auroras and sad prose. // getaway car, day 3

[Cait]

but in spite of how you feel

it's not the end of the world

sera

keoch

Jupiter rides off into the sunset with his stupid floating car, barely looking back at Carmen’s discarded body and my own bleeding frame, spilling across the sand. I refuse to look at the blonde girl’s face; I don’t want to see the absence of kindness, stolen away from her by the Arena, by Circe, by myself. I distract myself instead, wasting no time in rifling through my bag for something to take the edge off of my pain, cramming green shit into my mouth and grimacing at the bitter taste of healing.

I almost forget Circe is still here, too. She’s so quiet in the aftermath of the fight, until she speaks in response to my previous incensed outburst.

“There. I did something. She’s dead.”

But it’s not the jubilant declaration I expected it to be. No. Rather, her voice is so dead-panned and defeated that it makes my mouth literally fall open in shock as I stand mutely watching her walk away.

Seriously? She’s sulking? As if she’s the one who’s just been hacked half to death!

I chase after her – well, more like hobble through the night, flames of my weapon well and truly extinguished now. Dragging weak limbs and heavy machinery behind me, it takes far too long to reach Circe’s side again. Maybe she wants space. But I need company. Much as I hate to admit it, I need her.

I nudge into her shoulder, both aggressively and softly, finding the fine balance between friend and enemy. “What’s your problem? You literally signed up for this!”

For as much as I think I learn about Circe, she’s right there to bring me back to reality and remind me that I will never, ever understand Careers.

scavenge roll attempt

FmisNlzcLr1-6

BY CHELSEY

1-6

[d11a tsiuri dermott ☕ minie]

My hands tremble loaded with adrenaline. A sweet tremor coated with the blood from Carmen. A first kill and a first sacrifice. The moment I had been training for, everything in my life had been leading up to the day a weapon lying in my hand would slice open the throat of an unsuspecting person. A rite of passage dictated by society standards and family pressure.

Carmen’s death was just as much their fault as it was mine. The broken makers of a broken monster. Small and petite, taking in the form a little girl. It had been proven time and time again that girls can be just as deadly. My name officially making the list.

I should be happy.

Carmen’s blood danced along my skin, brushstrokes filled with agony melting into my complexion. My fingertips tracing the glass walls of the labyrinth leaving a trail of blood behind; a testament to what I have done…A warning of who roamed the halls.

I should be proud.

A squeeze on my shoulder causes me to jump at the touch of someone else. It called up a swarm of memories, buzzing the silent sounds of my brother. When he could no longer speak it was little touches like this to remind us all; he was still there. I had halfheartedly turned around wishing it would be Lore, his goofy smile would speak a million words. Instead, Sera’s face is bloodied and bruised greeted me, there is nothing inviting about her. It’s accusations she throws, it’s always accusations. Everyone around me accusing me of something, stuffing me into a box that fits their own world; I play the part time and time again. It’s the only way to survive in a world of expectations you will spend your whole life trying to meet. A broken marionette, strings still attached. A noose around my neck, ready for my maker to hang me as he pleases. The final curtain call, and I would never be allowed to take my bow.

All I had to do is continue to kill, dancing along to the rhythm chose for me. My body had gone numb, my eyes staring out into emptiness on the search for something where nothing was meant to be found.

I sighed before looking towards Sera with a false smile planted on my lips for the show must go on. Cameras were everywhere and appearance was everything. No one cared what went on behind the closed doors of a saint and no one cared for the devil’s excuses.

“I’m fine…it just was a little underwhelming”

That is what they would want to hear, right? A career out for blood, chasing after crimson red brutality. Nothing would ever be enough to satisfy whatever hunger I held in my heart. I would never be good enough for the puppet master to cut my strings loose. At the center of violence I had found comfort, learning to love my constraint as it become the one consistency I could count on.

“You owe me a story.” I switched the topic. “How does a girl from six have your strength.” The glass labyrinth too close to home, memories haunting my mind and manifesting in the echoes of our voice. In the moment I needed Sera to talk about anything else. Navigating away from the stormy waters wreaking havoc in a torn apart identity.

[attempts to scavange]

fSuhScx5E41-6

ELEGANT

1-6

[Cait]

but in spite of how you feel

it's not the end of the world

sera

keoch

I tell myself I don’t want to understand Careers, and then torture myself by asking more and more questions about them. Like trying to figure out the complexities of someone barely human, wired differently. How deep their empathetic streak runs – if they even have one at all.

I get Circe; I don’t get her at all. She says she’s fine – underwhelmed, that’s all there is to it – and I try to believe her, because it’s easier to indulge in her lies than to try to understand. I nod, mostly to myself, accepting the hollow words she sprinkles over the bleeding world. I know how to let go.

For the most part.

“You owe me a story.”

Oh.

An abrupt subject change. Almost like she’s trying to avoid talking about herself. That sure sounds familiar.

But dammit. Was kinda hoping she forgot about that. And I’m close enough to turning my back on her like she’d done on me only minutes earlier, but when I scrutinise her face, she looks different. Strained.

I consider how much truth to put into my words, carefully considering the weight of the secrets of my past. What did I owe Circe? Certainly not the full recount of my shady dealings; but I understand her path of questioning. Girls from District Six aren’t supposed to know their own strength.

So I offer her a simple word – the most I’m willing to share about Iz with the world, because it’s still her secret, too. “Graverobbing.” She can read between the lines – realise what lies at the bottom of a grave and calculate how many sleepless nights would have to be spent hauling dead, limp bodies across town to find ease in wielding such crude weapons.

I cough, clearing my throat of the word vomit fighting its way up my trachea. “Anyway. Thanks for not letting me die.” I know it’s a double-edge comment – that her choices in here are all calculated, purely transactional, because I wouldn’t be alive right now if she didn’t get anything out of keeping me around. But whether it’s a security blanket or simple companionship – in some awful, fucked up way, it feels nice to be needed.

“Think you can help me patch up? Your stitchwork has gotta be better than mine.”

round 2 of sad girls attempting to scavenge

0NW2kfLxIu1-6

BY CHELSEY

1-6