Sparks are fireflies (Bolts DP, Day 5)
Nov 13, 2016 21:39:04 GMT -5
Post by Chevi on Nov 13, 2016 21:39:04 GMT -5
BOLTS SPARK
DISTRICT THREE
The day began in rain, and ended in fire.
It was a miracle that anything could still burn.
Bolts was not sure at what point he had truly resolved to die. The easy answer would have been the Reaping; the safe answer would have been the night he lost his allies in a storm; the brave answer would have been the moment he saw Pillar with the flames licking up the blade of her sword.
The true answer was never.
The sword barely nicked him. Days of living on adrenaline more than food or water kept Bolts moving forward, already raising the knife when the searing pain had finally burned through his defenses, and he realized his clothes were on fire. The sight of flames on his skin was surreal, until he realized that in the hurry to light his own weapons two days before he had smeared a great deal of tar on his own clothes, and tar never really washed off.
Some nameless entity on the far side of the artifical sky had sponsored him to die.
The thought was like lightning, and it engulfed him as fast as the flames.
NO. NOT LIKE THIS.
Days later some well-meaning and dispassionate person would tell Joule that he died bravely, and that it was fast.
He didn't. And it wasn't.
Bolts Spark, District Three, male, seventeen years old, burned alive, screaming, curled up into a tight ball on the coarse ground of the Granite Flatsin the 74th annual Hunger Games. His last thoughts were singed and curled into unrecognizable flakes by the all-engulfing pain, slipping away from him like sparks from a campfire.
When Deja had died, until the last possible moment her fingers had been grasping for something to hold on to. She wanted to live.
As Bolts died, his fading consciousness was desperatiely grasping after faces, words, shards of laughter.
He wanted to remember.
He died scared, alone, and in pain.
But Joule would never know that.
The moment Bolts' heart stopped beating, the boom of a cannon sounded in the distance. Shortly after, in the lingering silence, it was followed by a lonely pop as the firefly's lightbulb burst from the heat.
It was a miracle that anything could still burn.
Bolts was not sure at what point he had truly resolved to die. The easy answer would have been the Reaping; the safe answer would have been the night he lost his allies in a storm; the brave answer would have been the moment he saw Pillar with the flames licking up the blade of her sword.
The true answer was never.
The sword barely nicked him. Days of living on adrenaline more than food or water kept Bolts moving forward, already raising the knife when the searing pain had finally burned through his defenses, and he realized his clothes were on fire. The sight of flames on his skin was surreal, until he realized that in the hurry to light his own weapons two days before he had smeared a great deal of tar on his own clothes, and tar never really washed off.
Some nameless entity on the far side of the artifical sky had sponsored him to die.
The thought was like lightning, and it engulfed him as fast as the flames.
NO. NOT LIKE THIS.
Days later some well-meaning and dispassionate person would tell Joule that he died bravely, and that it was fast.
He didn't. And it wasn't.
Bolts Spark, District Three, male, seventeen years old, burned alive, screaming, curled up into a tight ball on the coarse ground of the Granite Flatsin the 74th annual Hunger Games. His last thoughts were singed and curled into unrecognizable flakes by the all-engulfing pain, slipping away from him like sparks from a campfire.
When Deja had died, until the last possible moment her fingers had been grasping for something to hold on to. She wanted to live.
As Bolts died, his fading consciousness was desperatiely grasping after faces, words, shards of laughter.
He wanted to remember.
He died scared, alone, and in pain.
But Joule would never know that.
The moment Bolts' heart stopped beating, the boom of a cannon sounded in the distance. Shortly after, in the lingering silence, it was followed by a lonely pop as the firefly's lightbulb burst from the heat.
