baby, i am the iliad (of course you couldn't read me) adam

[clover ❁]

florentine. 

it's late july and i am restless, having spent more than enough time lying on the hot sand dreaming about infiltrating the office of the president under the guise of providing top-notch handjobs. i've grown bored of all the ways in which i could slit his throat, as well as what else i could remove from his person first. i've watched a thousand oiled bodies sink down beside me to develop their complexions. if they fall asleep, they grow pink and then a satisfying shade of red, like meat overcooked. i never wake them up, just let them roast, although they never seen to properly char. 

the figures shift and change as the sun moves across the sky, and eventually it comes to my favourite part; the youngsters, drunk on their own self-importance, come out of their snotty institutions and remove the too-tight boaters from their big heads and arrive on the beach as though everybody has been waiting for them. predictably, they bring flasks of shitty liquor and loosely rolled joints, put together by indelicate fingers. i prop myself up on my elbows, eyeing them off. it's important to watch for a while to get a good grasp on who kicks up the most sand when the walk. i find that getting grit in other people's eyes correlates nicely with other traits i am interested in.

somebody lights a fire. i am surprised they even know how. i was under the impression that their servants did this for them before they tucked them into bed at night. two girls slip off their jewellery and discard it in a pile of their cardigans, which were undoubtedly hand-spun by crying orphans in some lesser district. they run for the shore, screaming shrilly as they hit the water. i could slip the bracelets and necklaces into my pockets now and be gone, but that would be too easy. i don't just want finery, i want to fucking party.

my victim becomes apparent to me as he ambles across the beach, looking for all the world like he'd happily trample a puppy if it stood between him and the three beers he was clutching. he's pretty cute and he looks stupid. i ready myself for the attack, smoothing my hair back into the hairclips i snagged from the last one's mother's bedside table. 

[Cait]

Circe Murdock dies, and you decide to go on a three-day bender.

I mean, it’s not much different to any other weekend. Only this time there’s a lot more darkness hanging around and a lot less friendly faces to keep me company. It’s also the first time in about seven months I’ve been cut off at the bar, which, you know, was a pretty good run while it lasted. I’m choosing to ignore the fact that my lesson in sobriety was mostly thanks to Circe. Guess it doesn’t matter anymore, though. Don’t have to impress her now. She’s dead, yeah.

Someone tries to grab my hand, drag me towards the bonfire that’s spluttering to life. I twirl out of their clutches, very nearly stumbling over my own two left feet as they’re dragged down in the sand. Stumble out of the way of two girls skipping merrily along with hands linked, bare skin on display. Wish that were me. Wish I didn’t feel anything.

A guy’s passed out on the sand, mouth open wide with a puddle of drool forming beneath his left cheek. Wish that were me. Wish I didn’t feel anything. Nobody important ever cared about a guy losing his mind, going insane, ruining his life. And maybe if I wasn’t so hell-bent on numbing myself I’d have the sense to realise how out of place the fair-skinned, white-haired banshee staring daggers into the side of my neck is. No bottle held between loose fingers; no cigarette dangling from ash-stained teeth. These are all things that alert you to strangeness – the signs that tip you off that you’re likely dealing with an unstable, that you should run for the hills to save yourself drowning in the deep end.

But all I can think is how she looks nothing like Circe.

She doesn’t want me. The stranger, I mean, but maybe I mean Circe there too. It’s cool. I never wanted Circe, either. Until I did. Or thought I did. Fuck. Maybe I’m just a miserable unloveable loser.

My mouth makes shapes around the vibrations of my vocal cords. Don’t really know what I’m saying now either – everything comes to me underwater, buried six feet underground. Maybe that’s where I am. Maybe a part of me died with Circe. It’s so grossly dramatic. Maybe I’ll vomit. Maybe I should cut myself off. Maybe I should cut my tongue out.

“I’m not sharing, if that’s what you’re hoping for. Nooooope. I need this more than you do, trust me.” I neck one of the bottles – the one that’s almost filled to the brim, which is a real choice given that the other two bottles are both only half-full. I fling the taupe-frosted glass as far away as I can manage before crashing back down to ground zero, laid to rest on my bed of regrets.

I’m the perfect picture of health and good decisions, obviously.

[clover ❁]

florentine. 

as i watch him, i come to realise he is more drunk than i originally realised. i consider picking somebody else, because it's no fun if it's too easy, but somehow i come back to him anyway, watch him stumble around with a listless expression on his face. he seems to be looking for something, although it is not apparent what that might be - his dignity, perhaps?

he catches me looking at him before i am ready. i have not been careful enough, and he has caught me before i have fixed my party girl act to my face and figured out exactly which simpering smile he will be most vulnerable to. it's disappointing, but i don't foresee it being a problem until he moves decidedly toward me, making a beeline i frankly didn't think he had the faculties for. 

"i'm not sharing, if that's what you're hoping for," he slurs. "noooope!"

he takes several gulps from one of the bottles, and i am careful to hide the disgust from my face.

"i need this more than you, trust me," at this, i smile. i always get a satisfying kick out of it when they read me wrong. he does not think i am sleeping rough, he does not know i missed breakfast and lunch. he genuinely thinks he deserves anything more than i do. their self-importance is so insurmountable it blinds them. hilarious. 

"that's too bad," i say with a quick smile and a raised eyebrow. "guess i'll have to source my own." 

i approach the body of a boy who has already misjudged his limits, and gingerly lift a limp arm from the sand to get at his pocket. the flask inside is at least half full; he has not paced himself, and he will miss the entire party. it's 50/50 whether anyone will bother to get him off the beach, or if he will wake up to the tide licking his toes in the morning. i'll be long gone by then. maybe if we're lucky he'll drown. 

i right myself, holding the flask high in the air. "cheers, then," i drawl. "bad day?" the sweet sympathy in my voice is so damn good i could choke on it. i take a sip, confirming my suspicions. it's vodka. 

[Cait]

The sky dances. My arms splay out at every which way, fingers of my right hand passing through the coarse grains of sand as my left hand white-knuckles the necks of the two remaining beer bottles in my grasp.

I bring one to my lips, gulp it down in two easy breaths. One bottle left now. Gonna need to find more booze soon, I don’t want to wake up yet.

“That’s too bad.” My head lolls to the side, confused about the voice in my ears, not my own. “Guess I’ll have to source my own.”

The previously-sighted girl stands – ohhh, right, forgot about her, haha – and tightrope-walks over to yet another victim of adolescence, rifling through his pocket for buried treasure. She finds success in a silver flask; as easy as taking candy from a baby.

Damn. That’s genius. Why didn’t I think of that myself?! I spend countless seconds eyeing the girl enviously as she sips the saccharine liquor, watch as she brings her hand to her lips to wipe away the residue.

Bad day? Ha. Yeah, I guess you could say that.

“Bad week, bad year, bad life.” Except it has never been a bad week, bad year, bad life. It’s always been perfectly content, very normal, excellent and shiny. And that’s just the kicker, isn’t it? Nobody even knows, nobody here realises who I am, what I’ve lost, even when it was something that wasn’t mine to lose at all. I’m just another person who entered the Justice Building a fortnight ago thinking I would be lucky enough to not experience melancholy. Look how that turned out.

For what it’s worth, I try to stay positive, happy-go-lucky. Makes me more fun to be around or something. But I can’t turn it on today. Don’t even know if I’ll be able to find it again. I don’t even try to force a smile with the stale conversation I’ve found myself in. I’ll make polite small talk for a few minutes. Finish my beer. Find someone’s body to loot for alcohol, take a page out of the ghost girl’s book and see where the journey takes me.

“Your night just getting started? You don’t look half as wasted as the rest of us.”

[clover ❁]

florentine. 

predictably, he is in love with himself. he magnifies his feelings, pouring on the drama: "bad week, bad year, bad life," like it must be absolutely unbearable to be a drunk little rich kid surrounded by affluent friends at a beach party, drinking alcohol bought with daddy's money, not worrying about the peacekeepers' whips because underage drinking is only a felony for people who really need the reprieve it offers. 

i take a long swig of the flask to give myself the liquid strength required to continue. he seems particularly self-obsessed, more dedicated to the woe-is-me act than even that victor-spawn who kept all of his baby teeth on display in the living room. at least he seems impressed by my party trick; he doesn't say anything, but i can see it in his eyes that it caught his attention. i take note of this. 

"your night just getting started? you don't look half as wasted as the rest of us," he says. it could be a test, but i think he's too wasted for critical thinking. 

i shrug nonchalantly, shake my head so my hair falls just-so. "got stuck in detention," i roll my eyes as though i have been cruelly wronged by some academy-slave with a blazer-fetish. "maybe you can help me catch up. you seem pretty committed to the getting wasted part." hopefully he considers this to be flattery.

i dig around in my pocket and find a joint that hasn't been lit yet. if there's one thing spoiled brats love, it's free weed. 

"got a light?" i ask, securing the edgy bad-girl persona. then, fearing i have abandoned his sadness too quickly, i circle back. he probably wants to talk about himself, and so i must feed the hungry flames from both sides, with substances as well as sympathy. 

"let me guess..." i pause, studying his face, pretending to be deep in careful analysis. "girlfriend trouble?"

[Cait]

I’m losing my grip. Can’t keep my thoughts straight, everything is spinning out, too heavy, too fast. I know that this means it’s time to go, to scurry back into the safety of a warm bed in a warm home where I’ll never be subjected to the evils of our world. But maybe I just want to be a child of the devil for a little longer.

“Maybe you can help me catch up.”

I shrug. “Maybe I can. Doesn’t seem like you need my help finding the booze, though.”

I don’t really know what her plan is. Whether she wants to sleep with me or rob me or be a shoulder to cry on or ruin my life. Maybe all of the above. I can’t pick her – not that I’ve ever been particularly perceptive. The intoxication is definitely catching up to me now, though. If she asked to sleep with me, I’d probably say no. I think. I mean, she’s not Circe. And we weren’t exclusive. Wouldn’t be doing anything wrong by taking her home… but I don’t think I wanna. At least there’s some good to be found in the alcohol seeping into my bloodstream.

“Got a light?” She produces a joint from her pocket, a real-life magician with a never-ending arsenal of tricks up her sleeve. Of course I have a lighter. Who does she think I am? I rummage around in my pocket for the fluid-filled canister, hand it to her, taking extra care not to make direct contact with her skin for some stupid superstitious reason my brain can’t find an explanation for.

Her eyes glint dangerously in the reflected flame. Curiously, maybe, she regards my darkened mood, picking a blossoming bruise on my skin and prodding it just so. “Let me guess… girlfriend trouble?”

The bubble of warmth bursts. It’s not the right thing to say, not the right time. There may never be a right time to talk about Circe Murdock. I shake my head, lip jutting out like I’ve just eaten something sour. “Nah.” Can’t talk about her, won’t talk about her. That’s a turn-off to girls, right? Talking about your exes? But it doesn’t matter. I don’t wanna sleep with her anyway. I don’t want the company.

I don’t want to be sad, I don’t want to be happy.

The ocean roars louder than before, crashing into my eardrums tenfold. I sigh heavily as I fall into its watery embrace. “Nah, she’s nobody.” Maybe one day soon I’ll believe it.

“What about you? Got any skeletons in the closet you’re hiding from?”

[clover ❁]

florentine. 

he passes me the lighter, but he is weird about it. 

he is resistant to me, afraid to let the distance between our hands close. in fact, he seems suspicious, as though the booze has put him on edge rather than stripped him of his guard. my heart skips a beat - suddenly, i am more interested, more determined to get to the bottom of him, prise him apart until i can see whatever he is hiding inside. as soon as i say the word girlfriend i am certain of it; his lips twist until he is almost ugly, and then return to their usual place. he is a playdough boy, squeezed out of shape by fumbling, childish hands. my chin jerks up. i need to do better. 

"nah," he says. maybe he's gay. that would require a serious change of tactic. "nah," he repeats, and i drop that line of enquiry, silenced by the hurt in his voice. "she's nobody." oh, so she's really somebody, huh? whoever she is, she has fucked him up real bad, done my work for me. nice. i hope she thoroughly enjoyed herself doing it. i like this idea: that, somewhere out there, i have an accomplice, a partner in crime on my robin-hood, vigilante-esque mission to punish the fuckboys of district four. cheers to her. 

although she's done a great job, i hope she hasn't stolen all of my fun. i punctuate my sips of vodka with hits of the joint; i walk a fragile line between making him comfortable and losing my own resolve.

"what about you? got any skeletons in your closet you're hiding from?" he asks. 

so he doesn't want to talk about himself. an anomaly. next he's going to announce he doesn't take sugar in his tea. it's time for my favourite part, though, the part where i really get to shine; it's now that i get to be flo who is sparkling, shining, who sweats diamonds and spends a lot of time eating sandwiches with the crusts cut off. 

"oh, you know," i say, offhandedly, "the usual things. suffocating parents, the relentless pressure to be perfect. asshole ex-boyfriend who won't leave me alone." 

it is so much fun to have stupid problems. it would be funny to level with him, to tell him to the real-deal^TM. can you imagine? both of my parents died and left me nothing and since then i've been living off the pure adrenaline of it all. that sort of thing doesn't make people feel comfortable, though. 

i offer him the blunt. "your turn," i say, about the weed, but also more generally. i'm starting to think i'll coax nothing out of him at all before he inevitably passes out. it would be so dissatisfying to take only his worldly possessions from him. 

he accepts the joint and i use the moment to trap him there; i sink to my knees in the sand, so he (hopefully) has no choice but to take his place beside me. hopefully the girlfriend didn't fuck him up so badly that he's in the habit of running away from girls who want to sit next to him. 

[Cait]

I don’t know why I ask her anything about her life. I don’t care about it. There’s no vested interest in her. Maybe it’s the polite, pre-programmed small talk I’ve been brought up in the habit of. Practiced false niceties, smiling for the camera, garnering respect and acclaim in the name of a Victor’s status.

She speaks the language of a privileged kid of Four with the same trivial perils as myself. Holds the air of someone important – someone I should have known before today. Maybe I do. What was her name again? Did I even ask it? Something about an asshole ex-boyfriend. I wonder if that would have been how Circe talked about me in passing, some distant way into the future where she is still alive. We weren’t really going to make it, even if she’d managed to come home. This is what I tell myself to try and stop it hurting so much.

Her hand extends towards me, uncurls around the blunt. “Your turn.” I didn’t want to assume she’d share her contraband, but now that the barrier has been breached, I find myself desperately hungry for her poison offering. I take the joint from her, just as careful as before to not touch her, but someone misjudges the distance and our hands end up grazing each other lightly, cold touch on my clammy skin. I recoil immediately, only to reprimand myself for the knee-jerk reaction a moment later.

Pull it together! You look like a frigid moron.

The cotton-balled air hits my lungs, works its way into every last bronchiole. I don’t feel any different though, the alcohol numbing me too far to feel anything new or exciting. She looks at me expectantly as she sinks to her knees; there’s no choice but to follow her lead. Would be rude not to. But she’s still looking at me like she wants more, even as her knee bangs into the side of my leg in a could-be-an-accident-but-was-definitely-planned kind of way. Your turn. Thought she was talking about the blunt, but her eyes are hungry for more of the illustrious drama I’ve draped over my shoulders.

I chuckle slightly, a mirthless kind of noise that hurts my chest. Haven’t used those muscles in a while, I suppose.

“Well. We’re gonna need more of this if you wanna get personal.” I hold up the third and final beer bottle in my hands. Make the clever decision to down it as quick as the two that came before it, before digging the bottle deep into the sand for some unfortunate volunteer to clean up in the morning. At least they’ll get a few cents from the recycling costs.

[clover ❁]

florentine. 

he follows me down; he has been snared, for now, at least. i am not satisfied, and i let my leg graze his as his knees buckles, just to see his reaction. it is almost funny, the way he flinches and leaps back, like he has brushed against a fire and the flames are gnawing away at his leg hair. maybe the girlfriend had a contagious, skin-borne disease that has wired his brain to steer clear of well-intentioned female touch. well-intentioned enough, anyway. 

he does it again when he hands me back the joint, and this time my lips curl into a smile. he reminds me of a kitten emerging from behind its mother for the very first time, on high alert and sceptical of humans. i try to move slowly and smoothly, to avoid spooking him completely. i realise that i still do not know his name. 

he laughs at what i say but it's a hollow sort of sound, dry and lacking humour. this annoys me, and then i find that i want to make him laugh for real, just to prove something to myself. 

"well, we're gonna need more of this if you want to get personal," he says as he empties the last bottle. i am somewhat impressed but mostly appalled by his alcohol tolerance; he is fucked, admittedly, but not as fucked as he should be. i wonder if he spends a lot of his time sitting around on beaches drinking ludicrous amounts of beer and being abrasive toward other partygoers. probably.

i hold up the flask in one hand and the joint in the other. "what's mine is yours," i declare. "after all, you said you need it more than i do." 

i chew on my lip and look out to sea. fine. "my name is florentine, by the way." i get the sense he doesn't care, but i'm in too deep, i'm invested now. at the very least, i am no longer bored. i alternative between the vodka and the joint, enjoying the way the motion of the waves extends to embrace me. i relax a little. the sounds of the party fade together, until we are the only real thing here.

"how about we play a game, then? we guess something about each other, and if we're wrong, we drink."

i confiscate both agents of intoxication, to incentivise his participation. 

"you go first."