the girl who cried wolf. Sonja x Charlotte.

[k!ah]

[presto][/presto]

S O N J A A R C O P E L L O

{ the voices inside my head ;

The training centre was so much bigger than you could ever imagined it to be. Walls that climbed to heights that you couldn't even begin to understand. Hesitantly you wander through its depths, your eyes trying to take in everything at once. There were so many things in this one building that you begin to wander just how much you had been missing out on begin trapped in that hospital constantly rugged up on drugs that were trying to rid you of your insanity. But you weren't insane. The doctors had it wrong. You were fine. Absolutely fine.

Your feet- which were now incased with shoes- carry you over to a station which was glamorised with rows upon rows of knife. But each and everyone of the sliver death eaters were different, not even one looked the same. A frown slips onto your forehead as you take in the sharp objets. You hadn't been near a knife for such a long time, the hospital always finding a reason for you to stay away from them. Reaching out you take hold of the one closest to you. You bring it up so that you could look into it, the reflections showing green eyes staring back at you. Your frown melts and a smile grows.

Brining the knife down away from your eye you grab hold of the handle, your long fingers curling around the hilt of the blade. The feeling felt so odd, so unfamiliar. You shrug. You stand still for a while, your feet less than a meter apart, your arms braced, your muscles taunt. You know what you wanted to do, you wanted to throw the knife and you wanted it to land right in the center of the face- thats all you had to do right? Think. Throw. Watch as you hit perfection. With a satisfied grunt you turn your body so that you are facing the dummies, your eyes narrow and you take a deep breath in- you must have been thinking too much because without you even noticing the blade has loosened in your grasp and now is falling from your hand. You move to catch it, your fingers closing around the razor sharp blade. Instantly a flower of red begins to blossom on the palm of your hand, you cringe slightly in pain. “ouch ouch ouch ouch,” you mummer to yourself, almost in a chant.

[presto][/presto]

[Deleted]

charlotte {♔} brownings District one wasn't as much of a downgrade from the capitol as she originally thought; sure the beds were more comfortable than the dingy ass couch calling her name back home not home, not any more at least and the glass reflecting her childish excitement was impeccable in comparison, but at least the fashion was bearable. Everybody, save for the other galling tributes and mentors where ever they were, wasted in clothes that could embarrass a damned clown, drenching their hair in gels, heat and dyes. Even people watching from the windows of the training centre felt like hot iron against her skin and pissed her off a little more each minute; purposely dressing like a six year old's dress-up doll made no sense no matter what way she looked at the situation. Just why. Eventually, after seeing a over-sized man chameleoning into the attire of a fucking grapefruit, she drug herself into the actual training section itself and away from the far wall. Fashion never interested Charlotte in the slightest, (the ones making a huge deal of it never fit her style anyways) but making flaunting how much of an imbecile you were were fleas against her nerves. Of course, just by wandering the booths searching for one of interest left the lining of her stomach desolate, poor simpletons fondling with swords longing than their combined intelligence and lower districts flagging their frustration at memorizing plants upon plants tugging at her throat. Despite her short time actually serving time as a career, she could still actually use a weapon, fuck, she could have before training for three years. Weak grunts cloak the air in nothing less than pathetic desperation, small knives clanging against the floor from poor aim or pure stupidity, judgements filtered through her mind even with her own lacking of aim. Insolent kids nitpicking weapons like play-things, as if they actually know what the fuck they're doing, confidence over shadowed with fear or a lust of reassurance they won't be killed first. Sad. Because it was, the mere sight of a lower district pouring their soul into a glaive when their weapon of choice should be their feet, running away; hell, stepping off their platform early felt like a better choice than clinging to life with harrowing desperation. Out of the handful of stations available, the combat ones were clustered with the parasites of ignorance, lining up like toying around with a sharp object would get them somewhere worth their time in the arena. Yet, they were more a show than hanging around the survivalist stands where some shithead managed to weave her hair into one of the twig baskets, but the mere sight of bootless work her soul twitch in agony. Some were standing around by the dummies, trying their hand and share of misses and hits, while others were too busy sobbing eternally seemingly. One girl sat smirking, smooth of a knife sliding from her palm while staring cross-eyed into where ever the hell she was imagining; most likely bloodbath fodder, whatever. Like ghost spite, the point in her hand inched towards its perpendicular second by second, until being grasped again by sickly fingers; metal pricks running across and into skin. A dithered reaction of either shock or pain morphed onto the potato sack she called a face, the ichor beginning to advance past the wound, coating the simpleton's palm like sink water, hisses and ouches springing from the girl's mouth on repeat. Reluctance to assist ate at Charlotte, the proclamation of just walking the feet-lengths over there seemed near too much of a hassle, nevertheless having to stitch her hand back together and actually speaking to the girl. Even so, her feet dragged themselves into the ground towards, hoping that somebody would step forwards first to help the one dumb ass tribute that managed to be injured before even entering the arena, yet Charlotte, between her narrow, furred eyebrows, was the only one paying attention for once. Doused with disinclination, her fingers coiled around the incised hand, patting the red hues into the strands of her white shirt, looking more and more like a murderer rather a helping hand. "Are you a fucking idiot," the words painting into both their sets of hands, lingering as a statement, not a question.

[k!ah]

[presto][/presto]

S O N J A A R C O P E L L O

{ the voices inside my head ;

The blade his the ground with a clutter but you barely pay attention to it. It was not the blade that you cared about at this moment but your sliced up skin. It didn't hurt, not really, not after everything you had been through. But it was uncomfortable. The way the cold air bit at the raw flesh made your check twitch, or the way the stream of red oozed from it made your stomach turn in a way that only the site of your own blood could do. But you don't freak out, you keep a steady mine your lips still uttering the chant of ouch’s, not that they meant anything, they just slipped past your lips without any conscious notice. But despite all this there was something fascinating about the way your blood dripped down your arm, about the way it almost glowed against your pale skin. You wanted to touch it, to smear it into your skin, but you don't, you hold back, your stomach still churning in endless circles.

Suddenly your hand was being clasped by another and you look up in surprise. It was a girl, if you were correct the district 1 girl, or maybe 2 you weren’t very confident. She took your hand in hers and with her white shit she wiped away the blood in an attempt to stop the flow. Crimson liquid began to dye her shirt and you could feel an apology perched on the edge of your tongue.

"Are you a fucking idiot,” the words are as sharp as the knife which sliced your flesh open. You flinch at the coldness in them and snatch your hand away from the girl who was attempting to mop up the mess that you had caused. A scowl forms on your lips and your apology is long forgotten. Who the hell did this girl think she was? It was not lim you asked for her help. Hastily you rip the sleeve off of you shirt ad wrap it around the incision on your hand, your green eyes not warm and opening but chilling to the bone. It was not often you cam across a person who could make you feel this way, but when you did you sure as hell didn't handle them with careful hands and a reassuring smile.

You take a step back from the girl and tuck your hand behind your back, hiding it rom view. “I am not an idiot!” You know that your argument is weak and immature but right now you can think of nothing else to say. "The knife slipped from my hand. An honest mistake.” A deep shade of red would be a good way to describe the colour of your face. Rage and embarrassment the reason behind the exotic colour. “Its not like I couldn't handle the knife- the knife couldn't handle me.” As you say it you lift you head so that you are looking down on the other girl.

[presto][/presto]

[Deleted]

charlotte {♔} brownings Well damn honey, you fucked up, Feeble chuckles spread from her lips at the sight of this girl's hand, robust smile etching across her pale face while red painted and amassed at the bottom of her shirt; Charlotte expected such a stunt from somebody from ten or eleven who probably never considered their lives on threat, but this asshat didn't seem from that far down, probably seven, they had a record for being dumbasses anyways. Canards from her escort were lost somewhere between the lines, but she vaguely picked up on double volunteers from district seven, but was this insolent actually capable of throwing her life away thinking she'd be the one to come back, especially with this cut up hand? Charlotte had her own share of absent-mindedness, (usually during drawn out, boring ass lectures nonetheless) but come on, ending up with a knife in your hand because of it was beyond stupidity. Helping somebody actually turned out to be not absolute shit, besides all it took was a cotton shirt, a sliced hand and some blood, yet something in the air was off putting, besides the slight taste of iron. The, mostly clean, hand tensed up as shock and withdrew, back into the girl like a scared turtle head, wrinkles and all; the girl ripped off her own sleeve and tied it around with the strength of a third grader wrapping a gift for a sibling. Like a mirror, Charlotte's grin matched the girl's step back motion, turning back to its natural what the hell preset, and reluctance not to run away filed into her throat. "I am not an idiot!" Beautiful. Nothing quite says let's make a scene like a cretin's rampage, her face painted like evidence in a crime scene, blood coating both her arm and Charlotte's shirt; perhaps somebody could drag her away out of suspicion of foul play so she won't have to sit and watch the rest of training. "The knife slipped from my hand. An honest mistake," the girl spat out in some form of trying to regain the dignity she dropped on the floor with the knife, face growing to the shade of the slice on her hand. "It's not like I couldn't handle the knife- the knife couldn't handle me." For a moment the both of them were quiet, Charlotte thinking over the verbal wail while the other sat flustered, until the steadiness of her lung's faltered before a muffled chain of chortles from broke the air between them. "An honest mistake is saying Charlie instead of Charlotte, not fucking up your hand," an honest mistake was trying to help a lost cause.

[k!ah]

[presto][/presto]

S O N J A A R C O P E L L O

{ the voices inside my head ;

The stinging in your hand was drowned out by how flustered you were by the district one tribute. She was harsh and the way she spoke made it seem like everything she says requires a great amount of effort. Silence filled the empty space between us, our gazes staring intently at one another. You didn't know what to say, you just wanted he to leave, you wanted to be able to practice, you wanted to be able to learn how to pick up the stupid blade without inflicting harm on yourself. But apparently Charlie- that was her name right? Had different ideas on what she wanted to do. "An honest mistake is saying Charlie instead of Charlotte, not fucking up your hand," Opps another honest mistake i guess.

A frown slips onto your forehead you bright lips tipping up slightly in the corners. This girl was getting on your nerve but you were the type of person to tell her to just isa of, no, that would be rude and being rude was something that you saved for the people who really piss you off. Someone like Future for example. Just the name of the girl makes the hairs on the back of your neck creep up. People called you insane but her, she threatened to make you into a puppet whatever the fuck that meant, but whatever it did mean it was fuckin creepy and something that you never wanted to hear again. “Well, Charlie, if you are so perfect how about you show me how it is done and hit that dummy right in the left eye? I mean, you can do that right? Or is the challenge just too much for miss little perfect?” Instantly you regret your choice of words. This girl was from district one. District one. meaning she was a career and things like that she ate for breakfast.

You swallow hard, but you don't take back your words, instead you pin the patronising girl with a smirk, one that must have looked pathetic painted across your pale face. Your move your hands to that they were perched on your hips, your eyes taking in the girl in front of her. The blood plastered to her white shirt made her look that much intimidating, you did not want to run into this girl during the games you think carefully daring your gaze back to her eyes. Effort, everything she did looked like it was such a nuisance in her daily routine.

[presto][/presto]