{ the shadows fade at sunset } shadow's death

[semper]

s h a d o w b i s o n

(“Everything’ll be okay, just remember that.”)

No sooner had you freed yourself from the snare did you trigger yet another one, and it was far more terrifying than the previous. A great spiked weapon swung down and struck you before you even realized what it was; not only did it hit once but again and again, sharp wooden spikes drilling into your body, hurting far worse than Ewe’s blade. You were thrown down after the first time, too stunned to make a sound as you tried hoisting yourself back up, only to be knocked down again – and again – and again. A sharp yelp escaped you and the pain was like an unimaginable torrent, crippling your weak little body until your knees buckled and you collapsed.

Overhead, out of the corner of your eye, the spikes were still swinging like a pendulum. They moved slowly this time, occasionally blocking the soft rain from hitting you. Breathing began to feel more like gasping, and soon that became wheezing; pain in your chest flared with each intake that expanded your ribs, and while you wanted to stop breathing your lungs continued to scream for air, trying to find every last particle of oxygen in order to keep your body moving and defending yourself.

But you couldn’t.

Tiny blood-soaked fingers dug into the soggy earth an arm’s length away as if your failing body could still get you to wear you wanted to be. (Cassie? Where was she?) Watery eyes moved their gaze in search of your only friend left, finding her standing and unharmed by the threat that still hung above you. The relief was overwhelming (but not enough to douse the fire pulsing through your veins) and your hand went limp. A very faint and broken whimper sounded from your throat until you felt a pair of hands grab onto you, dragging you across the ground and into a very warm embrace.

You didn’t need to look up to know that it was Cassie who held you so tightly. You recognized her by the tangy coppery scent of blood and soft wool of her sleeves, and the locks of red hair that never dulled a shade. Leaning heavily against her you again eagerly sucked in air in order to stay conscious, finding over time that it was becoming futile.

(So this was what dying felt like.)

Fear was not an emotion that crept into you as the blood poured relentlessly out of wounds. It was a surreal acceptance of fate, instead, that held you while in that dying state. You were going home, were you not? Whether alive or in a pine box, everyone would go home. (Only one would just have all the luck to be breathing and sitting next to their dead district partner.) From the very beginning you had been so eager to return to your father, and now you realized you were so close to seeing him again.

(“The good knight always wins and gets to go home.”)

But who would really win the games? A victor was nothing but a shell of their former self, overflowing with regret and unresolved conflicts. Was that truly a victory? Did they still hold the upper hand against their dead competitors who were resting peacefully? Large houses and wealth were not much of a gain when you were constantly surrounded by ghosts of the past and the children whose deaths you would ultimately become responsible for. It was a life nowhere near as glorified and stable as the Capitol made it out to be.

To be dead would be so much more merciful: no pain, no tears, no loss, nothing but a sweet and peaceful serendipity void of worldly ailments. Everyone was born to die, so why would any tribute want to waste away in the years to come being the sole survivor of a purging that you would send your own children to every year? What kind of a reward was that?

You lifted a hand and ran a finger along one of your wounds, picking up blood. The nearest surface was Cassie’s arm so you set your finger to the fabric on her arm and wrote carefully: I’m not scared anymore. Bye for now, Cassie. Not even all the shadows in the arena – with their long finger-like tendrils that only reached out to grab you – could stir up any fear within you. You were more than ready to end all of the pain and abuse and to enter that fabled paradise for the good knights. But, more than anything, you hoped you had been good enough so that your father would be proud of you.

(“I’ll make your favorite lunch. Buttered toast and cheese. See you in a little bit, Shadow.”)

Despite the pain you weakly smiled for Cassie, trying to let her know that you meant your words. Fear was not present. You closed your eyes and leaned your head onto her shoulder, focusing on the pressure of her against you. The image she had drawn on your back only moments ago flashed once again across your mind, coming to life like you hadn’t envisioned it before.

A battered boy and girl stood side-by-side, one significantly shorter than the other. The bird above their heads slowly began to beat its wings and soar, taking to the open skies; the apple at their feet took on a mixture of red and yellow hues, firm and shiny surface reflecting off unseen sunlight. No house was there to protect the duo but they didn’t seem to mind. (In an ever-changing environment, people tend to make homes out of those closest to them.) And, for you, home had taken the shape of a red-headed girl whose words were the last to cross your mind: ”You and I, little buddy. We’ll take care of each other.”

five days after black and red collide
the motion sickness past, i’ll be the first to stand
behind that weathered door, i thought it would be safest
my head is dizzy now, i thought we’d overcome
we might not make it home tonight