is for one now. To hold as I die, right here in this endless field of grass. (Hard to believe that I'm actually in a hell right now.) I just want one tiny spec of light to cradle in my hands and shine in my eyes as darkness takes over my body and I drift into an endless sleep. That isn't too much to ask is it? Just one little firefly? I wipe my eyes with my wrist in a useless attempt to wipe the fear and pain and tears from my eyes and reach for my paintbrush where it still remains tucked away in my bright blue sling. I run my thumb across the bristles of the brush, sighing as the action makes me feel at home again. And then I swallow, trying to get get my heart out of my throat and back into my chest as I force the words out through a shudder. "Lethe, if you can hear me ... Or, maybe, if you somehow you can find in your heart to care about a stupid, worthless girl like me ... Just send me some paint instead of that anitvenom, okay? ... Please?" I had meant for the words to be loud, yelling, but instead they are no more than whispers. But I know she heard them. She must have. Unless she isn't watching anymore ...

The idea of not feeling paint crusting on my hands and face and arms before I die distresses me again, and fresh tears fill my eyes. And then I'm calling for him. I don't know why. Because dying alone sounds horrible. Because the smell of just his shirt is comforting. Because the idea of his hand in my hair or on my hip or intertwined with my hand or wrapped around my body sounds so nice. Because listening to his heartbeat and his breathing makes me feel alive. Because sex with him is so much better than the usual? Because for the first time in my life I'm not wearing a mask or armor. Because for the first time ever I feel like I can say anything and no one will judge me. For the first time since I was three I can be me. And even though it hurts to pull in the air to yell I do it anyway. Because the idea of being alone right now - without him - is much more painful than the burn in my shoulder.

"Will! Oh, boy wonder, William Woodham! I ne-" I swallow again, the words feeling odd on my tongue. "I need you! I promise I won't throw any nail polish at you ..." And I manage to laugh through the tears, even though it's more painful than yelling. Because I think this moment deserves some laughter. Why can't dying be filled with a little bit of life?

I am now in a world where I have
to hide my heart and what I believe in,
But somehow I will show the world
what's inside my heart
And be loved for who I am.

[Spesh]

Main~83af9b
Speaking~c8c8a9
Emphasis~f9cdad
Other~fc9d9a
Others Speech~fe4365

I’m gonna pop some tags
Only got twenty dollars in my pocket
I’m, I’m, I’m huntin’, lookin’ for a come up
This is f***ing awesome

It isn't quite fitting for the King and Queen to not have water, it isn't normal for us to be dying of thirst. Poison? Well, that's normal for a king, people are always trying to kill the king, but not thirst. Thirst is never something anyone, let alone a king, should go through. And then there is hunger, which isn't nearly as bad as the dry spot in my throat. Seeing as it's been nearly two days since I've had a drink of water, I'm really fucking thirsty. I would call on one of servants, Benat or Essence, for water, but I don't exactly know where they are right now. Maybe they're dead. I mean, they'll have to be in order for me to get home, so it would be for the better.

But they're not dead, and I'm the one dying right now. I need something to save me, and for all I know the antivenom Benat had he gave it to Essence. I honestly have no idea what he sees in her, nor do I have any idea what I actually see in Elodie. Just a tortured child who always got the short stick; like me, except not. I was always the rich child, until I went and decided I wanted to be poor. Until I decided that I wanted to throw away every great thing I had onto the street. I don't think I'm going to follow that pattern with Elodie.

But really, what more are we than just pieces, being maneuvered by gamemakers in whichever what way they want. We fight who they want us to fight, we do basically whatever they want us to do. We have almost no control over our lives. The one thing that we do control is how we do in fights, if we have the will to live. I know for a fact that I do, and I hope that Elodie does as well. It shouldn't be this way, either. Everything is backwards. The king and queen sitting outside of a tomb, one that is soon to be our resting place. I don't know where the queen is, but I know that she is somewhere around me, somewhere around this house of death. Somewhere where they, the gamemakers, are watching. Where all of Panem is watching.

Watching and waiting. Waiting for something. What they are waiting for is beyond me, but they are waiting for something to happen.

Is it me that they're waiting for? Are they waiting for me to go crazy, to attack? Are the waiting for me to kill my queen? I wont give them that pleasure. The muttations should have been enough bloodshed for them, or the eight deaths yesterday. Isn't that all enough? Aren't these bloodthirsty assholes entertained? They place us in an arena and expect us to bend to their every whim? And we follow. But why? Why must we follow?

Because it's the only wait to escape this hell with our lives.

Who am I to think about winning? It's the second day of the games, I'm dying of thirst, and I might not even make it till tomorrow because of the poison in my veins. I look up to the sky, hoping and praying for a silver parachute with a vial of anything in it. I don't really care if it's antivenom or not, but something to ease my passing. Something to give me joy, one last glimpse of joy in my life before I pass. That's all I really want, one last chance to enjoy my life before I die of this grasping poison.

And then it happens. Like a shooting star from the night, except not very bright and not quite shooting. A parachute lands right in front of me, with the simple word 'antivenom' on the a slip. Oh, how wonderful my life is right now. I should run to Elodie and tell her about the good fortune. Except I can't, because this is the only antivenom I see. She doesn't have one right now, for all I know, and this one belongs to me. My sponsors have come through, they want to see the king live. But I want to see Elodie live, I do with all my heart.

But do I want her to survive more than I want me to survive? Even though I see her lying there, clearly in a worse shape than I, I can't bring myself to giving her this antivenom. Even though I am sure I want her to win more than I want myself to win, I can't bring myself to giving her the antivenom. Somewhere deep down I know that I have a better chance of winning the games than my queen does. Although it pains me to do so, I plunge the antivenom needle into my arm and push down, letting its life saving contents into my bloodstream.

So I live to fight another day. That's all I can ask for. I almost instantly feel bad that I didn't at least consider giving Elodie the antivenom, but my queen will do fine. The king's life is more important than the queens, it's like that in chess. The queen is meant to be my protection, not the other way around. Elodie will be fine, she will. Someone will sponsor her when they see my tears that have yet to flow. Shouldn't I be crying now? Shouldn't I be thanking someone for saving my life? Yet not a a thing comes to mind. I stare at the empty parachute, full of thanks that it fell but not sure what else I am feeling.

Is it emptiness. Am I sad that I am going to live? No, I can't be. I've always been too self-centered. Wasn't that changing though? As my death has been approaching I've tried to make up for my sins, even though I hardly believe in that bullshit. I've tried to do well by others, especially by Elodie. ]Has that really been trying? I thought it came naturally. I thought I do care. Do I care? Yes. Yes I do. I can't tell myself otherwise, it's just not true.

And then I hear Elodie calling me over. No matter how much I want to run away and hide for my folly with the antivenom, I know I have to go over to her. I collect my things and place them in my satchel. Everything but the knife goes in; the knife which I need in my hand to feel safe. How things have changed. I need a knife to feel safe now. Even when I was doing drugs I felt no imminent sense of danger. For all I know, there could be more lizards waiting to prey on us. If that's the case, then I'm done, and I might as well go down fighting than by poison.

I see Elodie, laying in the grass, eyes facing the sky, clearly in pain. The last two days have been less kind to her than everyone else. She lost the use of her left arm, for all intensive purposes. That fucking River girl has no idea what's coming for her the next time I see her. But my thoughts come back to the moment, and I make by way around Elodie so I can sit down to her on her right. "I'm right here, Elodie," I say, putting my right hand on her cheek after I sit down, "And I'm not worried."

I’m gonna pop some tags
Only got twenty dollars in my pocket
I’m, I’m, I’m huntin’, lookin’ for a come up
This is f***ing awesome

^^thanks for the awesome header Onyx
[William Wooham uses one antivenom on himself!
He also uses 10 feet of bandages on himself for -2 damage.]

[/color][/justify][/size]

[arx]

Look at me. You may think you see
who I really am , but you'll never know me.
Every day it's as if I play a part.
Now I see if I wear a mask I can fool the world,
But I cannot fool my heart.

I stare into the sky, the stars beginning to twinkle at one edge, the sun washing the other half of the sky with shades of purple, orange, and red. I always loved painting the sunset. It required so many color, and enough skill to be able to blend them together accurately. Instead of paying attention to my math teacher at school, I would always bring my sketchbook instead and draw the sun setting over the horizon. My ability to draw was a bit less than my painting skills, but I did it anyway. It's not like anyone was ever going to see my drawings anyway. Besides my math teacher who always took my sketchbook away. But I would only go home and paint what I remembered on the wall somewhere, like a mural in the street, but hidden from everyone's eyes but mine. Not because I thought that it could use improvement or because it wasn't any good - as it was truly brilliant if I do say so myself - but because I didn't want to share it. I wanted it to be mine and mine alone. I know that everyone calls that greed, not sharing beautiful things with others, but I couldn't care less. I'm a greedy person. I take as many men as I want, not caring who they belong to. I eat the food around my house and don't worry about if the rest of my family eats or not. I hide the money I earn every night in a mason jar under my bed, using it to buy paint and make-up and clothes and paper and cocktails for myself. And I keep my paintings in my room, not wanting anyone else to enjoy looking at them but me. But I am fairly certain that doesn't make me a bad person despite what everyone says. It just means I worry about myself before anyone else. Because caring, at least truly caring about someone else, only gets you hurt. I learned the hard way.

And so I hide. Everything. Ever since I realized that my mom wasn't coming back for me, I hid myself away. It was just easier. I hid my paintings, I hid my smile (at least my real one), I hid my hope from everyone. I hid behind a shell that I built around my heart and used easy men who didn't want anything more than sex to reinforce that shell - make it harder, less penetrable. And I guess that is when I started to close off from my adopted siblings. I can remember a time we all played together in the backyard, running around in that way that little boys and girls do, making up a game without even really talking about the way it is played. It's funny how everything changes so fast. So suddenly. We grew apart. All of us did really. It's a wonder we even functioned as a family as we got older. So many different personalities with so many different beliefs and ideas. But no matter what, even as I closed myself off from them all, we were always together. Sure I was thrown into the little group - my dark skin, green eyes, dark hair, and freckles highly contrasting to the rest - but I was entangled. Entangled in a sort of choke hold by each of them. I used to gasp to struggle to break free, the strings they held around my neck only growing tighter and tighter as I tried to get away from them, but now I regret ever wanting to breathe a full breath of air. Now all I want is to be strangled again. To be dragged along behind them all as they flew through the sky. And now that the wall has crumbled away into nothing more than a pile of rubble, I can admit it. I miss being strangled, I miss being different, I miss them. I love them. My odd little family of birds.

Love. It has been gone for so long I'm not even sure if that is the emotion I am actually feeling.

So when I feel William's hand pressed against my face I cannot be certain what I am feeling, but I let him hold my face in his hand anyway. He's sitting next to me, his upper body still bare, his dark eyes glowing (for lack of a better term) in the dim light that the sun casts across the grass. I force myself into a sitting position, clenching my jaw when my collar bone protests for the billionth time today. I pull his hand away from my cheek, holding it in front of me, forcing his palm open, tracing my fingers across the creases in his palm. Delicate. Soft. Strong. Good sex hands. Yes, that is a thing. I smile and put his back in his lap. "You have painter's hands." I say matter of factly, as if it odd to just bring up painting. My mouth is dry and my palms are sweating even in the coolness of the night. I think it's death kicking in. the need for water and the poison coursing through me beginning to set in. I feel light headed, like I'm floating away on a cloud or something. I pull my paintbrush from it's hiding place in my sling and brush the tip across his face, giggling, my head still swimming. It's official. I am definitely high dying. I press my forehead against his shoulder, a smile still breaking out across my face. Our skin sticks together, my sweaty forehead against his cool skin. I laugh a little and shake my head. Because, even with the walls turned to a pile of dust, I'm not sure what I can give him. "What exactly is it that you want from me? Why aren't you treating me like a whore? That is what I am you know. Why do you want more than that?" I move to sit on his lap, moving the paint brush across his chest and shoulders. It hurts, the way my right hand doesn't move the way I want it to. I frown.

I only want to paint. It's all I really want.

And then I see the parachute, falling towards me. And as badly as I want it to open and for paint to be inside, I can already tell it won't be. It's antivenom. And despite my delirium, I know I'm going to use it.

"Thanks." I murmur at the sky as I watch the package fall to the ground. "Thank you."

[Elodie uses her sponsored antivenom on herself.]

I am now in a world where I have
to hide my heart and what I believe in,
But somehow I will show the world
what's inside my heart
And be loved for who I am.