~No*One*Is*Alone~ [East]

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The Arena is a vast wasteland, all hard-packed dirt and no trees for cover or shelter. Blood, my blood, spatters too-bright crimson against the sandy ground as I run, leaving an easily-followable trail in my wake, but I can't bring myself to care at the moment. All that matters is getting away from the pack of muttations bearing down on me, some horrible cross between a wolf and a spider with eight legs tipped with razor-sharp claws. I try to fight the tremors that begin at the base of my neck, knowing that I'm dead the second I have a seizure in this horrible place, knowing that the monsters behind me will jump on my defenseless, shaking body and rip it to shreds and there will be nothing I can do to stop it. Just as I have this realization, my legs give out, and my entire being begins to convulse as I fall with a sandy thud to the ground. My sight blinks out to blackness as it always does, but I can still feel the pain, and distantly, so far away, I can hear someone screaming. I wonder if it's actually me...

I sit bolt upright with a small shriek, my alarm blaring out its screeching tones right next to where my ear had been a few seconds ago. My pajamas and hair are both soaked through with sweat, blankets tangled around my feet in a convoluted mess that makes me wonder just how much I was tossing and turning. My hands are shaking as I reach over and switch off the alarm clock, phantom images from the terrible nightmare still playing out in my half-conscious mind. Ripping my feet out from the tangled mess of blankets, I stumble out of my bedroom and down the hallway towards the bathroom, trying to make as little noise as possible. Being up at five-thirty in the morning on a Saturday isn't normal for most seventeen year olds, but it's commonplace for me, quietly shuffling around the house as not to wake up my still-slumbering parents.

It's six o'clock sharp when I step out of the shower and take a minute or two to inspect myself in the mirror. Dark brown curls so sopping wet that they appear black fall in a wavy curtain down around my shoulders, olive skin contrasting sharply with the pristine white of the towel that covers my torso. The dark circles under the flat, featureless brown of my eyes have made their appearance after another night of not sleeping well, but they are such a common occurrence that I've gotten used to them. Averting my eyes from my reflection, I tiptoe back up the hallway to my room, closing the door behind me and digging through my dresser for a set of training clothes.

They're not anything special, but they serve their function well. The black leggings again make a stark comparison with the slight tan of my skin, the khaki cargo shorts I slip over them softening the contrast a little. I quickly slip my feet into a pair of socks and then slide on my worn tennis shoes before reaching for the top of my dresser and grabbing the leather holster containing a set of five top-of-the-line throwing knives, cinching it securely around my right thigh. Skinning a black tank top over my head, I quickly slip an elastic band around my still-damp hair, taming it into a high ponytail that will keep it out of my face.

I glance back over at my clock, noting the that it's fifteen after six. I'm right on schedule, but I still feel incredibly nervous as I grab a stack of papers from my desk and walk across the hall, quietly ducking into my parents' room. I gingerly reach out and lay a hand on my father's shoulder, prodding him gently into wakefulness. "Dad, I'm going to training. I need my medicine."

Emotionless brown eyes that match my own slide open, appraising me coldly. "Report cards came out yesterday. What did yours look like?"

"All A's, I've got the papers right here."I remain stoic as his eyes flick over the paper and then back to me, judging, always judging. Nevertheless, he pulls a chain from around his neck with a brass key dangling for it, inserting it into the drawer on his nightstand and drawing forth a small plastic bottle, dispensing a little white pill into my outstretched hand.

"You've got evaluations coming up at training in a few days. I want an outstanding score, or it'll be a week, Corinne."

I shudder internally at the thought of a week without my anti-seizure medication, a week of disability and pain that I'd have to conceal from everyone. On the outside, though, I remain as emotionless and cold as my father, giving him a curt nod as I turn to leave. "I understand."

The training center is virtually abandoned this early on a Saturday, the little card reader on the wall blinking in red LED's that only twenty Careers have checked in today. The lights shift to read twenty-one as I swipe my ID card through, the electronically locked door in front of me unlocking with a loud clunk as I pull it open. I toss my backpack into a corner with the belongings of several others, walking across the vast gymnasium without talking to anyone. A few "Morning, Corinne's " and "What's up, Brightman's" fly my way, but I remain impassive. I'm not ready to deal with other people just yet.

Bringing myself to a halt in front of a line of human-shaped targets attached to a far wall, I back up to the yellow line that indicates the distance range for advanced knife throwers. The ranged combat instructor sits mutely behind his desk, giving me a bored nod that indicates I'm allowed to practice at my leisure. I slip my knives out of their holster, holding four of them clustered in my left hand as I firmly grip the blade of the fifth in my right. My form is impeccable as I throw the first, sending it with practiced motions into a red spot on the target's head that indicates a vital organ. The second flies without issue into a kidney, the third into the jugular, and the fourth into the liver. I'm saving my attempt at the heart, the smallest red circle on the wooden dummy, for last. My awareness narrows itself down to just myself, the target, and the raw force of my own determination. I've never been able to get a good solid hit on the heart from this far back, but surely after weeks of practice today will be the day. I draw the weapon back with good form, but a muscle in my arm twitches just as I let it fly, sending the blade spinning off-center and sticking a few inches away from the crimson circle.

Cursing quietly, I cross the target range and begin to yank the stainless steel blades free from the wood as my instructor crosses over to analyze my work. "As usual, you're thinking about it too much, Corinne. That's where you're different from your sister. Neva didn't overthink, she just acted. "

Sighing, I run speculative fingers across the polished hilts of the throwing knives, knowing that to try again this soon after messing up would only throw my mind off balance and result in even greater failure. My thoughts turn back to Neva, whose smug grin looks down on me from the row of Victors' framed photographs on the wall above. I bite back the urge to fling one of the daggers at her portrait, snarling as I stalk off towards the sparring station. When I'm in this sort of mood, hitting something (or someone) with as much force as I can muster usually helps. "Pffft, 'Don't think about it, Corinne.' Pardon me for taking some consideration when I'm flinging sharp objects through the air."

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[Eastern Orange]

T H I N K I N G | S P E A K I N G | L I S T E N I N G
A U D I T O R Y H A L L U C I N A T I O N S / V I S U A L H A L L U C I N A T I O N S

I take a deep breath, the stink of sweat and blood searing through my senses. Believe it or not, I had missed that smell. The smell of hard work, of determination, and of this restless need to improve. I had not been to the training center in a year, and nothing had really changed about the place. Maybe it has changed, and you are just too stupid to notice. Why are you here? They will get you. I clench and unclench my fists, looking around at the stations. I don’t know why I bother; I know exactly where I want to go: the sparring station.

I cross the floor in a few long strides and drop my duffel bag at the edge of the sparring mat. I quickly strip of my sweatshirt, leaving me in only a black wife beater. I spend some time stretching and limbering up, before I approach Richard, the instructor, to be teamed up with someone. Richard appraises me coldly, his eyes lingering on my arms and stomach, checking to see if I let myself go, I suppose. You are a wimp, a fat loser. He hates you; he is disgusted by how weak you are. Look at him stare at you, with those black eyes, like he wants snap your puny little neck for being so weak. I stare doggedly at him, not letting the big man intimidate me. He grunts, giving a small nod of his head, seemingly pleased with my fitness. I try not to smirk; I should not have been worried. I did pushups and sit-ups obsessively while I was locked up in my room at the mental hospital. Like it did you any good, weakling.

“You’re with Scod.” Richard says abruptly. So, he isn’t going to say anything about my year long absence? My parents probably said something to him. I try not to let the displeasure show on my face. Robert Scod is my age, but he is at least a full head taller than me, and on top of that, he has the build of a bull; not a very good pairing with my wiry frame. Of course, I would probably come across worse in the arena, but this is my first day back. Richard is testing me, the asshole.

Scod raises from where he was sitting, a dark grin on his face. He is looking forward to beating the shit out of me, I can tell by the malicious glint in his eyes. I meet his expression with an evil one of my own, but he doesn’t falter. Scod and I had been friends at one point, what had happened? You became a diseased freak. Oh right. I take my place at the center of the ring, and Scod takes his across from me. I ease into my fighting stance, bouncing back and forth on my toes, ready to kick out with either leg if he attacks. Scod just grins darkly at me, and raises his fists. “Free for all.” I hear Richard call just as I’m about to feint a kick. I stumble and turn my head to give him a surprised look. He doesn’t acknowledge my surprise, just gives me a grim stare. He was basically giving Scod a free pass at beating the shit out of me. He wasn’t testing me, he was punishing me. But Richard is forgetting one thing, size does not equal skill. Scod relies way too much on his size, making his technique crappy. Maybe I can use that to my advantage. Your technique is terrible too! You’re weak, a loser. He will kill you!

I feel a heavy blow on the side of my face, and I’m sent flying backward. I land on my ass with a dull thud; my right eye throbbing like it’s going to burst out of my socket. “Fuck.” I hiss and scramble to my feet, immediately shifting my weight to a defensive stance. My eyes find Scod’s sneering face, but the light is wrong, off. The world shimmers around him and I see long, twisted horns protruding from his temples. His nose is no longer a nose, but a long muzzle with nasty yellow fangs. Lank greasy hair hangs down over his pee color eyes. His muscles are bulging grotesquely and I have to wonder how the hell I’m going to dodge those horns.

He – it – comes after me and I skirt away. He is surprised by my speed, and tries to check his direction, but his forward momentum is too much for him to turn to me, leaving his side and back wide open. I snap my leg up and land a heavy push kick on his side, digging my heel in deep. I pull my leg back, and shift my grounded foot, turning my body, and I lash out with a roundhouse kick, hitting him across the stomach with my foot and shin. With surprising speed, he wraps his arms around me leg, twisting it and sending me to the ground. I land hard on my shoulder, and roll away from his stamping hooves. He is too quick for me however, and one catches me in the nose. Blood spews from my nose, spilling over my chin, and painting the mat red. I look down and the drops of blood start to boil and turn into a pile of squirming red larvae. I hiss in disgust and launch myself to my feet, throwing an arm back, hitting the monster in the throat with my elbow. It chokes, and I’m able to put some distance between us, giving me time to breathe.

I wipe the blood from my mouth, and reach a hand up to touch my swelling eye. I look at the beast; it’s holding its throats and making gagging noises. The world shimmers again, and the beast’s muscles start to ripple and spasm. I balk in fear; the shape his is taking no longer is human. Blood surges in my ears, and my instincts take over: kill it before it kills you. With a snarl, I fling myself forward, dropping all pretense of fighting stances and whatnot. The beast is still clutching its neck, breath rattling in its throat. I land a heavy punch in its stomach, and when it bends over in pain, a place a knee in its face. It reels backward, and drops to its knees. In a rush, my training comes back to me, and I shift into a fighting stance. I turn my front foot out, chamber my back leg, and whip it out in another roundhouse kick. The top of my foot connects with the beast’s face, snapping it backward, and sending him tumbling on his back.

I stare down at the unconscious thing, reveling in its defeat and in awe of its ugliness. I close my eyes, blinking away the pain that is slowly seeping into my head and side. When I open them again, it isn’t a beast that’s laying at my feet, it’s Scod. I blink in surprise, taking in his broken, bloody face. I wince, I should have stopped with the punch to the stomach, or at least the knee to the face; the roundhouse kick was uncalled for and I was sure to get my ass chewed out. But, I wasn’t fighting Scod, I was fighting a beast! I hadn’t known! I thought it was real, but apparently I was just hallucinating. How will I be able to explain this for Richard? He will surely punish me for going to far.

I look over at Richard, but there isn’t any anger on his face, just a cold calculating look. He turns his head and yells for the paramedics on stand-by to see to Scod. “Harlow.” He grunts to me. “Nice job.” I blink at the compliment. My surprise must have shown on my face because Richard gives me the ghost of a smile. “It was a free for all.” He says shortly and turns his back on me. Conversation over.

I turn towards my duffel bag, wobbling on my feet a little. I make it there before I slump to the ground and dig threw it until I find a cold compress. I break it up until it turns cold beneath my fingers and gently place it on my swollen face with one hand. With the other I pull out a towel to mop of the blood from my nose, which is still bleeding. Something falls to the ground when I release the towel from my bag, making a clattering noise. I look at the small blue container with wide eyes, my heart thudding in my chest. It’s my medicine. I had forgotten that I even still had some pills left over. I quickly scoop up the container and look at the small handful of pills inside. If I had been taking them, would I have messed Scod up so badly? I didn’t feel bad for beating the shit out of Scod, he is a fucking jerk and deserved it. But what if it happens to someone who doesn’t deserve it? What if I snap on a random person in the street?

I set my jaw and clench my fist around the medicine. If I did take it I start to have muscle spasms and over time I will slowly lose control over my limbs, among other crappy side-effects. I throw the medicine back in my bag with a snort of disgust. I bring the towel to my face, gingerly dabbing my nose. I look up and notice a girl standing nearby. I look back down, but quickly do a double take. Corinne? How long had she been standing there? What had she seen?

Memories from before my disorder flood my brain; memories of my annoyingly upbeat self constantly hitting on her. Every chance I got I told her that she was the girl for me, or that she was an angel sent from heaven; corny shit. I was never serious, or that’s what I told myself. I said I was just chasing her for the challenge, for the experience of not getting every girl I wanted. But that wasn’t really the truth was it? I had genuinely liked her. I cruse my stupidity. I should have just told her how I felt from the beginning, not danced around them with my stupid antics.

I look back down at my bag, ignoring her presence. It’s too late now. There is no way in hell anybody is going to want to even come near me, not now that I have schizophrenia. No one wanted you to begin with, even before you went crazy. You were always a loser. No one loves you. You are alone.

[Deleted]

I watch the match currently in progress for a few minutes with interest. One of the larger boys (Raymond? Reese?) is going up against someone smaller and so eerily familiar that it throws me off balance for a second and my mind wonders away from the fight and onto the subject of where I might have seen him before. I’m sure I’d know him if I could get a decent glimpse of his face, but he’s moving so fast that I can’t really get a good look at him. At any rate, his form is excellent, and he’s got the bigger kid out for the count in under a minute. My eyebrow arches up; I have to admit that I’m impressed. I’ve gone up against guys that size before, but it usually takes me over three or four minutes to render them useless.

The skinnier boy stumbles away, bringing a towel up to his blood-covered face. Eyes boring intently in his direction, I can’t stop trying to figure out who the hell he is. There’s just something so familiar about the unnatural whiteness of his hair and the blue eyes that peek over the towel as he pulls it away revealing a face that instantly sends the name pounding into my brain with staggering force. Gossamer Freaking Harlow.

His attention is elsewhere but my gaze remains fixed on him as he rifles through his bag. True, it’s been over a year since he seemingly disappeared off the face of the planet, but how could I forget an entire adolescence of shameless flirting and other general annoyances? He looks to be in decent enough shape, I muse, obviously still able to fight well. Has he been sick for all this time? I’m sure there were rumors but I haven’t heard them, social recluse that I am. Seeing Goss again gives me an odd sense of nostalgia that I haven’t had for a while, especially when my eyes fall on the slightly warped line of his collarbone. My handiwork, I note with a smirk.

The impact shakes my frame but I’m sure it’s worse for him, all of my weight and momentum adding to the speed with which he hits the surface of the mat. I can hear the air leaving his lungs in one sharp exhalation and it makes me grin in feral satisfaction of the hunter bringing down her prey. I press the heel of my hand firmly into the ridge of bone below his shoulder, one false move and he’ll be dealing with a shattered clavicle. He struggles (because it’s Goss and he never just lets it be over) but seems to know that I’ve got him in a nearly inescapable hold, a leg on either side of his waist and enough force behind my arm to pulverize his thoracic bones into a fractured mosaic if I really wanted to.

“Well, I can’t say that I’m complaining about this too much,” he grins with a cocky air to his voice even though he’s still trying to wriggle his way out from under me and win the match.

My eyes narrow into dark slits, the pressure exerted by my arm pressing to the point that I can actually hear his bones creaking. The words sound animalistic as I grind them out between clenched teeth, low and dangerous. I have never been able to handle Goss’ idiocy, never been able to sit down and accept the obnoxious flirting that I am certain is his way of mocking me, and today is a bad day at any rate. “Go ahead, Harlow. Keep running your mouth. Watch what happens.”

“You won’t do it.”

“Try me.”

The smirk on his face widens to its full potential, fingertips brushing along my calf. “Hey, Brightman, nice legs. What time do they open?”

Snap.

I snort at the memory, watching Goss dab away at his still-bleeding nose. The logical part of me screams that I have better things to do, but for old times’ sake I close the few steps of distance between us while half-smirking wryly and shaking my head. “You keep wiping at it like that and it’ll never stop bleeding, Harlow. Although I have to say, your form looked great. Wherever you’ve been for the past year it looks like you’ve been practicing.”

Don’t get me wrong, Gossamer Harlow is an annoying, obnoxious, idiotic waste of my time. I’ve known that since day one. But after a year of faces that I’ve never bothered to get to know, he lends me a sort of stability that is almost pleasant. I find myself wanting to smile but I’m not sure that I remember how to, and it comes out as more of a grimace as I watch him try to clean up the remainder of the mess.

“C’mon, we’ll take a lunch break,” I say in my typical quiet tones, jerking my head briefly at the door. He’ll need to take some time to sit down and rest if he wants to clear up a gusher like that. The bigger guy must have at least landed a few good punches of him, because I can see the evidence in his still spectacularly bleeding nose and the rapidly darkening bruise that will soon solidify into a very noticeable black eye. I consider offering to go get him another towel but think better of it, shoving him off towards the door. “Better rest up now, because I fully intend on wiping the floor with you the second you get that nosebleed cleared up. I haven’t had a decent sparring partner in ages.”

Talking about sparring. It is the closest I will ever come to I missed you.

I shoot him a sidelong glance, a dark eyebrow raising skeptically as the question that’s been eating at me tumbles over my lips in a low alto murmur. “So, where the hell did you even go? Been on a secret mission? Training has been far less irritating but ultimately for more boring without you.”

A thinly-veiled insult. It is the closest I will ever come to I’m glad you’re back.

[Eastern Orange]

I look up in surprise, my blue eyes widening. Corinne was standing in front of me. She came to me. She has never ever been the one to approach me. I always came up to her with one pick up line or another. And did she just compliment me? The girl, who has never said one nice thing to me, actually praised my fighting skills? Wow. First she makes the first move, and then she offers me some praise. Nice. What does she want from you? She has to want something. She is being too nice. You don’t deserve it, you are a terrible person. Why is she being nice? She is planning something.

“C’mon, we’ll take a lunch break,”

I grin at her, shaking my hair from my eyes. “A lunch break? Me and you? That sounds suspiciously like a date, but it can’t be, because I remember you swearing you would rather die than go out with me.” Old habits die hard. Honestly, that was more of an automatic response; something that the old Goss would have said. My grin collapses, and I drop my head. Why would she want to go have lunch with me anyway? Doesn’t she know that I’m a schizo freak? Hasn’t she heard that I have been locked up in a mental hospital? Wasn’t she scared of me? What if she has, and doesn’t care? What if she knows that I’m still a human being, and I still deserve some compassion?

She mentions fighting me and I have to wince. Scod’s bloody face swims before my eyes and I imagine doing that to Corinne. Scod deserved it, but Corinne certainly does not. No, I would hate myself forever if I did anything like that to her. How could I get out of fighting her without making it seem odd? In the past, I had always jumped at the chance to spar with her. Any excuse to be close to her, or to touch her. I never tried to win when I fought her, I was always content to sit back and spew nonsense about her beauty at her. I decide to say nothing to about fighting her right now. Maybe she will forget. That’s a fool’s hope though.

“So, where the hell did you even go?” My heart sinks. Literally sinks. So, she doesn’t know. Do you seriously think she would be standing here if she did? You are so stupid. An idiot. You don’t deserve compassion. I think fleetingly about not telling her, about making up some excuse that I was training in the woods with bears, but I’m not a lair. I never was. At least my disorder cant take that from me. “I was at a mental hospital.” I say flatly, suddenly turning my eyes up to stare at her through a curtain of white hair, gauging her reaction. “Haven’t you heard? I’m a schizo.” I cringe at how bitter I sound. “I’m crazy and if you stand too close, you might just catch my craziness.” I cross my arms over my chest, waiting. Waiting for her to stammer out some excuse and leave me in the dust. You are alone. No one wants you.

[Deleted]

“I was at a mental hospital. Haven’t you heard? I’m a schizo. I’m crazy and if you stand too close, you might just catch my craziness.”

My eyes widen involuntarily at his statement, partly because the revelation comes as a shock and partly because I’m completely taken aback by how Goss, usually the consummate goofball, sounds bitter and angry and worn down by the world. He sounds too much like me, and I don’t think I like it very much. Shrugging offhandedly while avoiding his gaze, I grab my backpack from the corner and shoulder open the door, smelling the sweet scent of Springtime air making a sharp contrast against the typical sweaty miasma of the training center. “What, why are you looking at me like that? It’s not like I’m going to freak out and treat you like the plague because you’ve got issues. Judging by what’s left of that guy’s face, schizophrenia doesn’t make you any less of a good sparring partner.”

Apparently he’s experienced some sort of ostracism as a result of his diagnosis, or he wouldn’t be talking like that. My mind travels back to when I was eight years old and a doctor’s words ruined my life as well, the ugly label of “epileptic” stamped on my forehead and marking me as a pariah within my own family. Although I suppose Goss has it a bit worse than I do; he’s always been a social butterfly and now his disorder has taken away his former friendships, whereas I make an effort to stay as far away from other people as possible and I’d face horrible punishment if anyone were to find out about my epilepsy. I’m enough of a disappointment as is without everyone knowing I’m an invalid.

“I get where you’re coming from, though,” I say quietly, crossing my arms over my midsection and fixing my eyes on the ground. I have never been good with emotion but I’m so thrown off by seeing him like this that I’m willing to go out of my comfort zone in order to restore homeostasis, to return to a world where Goss grins and makes passes at me and I beat the living daylights out of him in turn. I crave that normalcy now that he’s come back into my life with jarring suddenness. “Let’s just say that I know what it’s like to have people hate you for something beyond your control. We’ll leave it at that. I’m not going to hate you for something you can’t help, Harlow.”

I snort, elbowing him in the side with a humorless laugh. “I’m going to hate you because you’re a chauvinist asshole who thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”

There is a long row of picnic tables that fill the alley between the training center and another building, and I slide into the first one I come to, the sun-warmed wooden seat pleasantly radiating against the back of my legs in a way that reminds me of summer. A short dig through my backpack rewards me with a brown paper bag containing a protein bar, and apple, a bottle of water, and a small plastic bag wrapped around two of my mother’s homemade chocolate chip cookies. They’ve always been delicious but I typically refrain from eating them, knowing that the empty calories won’t do me any good. Goss’ presence reminds me of a ritual between the two of us that I’d all but forgotten, one that has been in place since kindergarten lunchtimes when everyone thought I was weird because I preferred to sit with the boys. The corner of my mouth twitches up almost unnoticeably as I look over at him, tossing the cookies into the center of the table with a flick of my wrist “What’ll you give me for them?”

The sun and fragrant breeze make me feel almost content as I rip open the wrapper on my protein bar, taking a small bite off the corner. The things taste like chocolate-covered cardboard but make you feel full and help build muscle, so I’ve been having one for lunch every day for years. A small flashback enters my mind of days when Neva was still in school with me, and I’d had the audacity to ask why my older sister always got good stuff like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches cut in fun shapes and fruit snacks in her lunch while I was left with protein bars and the occasional gift of cookies or my favorite treat of cinnamon hard candy if I’d made perfect grades on my tests. My mother had glared at me in that icy way of hers, making my submissive nine-year-old self cower in regret for overstepping my bounds. “Neva’s not an embarrassment. You are.”

“Actually, just take them. I’m not that hungry anyway,” I mumble, taking a bite out of my apple that is a little more vicious that the situation calls for. My failure back at the ranged weapons station has made me sulky, dwelling on my own inadequacies to the point of all-out crankiness. A large screen on the wall of one side of the alley flickers through Games updates, and I watch intently. Our tributes from this year have been out for some time (that one boy died in the Bloodbath… how disappointing), but the girl from Twelve has tenacity, motivation, and ten of my hard-earned allowance dollars on her side for winning the finale. Eyes fixed on the scrolling information beside the video feed, I take another bite of my apple, letting the tart sweetness of it sink into my tastebuds. “I think I’m volunteering next year. I’d stand a pretty good chance, especially if I can bulk up a little here in the next few months and get my archery skills up to scratch. What do you think, Harlow? Would you hit on me even more shamelessly if I was a Victor?”

[Eastern Orange]

She definitely wants something from you. Why else would she not freak out about your craziness? She is using you. No one would want you for you. You are stupid, a waste of space. You don’t deserve to live. Corinne’s words don’t comfort me as I follow her outside. She is wrong when she says my disorder doesn’t make me a good sparring partner. For some reason, she doesn’t see how over the line I was when I fought him. I kicked him in the fucking face, after I kneed him in the face. That is not what sparring is about. Sparing is…well sparring. Not brawling, which is what I was doing. No, my schizophrenia did not make me a good sparring partner; it made me a crazy ass brawler.

“Let’s just say that I know what it’s like to have people hate you for something beyond your control”

I cock my head at her, and send her a questioning look. She knows from experience? I know people don’t like her, and that she has always kept to herself, and I had always thought that that was just her personality. But she is making it seem like it's something much more than that. I don’t remember her ever acting abnormally…What could be wrong with her? I give her a quick smile. “I don’t think I am God’s gift to women, I know I am.” It’s weird talking like that again; I haven’t had the chance to be playful in awhile. It doesn’t feel right anymore. Before, cute little lines like that came naturally, now I have to think about it.

I follow her to a picnic table and sit down across from her. I eye her as she digs around in her bag for her lunch. I don’t bother going through mine, I know there is nothing there for me to eat. My family has learned not to give me any food, and I didn’t make my own lunch this morning. My stomach grumbles plaintively, but I ignore it. I am used to not eating. People want to poison you; they are out to get you. They want you dead. You are being watched, don’t turn around. They will see. They are going to get you. I stiffen as she tosses cookies on the table and initiates our old game. My standard response was always ‘how ‘bout a kiss’ or ‘I’ll let you touch my abs’ but I can’t say anything like that. It wouldn’t be as effortless as before, it would be forced, so it would be awkward. Like I was trying too hard or something.

I guess it doesn’t matter because she just gave them to me without a trade. I gulp and eye the cookies nervously. She poisoned them. She wants you dead. Why else would she give you them without anything in return? She doesn’t care because they will kill you. I don’t touch the cookies, I don’t even look at them. Instead, I look at my hands, clenched in front of me on the table. I look up when she mentions the Games though. “I’m trying to volunteer too, Co-” I hesitate, and switch at the last minute. “Brightman. That would be interesting, huh?” No, that would be terrible. But I have to get in the Games so the Capital can fix my schizophrenia. “Just think of all the flirting I can get done in there. Maybe I won’t look so bad when you realize that I could be your last chance at making out with a hottie.” Gah, I really can’t do it anymore. I can’t be my flirty, uppity self. I lost it. It’s gone. That sounded so tense and awkward compared to my former days. What am I even doing here? I came to train. I should be back inside weightlifting, not out here trying to reconnect with my past.

I remember my bloody nose. I look down at my shirt, sticky with blood. I sigh and tug it over my head, exposing my chest. I bundle up the shirt and use it to mop the blood from my face. I tilt my head back, remembering that is apparently what you are supposed to do when you have a nose bleed. I stare up at the sky, thinking about when I had had to do this exact same thing a few years ago. Corinne had sucker punched my right in the nose for giving her an invention into my pants. We had to have been thirteen or fourteen at the time, and she had not been happy at all. I had to sit with my head titled back for a while before the bleeding stopped. I'm pretty sure she had broken my nose. I smile at the memory. I had done stupid things like that daily. I never worried about how stupid I looked, and I certainly never thought about how Corinne felt about it. I frown, and drop my head to look at her. "Cor- Brightman? Did you hate me back then? I mean...from before. When I always hit on you?" I know the answer already. She hated me. I was too blind to notice before, but it's quite obvious to me now. What was I thinking? I am such an asshole.

[Deleted]

My eyebrow arches skeptically at his response, not so much at the content as at the fact that he's now referring to me by my surname. I suppose I can't really be upset since Goss has been Harlow to me for as long as I can remember. He's almost always called me Corinne, though, only bringing my last name up when he was joking around. We're different in that way, I suppose, me trying to maintain a comfortable distance while he's always been the one to make everything far more personal than it needs to be. But apparently those days are over; he is cool and detached and completely unlike himself now, and it borders on bizarre. Not to mention the actual content of his speech, that he would be one of the candidates for volunteering as well. For reasons I can't explain, the thought makes me shudder, and as I look into ice-blue eyes that are far too familiar it's horrific and nearly impossible to imagine killing him, which is what I'd eventually have to do. While I have been raised to be emotionless and refrain from being attached to people, a weird squeezing in my chest makes me ask if I would even be able to bring myself to end his life. It is a question that I refuse to answer, because either way I know I won't like my response.

He makes some stupid joke that's halfway to a pickup line but it's just not the same, it sounds far too forced, like he's trying to cover up the fact that he's not the same person anymore. I am the type of person who craves routine, and Goss used to be about the most stable routine I had. Wake up, go to school, put up with Goss' obnoxious pickup lines, hurl insults back at him, go to training, be shamelessly flirted with again, punch him, go home, and go to bed. Get up the next morning and do it again. The idea that a huge aspect of my everyday life has changed is enough to throw me completely off balance, mentally reeling in a directionless way that makes me highly uneasy. I've felt slightly out of place over the year he's been gone, but I'd just begun getting used to it when Gossamer Harlow came slamming back into my life as an entirely changed person. It's petulant and selfish and more than a little self-contradictory, but I find myself wanting the old, peppy, smiling, unbelievably irritating Goss back with a fervent sort of desperation that isn't at all like me.

"Cor- Brightman?" There he goes again with the last name thing. "Did you hate me back then? I mean...from before. When I always hit on you?"

Oh, no. Anything but this. Anything but this complex, emotional hot mess of a question that I will never be able to answer the right way. Most days I like to think that I don't have feelings, but even on the rare occasion that noticeable emotion floats to the surface I am in no way, shape, or form capable of expressing it effectively. It is hard for me talk about things like love and hate and how I feel about people because I rarely feel anything. I don't hate anyone (perhaps Neva, but she's a valid exception), nor do I share the slightest bit of affection for another human being. I don't feel, I just am. There are those who would tell me that there's nothing wrong with that, that it will make me a stronger tribute and a stronger human being, but I can't lie and say that existing like this isn't miserable. Given the choice, I would change everything, be all bright and sunny like Goss used to be. Like I once was as a small child. But my stoic persona is one I have known since I was eight years old and the weight of the world fell on my shoulders, and I know that at this point there is no turning back.

"I wouldn't say that I hated you." I am careful, walking on eggshells in this unfamiliar territory as I crumple the wrapper from my protein bar and shove it down inside the brown paper bag. I have to struggle to meet his eyes because I have always found that sharp gaze unsettling, even more so now that he has dragged me kicking and screaming out of my element and into this emotion-infested hell. "I guess the reason I always beat you up is because I thought you were making fun of me. I mean, I'm not used to people telling me I'm pretty and all that shit. It freaks me out. My natural first assumption was that you were mocking me. What reason would I have to think otherwise?"

My shrug is meant to be nonchalant, but it is more jerky than I mean it to be, coming across as hostile and offensive.I wad up the paper bag and toss it with a soft thud into a nearby trashcan, still fixing my eyes steadily on the table's surface. "I don't really know, Harlow. I don't know how I felt. You irritated the shit out of me, that much is clear. But I didn't hate you."

The words don't come out they way I want them to (they never do), and I give an exasperated huff of air as I pinch the bridge of my nose between two fingers. Why couldn't Goss have just left this alone, kept the emotions out of it? He can't expect me to be free with my feelings when I have nothing to give.

[Eastern Orange]

T H I N K I N G | S P E A K I N G | L I S T E N I N G
A U D I T O R Y H A L L U C I N A T I O N S / V I S U A L H A L L U C I N A T I O N S

I try not to feel too disappointed. She hates you. What did I expect? A confession that she had always loved me and my advances toward her were a dream come true? She hates you.I knew she wasn’t that girl. I knew she didn’t – and probably never would – return my feelings. She hates you. “You irritated the shit out of me, that much is clear. But I didn't hate you." That’s what she says, but that’s not was I hear, or believe. She hates you. She was probably just saying that to soften the blow. She hates you. I remember how she used to beat me up. I lift my hand to touch my distorted collar bone, proof of her hatred. She hates you. I grind my teeth and clench my fists, trying to block out the voice in my head. I’ve gotten good at ignoring it, but I’m having difficulty right now. She hates you. Everyone hates you. I don’t listen. She hates you. She said she didn’t hate me, she said I just irritated her. That’s different. She lied. She hates you. Shut up. She hates you. Stop it. She hates you.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” I finally snarl through clenched teeth. I cover my ears to block out the voice even though I know it’s coming from within me. She hates you. She is using you. She doesn’t want you. You are useless. You are a freak. You are unwanted. My fingers dig into my scalp and I screw my eyes shut, a low moan emitting from my throat. Useless. Unwanted. Alone. Freak. Hated. Hated. Hated. I growl and yank on my hair, shaking my head from side to side, trying to silence the voice. The Capitol is watching. They are disappointed. You are failing them. They have no use for you anymore. They will not cure you, even if you win. You will never be rid of me. You are a failure. I waste of space. “SHUT UP!” I yell again, slamming my head on the table.

"That is not a very productive way of dealing with your illness." I jump straight up and look next to me to see a guy in his mid-twenties sitting where a guy in his mid-twenties had not been before. A shiver rolls down my spine and I flinch away from him. "Zenith." I hiss. The guy smiles that smile of his. The one that clubs, that beats, that kills. "Y-you're not real. Dr. Mills said you aren't real." Zenith makes a tsking noise and his grin widens. "That hurts, Gosser. After all we've been through?" His hand reaches out and pats the side of my face. "After all I have taught you?" I scramble away from his touch, falling off the side of the bench in my haste. I ignore the pain that jackknife's up my spine when my ass hits the ground, and shoot to my feet, Zenith raising with me. "Is that who I think it is? Corinne was it?" he asks, nodding his head toward Corinne. I tense. "Leave her out of it." I say flatly, my protectiveness for Corinne overriding my fear of Zenith.

Zenith just snickers and walks around to her side of the table and stands behind her. "Get away from her." I snarl, but I don't move to stop him. "Why so uptight Gosser?" Zenith says, bending over to breathe in Corinne's scent. "You heard her. She hates you. But you still like her don't you? I remember how obsessed you were before you went to that mental hospital." I growl and clench my fists. "She didn't say that. Leave her alone!" Zenith looks up at me, the look on his face effectively washing away my new-found courage. "You know, you could just take what you want." My heart stops and all the blood drains from my face. "What? What are you saying?" Memories of the days before being locked in the mental hospital flood my mind. Memories of Zenith making me do things. Assaults, muggings, shoplifting, all accumulating to the attempted murder of some jerk that had called me out. I chickened out at the last minute, thankfully. But then I went home and shoved my face full of pills and alcohol. I got lucky again, though. My mom caught me and took me to get my stomach pumped and then had me carted off to the mental hospital. All of that was because of Zenith. He had some sort of power over me. It's like he can get me to do anything.

"You know what I mean." His grin is wide and malicious. He licks his lips. "You want her. Take her. You can subdue her, and you know it. And look where we are. All you would have to do is drag her further into the alley..." I go cold and I back up. "Nononononono." I stammer, shaking my head vehemently. "You know you want it. You want her. Just take her. No one is here to stop you. Go on. It's been awhile. Might as well get on the horse again - or girl, as the case may be - with someone you like, right?" I continue my retreat but my back hits cold brick. I have gone as far as I can go. "Stop it! You're not real! Stopstopstop!" I place my hands over my ears and close my eyes. "I'm not that guy anymore. I'm not. I don't need to listen to you anymore. I don't need you." I look up at Zenith, my face determined. Zenith glowers at me, slowly straightening. He makes his way toward me, and even though I know I can't go any further I push myself against the wall harder. "I'm just trying to help." He purrs, standing toe to toe with me. "You're talking about rape" Disgust colors my voice. "You. Are. Not. Real." Zenith's face twitches into something ugly and the fear raises in me so fast that I think I might throw up. His face literally transforms into something serpentine, fingers of flames shooting out his nostrils and mouth as he talks. "Is this real enough?" He hisses, and his head lunges forward and bites into my shoulder. I scream and scream and scream, liquid fire burning through my veins and frying my insides.

I'm not being bitten by a human-snake, and Zenith is no where to be seen. It's just me and Corinne in the alley. The blood curdling scream cuts off abruptly, leaving a ringing silence in it's place. I'm soaked in sweat, and my entire body is shaking. I'm still pressed against the wall. I slowly slide myself down, the bricks scraping up my bare back quite nicely, but I'm too freaked out to notice. I curl into the fetal position, clutching my head between my arms and pressing my face into my knees. I try to calm my breathing and stop my shaking, but all I can think about is Zenith's fangs digging into my shoulder. Not to mention what the fuck Corinne must think of me right now. Oh holy fuck. What a fucking lunatic I must be to her now. I was fucking talking to myself like she wasn't even there.

[/color][/size][/blockquote][/justify]

[Deleted]

I can't help but give a small twitch of surprise at his response (while I've told Goss to shut up innumerable times he's never even politely asked me to be quiet, much less reciprocated the statement), and I blink a few times in a way that almost indicate how off-guard he's thrown me. "Excuse me?"

Goss has never been one to sugarcoat things, but when he repeats himself with more emphasis (and by emphasis I mean very loud profanity and smashing his head against the table) I know something's amiss. "Harlow, what's your issue? Are you having some sort of freak out, because -"

And then he starts talking to thin air. Not like the irritated mumbling I sometimes do to myself when I'm in a foul mood, but literally talking to thin air, having an extremely animated conversation with someone who very clearly isn't there. Something comes up about Zenith (what/who the hell is that?) and not being real before he suddenly starts glaring at me - if me is what he's really seeing in that warped little mind of his - iceblue eyes all narrowed and hostile and everything I'm not used to from him as he falls of the bench in a bout of unusual clumsiness. "Leave her out of it."

"Leave who out of it? Jesus, Harlow, there's no one here besides you and me, so snap out of it!" I do my best to sound rough and annoyed with the whole situation, but deep down I'm more than a little shaken. Goss has always been the consummate laid-back, flippant teenage hooligan, and watching him wig out like this feels almost wrong, like I'm witnessing something I shouldn't be seeing. I have always been insecure about watching people in their weakness because of the insecurity I possess myself, and in the midst of being a captive audience to Goss' lapse in normalcy I am reminded of a very traumatic lapse of my own...

I am eleven years old and reasonably satisfied with my life, succeeding more often than I fail and only rarely having to deal with the painful inconvenience of punishments involving withholding my medication (I got a B on a test last week, but I only got a day for that so it wasn't too bad). Small feet pad quietly up the hallway as I lug my full backpack towards my room, determined to ace that next science test so maybe Daddy's eyes won't look so disappointed when he looks at me anymore.

"Hey, Corie, c'mere!" A silky alto calls to me from behind a cracked door and I blink slowly, wondering why Neva would want to see me. Childish mind still believing in fairytales and the possibility of sisterly love I gently push open the door, stepping quietly into the hallowed space and still managing to gasp in awe at the brilliant glimmer of the Victor's crown in its place of honor on the shelf over her bed. Neva's room is a giant trophy case, certificates of achievements immortalized in frames on her wall and training medals hanging from a corkboard over the desk, all paling in comparison to the glorious diadem that sits above the rest of her more insignificant accomplishments. She sits at her desk like a queen on her throne, all dark, silky locks, bottomless eyes, mysterious smile, dangerously beautiful in every sense of the world (since I can remember I've always wanted to be her but now I more realistically hope that one day I can at least come close). Delicate olive-skinned fingers skate over the keyboard of some Capitol-made device, pulling up a video player. "Come check this out."

I draw hesitantly, wordlessly up behind her, dark doe-eyes fixed on the screen as she clicks the play button. At first I am confused - how did she get a camera into my room without me noticing? - but the confusion quickly shifts to unadulterated horror as I watch myself quietly shut the door, all shaky and too pale as I reach out and grip the edge of my desk for support. And then it happens and for the first time I actually see it because when I have a seizure it always goes black, but now I'm left staring at the screen in unadulterated, wide-eyed terror as my own lithe form slumps to the floor, convulsing grotesquely for a minute or so before I go still, panting and shivering and still half-unconscious as I drag myself into bed and pull the covers over me, falling asleep in the aftermath of what has always felt like a nightmare but has now turned out to be too-harsh reality as the camera sputters and flickers top blackness.

"I just thought you should know why they hate you," Neva smiles with a heavy dose of poisoned sweetness, stylist-molded canines flashing dangerously as I back away from the computer still in shock. "After all, why would they want a spastic little freak for a daughter when they've got me? Now you see what we see, Corie. How does it make you feel?"

Without answering her I turn on my heel and run out of the room, legs propelling me down the hall with as much force as I can make them exert until I find refuge in my own room, slamming the door so no one sees me collapse into a sobbing heap on the floor, my unspoken answer reverberating in my head.

It makes me feel like I'll never be good enough.

A shriek pulls me out of the awful reverie, glazed-over eyes clearing to see Goss slumped against the wall of the alley, looking terrified but far more lucid than he did a few moments ago. He seems to have returned to himself, so I arch an eyebrow delicately and try to retain a stoic composure. "You done yet? So this is what you were talking about, eh, Harlow?"

I pause for a second's time, wondering if sympathy is what he would want right now and why I am even experiencing the foreign emotion. But nonetheless, I walk over and kneel down in front of him, making sure he's all right. "It looks tough. Real tough. You okay?"

[Eastern Orange]

T H I N K I N G | S P E A K I N G | L I S T E N I N G
A U D I T O R Y H A L L U C I N A T I O N S / V I S U A L H A L L U C I N A T I O N S

I hear Corrine’s voice from far away, garbled, like I’m under water. I can’t understand her. All I can see is this rushing blackness in front of my eyes, and a snarling voice in my ear. She is disgusted by you. You let Zenith down because of that little tramp. What were you thinking. I take a shuddering breath and shake my pounding head slowly. “No…Stop.” I plead; I can’t stand this voice any longer. You are a piece of worthless shit, not fit to even live. When she looks at you that is all she sees. A steaming pile of dog shit. You are nothing. Nothing!

I lift my head away from my hands and look up at the sky, my body sagging with fatigue. What is going on? Yesterday, I was completely fine. The voice was mercifully silent, and I didn’t have one hallucination all day. Yet today...Shit is flying at me from left and right. My head is spinning, and the sky tilts on an axis. The pure, vibrant blue is slowly polluted by murky black tendrils, colliding and intertwining. I squint at the sky, trying to make sense of the intricate patterns being made by the sinister objects. I watch them, entranced by their slow, deliberate movements. Two collide head on, and they are pushed downward, toward earth. I watch with horrified awe as they grow bigger and nearer. It isn’t until it’s too late, that I realized they are going to plunge right into Corinne. Before I can even formulate words, the tentacles plummet the last couple of feet in seconds, slamming right into Corinne’s skull. Blood and brain matter splatter everywhere, and paint my face with more blood. I jump, and my hands go out instinctively, wanting to turn back time and push her out of the way.

I tilt my head, looking at Corinne in a detached sort of way. The bundle of tentacles speared her through her head and then went straight into the earth in a spray of asphalt. It all happened so fast that it kind of locked her in place; she was still kneeling in front of me. Slowly I reach out my hand, and brush her cheek with the back of my hand. The skin that I touched rapidly starts to decay. The decay spreads, crumbling her face inward. I flinch and jerk my hand back.

And it all turns back to normal.

I shudder and look back up at the sky. Slowly, I move away from the wall, wincing when I feel a thousand different cuts sing in pain over my flexing muscles. I rise to my feet and nearly fall down again, but I catch myself. My head is poundpoundpounding, and my heart is a frenzied bird, beating against a cage to be set free. I can’t look at Corrine. I don’t look at her. I gulp and run a shaking hand through my bleached hair. It’s sopping wet from sweat, and stays slicked back. I still don’t look at Corrine. I zero in on my duffel bag laying next to the table. I stagger over to it and fall to my knees. I hurriedly paw through my bag and pull out the blue container that holds my medicine. I stare down out it, working my jaw, debating whether to pop the pills. Haloperidol. Side effects include seizures, drowsiness, headaches, tremors, fever, uncontrollable muscle movements, and increased sexual desires but decreased sexual ability in men – the list goes on. I bounce the pills on my palms, thinking. Crazy ass hallucinations or…just general suck? It’s a lose-lose situation. There is no right choice. I sigh and toss the pills back in my bag.

Warily I glace back up at the sky. The black tendrils are doing their dance again. I sigh and look back at the pavement. “It never stops.” I whisper. I cut my eyes over to Corinne, trying not to actually see her; I don’t want to see her look of disgust. “Uh…I’m sorry. I’ll just get the rest of my things from inside and leave.” I point feebly at the training center, and shuffle away, dragging my duffel bag behind me.

[Deleted]

For a minute I think that he might finally be calmed down, but then Goss' eyes get this strange look in them, the usually crystalline blue clouding over and seeming far away, distant, and something tells me that he must be seeing things again. The logical part of my mind screeches at me to back away as quickly as possible in case he has a complete spaz attack, but the damnable, newly-developed concern sits in a heavy ball right behind my sternum and keeps me tethered to the patch of pavement. I don't like it, having feelings. I had forgotten what the experience was like, and it leaves me feeling intensely vulnerable.

Goss' prone frame gives a noticeable twitch and his hands fly out to touch something that isn't really there. I have no way of knowing what's going on inside his head, but there's a palpable horror (and could that be heartbreak? I am unfamiliar with the sensation) in his eyes that makes the heaviness in my chest increase much to my own dismay. It's so dense that I can't even start to formulate any words that might bring him back to the real world before he slowly reaches out, brushing a hand across the side of my face with a gentleness that startles me more than it should.

I hate it. Not because of the fact that physical contact, especially the affectionate kind, has never been my forte or because "Gossamer Harlow" and "personal space" have never, ever been in the same sentence together when it comes to me, but because of what the simple touch has done to my sense of balance. Although the contact is familiar (they are hands that I've always trusted - to spot me when I'm lifting something heavy, to hold my arm steady when I took a fall the wrong way a few years ago and broke it so badly that the bone punched through the skin) it seems entirely different, sending an unpleasant swooping sensation rocketing through my stomach and blood pounding in my ears. My mouth drops open as if I'm about to say something, but words refuse yet again to make an appearance, so I hurriedly purse my lips together in a tight line and attempt to look indifferent as Goss' eyes clear and he returns to reality.

Wordlessly, he pushes himself to his feet and shuffles back over through the table, pawing through his bag until he unearths a small container that looks incredibly similar to the little pharmacy bottles my medicine comes in. So he has medication for these hallucinations? Goss gives a short huff of air and tosses the container back into his bag, fixing his eyes on the sky above us. So if he has medicine, why doesn't he take it? "It never stops."

I have to try extremely hard to bit back a snarky well, it might stop if you took your damn meds, instead staying in a contemplative silence as I run my fingers over the roughness of the pavement (I have no idea why I'm still curled up on the ground, other than that my head is still reeling and standing seems like a bad idea). His gaze meets mine and against my will, my hand comes up and fingers skate absently over the plane of my cheekbone, the spot still feeling unusually warm. But it seems like as soon as Goss looks at me he looks away just as quickly, shouldering his bag and heading back towards the door. “Uh…I’m sorry. I’ll just get the rest of my things from inside and leave.”

"Woah, hold on a second!" I scramble to my feet in a way that looks more than a little ungainly in contrast with my usual feline grace, crossing over to him in a few long strides. "What happened to sparring? I need to get my evaluation done."

There's too much emotional investment behind the words - I long for my default, even contralto that betrays nothing and gives nothing away - and I'm forced to admit that I sound a little petulant and selfish in my delivery. Of course when you're a Career, selfishness is the norm, but whining certainly isn't. Catching myself displaying far too much of what's going on inside my head, I avert my eyes, hastily brushing at the dust that clings to my shorts and sending clouds of the little particles dancing away into the sunlight. That heaviness in my chest makes me have a little insight into what Goss must be thinking right now, how he thinks I must view him after two consecutive freakouts. The words press at my throat and I try to shove them back down (there's too much camaraderie and reassurance and feeling in them for me to say them right), only resulting in an awful feeling that makes me feel like I'm choking to death.

No longer thinking clearly, my hand darts out and closes around his wrist, my skin's olive tones contrasting against his bright pallor. "Harlow, listen. Whatever this... this thing is, it doesn't change anything, okay? We're still..." Still what? Sparring parters? Friends? Something far more complicated than either of those, that's for sure. "We're still the same. Nothing's going to change that."

[Eastern Orange]

T H I N K I N G | S P E A K I N G | L I S T E N I N G
A U D I T O R Y H A L L U C I N A T I O N S / V I S U A L H A L L U C I N A T I O N S

“I need to get my evaluation done.” That stops me in my tracks. I slowly turn to face her, my face the epitome of indignation. “You need to get your evaluation done?” I repeat; my flat, cold tone surprises me. “We excuse me. I wasn’t aware that I should put my needs after yours!” She has always used you Gosser. She doesn’t care about you. She hates you. She uses you. You are nothing to her but a toy, a plaything. She has just strung you along this entire time. My face screws up in disgust, and I turn away from her. “Fucking spar with someone else. I shouldn’t have come here. I’m not ready for this.”

A cold hand encircles my wrist, holding me back. Once again, Corinne has me frozen. She has never, never, touched me outside of sparring. I’ve always been the one hanging on to her. She has never dared…I turn my head back to look at her, curious. But her words do nothing but throw fuel on the fire. I yank my wrist from her grip and bring it up as if to smack her, which is what I want to do. Instead, I just point an accusatory finger at her. “It’s not a thing.” My voice lashes out like a whip. “It’s schizophrenia.” There’s that bitterness again. She has me riled up now, my is pulse jumping in my veins and I’m seeing everything through a red haze. “You just saw what I went through, and you still want me to spar with you? What are you?” She hates you. See how she doesn’t care at all for you? This is your first day back and you can’t even keep your shit together. You are a loser. You know it. I know it. She knows it. You are nothing. You will be alone forever.

I flinch away from her when I realize that I’m practically standing right on top of her, my face just inches from her. I back off, shaking my head. “We’re still the same?” I repeat, my voice edging into higher octaves, ringing with my insanity. “What were we before?” I bark out a harsh laugh. “Sparring buddies? That’s all you want, isn’t it? You don’t care about anyone but yourself. You know, my friends, when I had them, they never understood why I tried to be nice to you. They just passed you off as some cold hearted bitch. In fact, that’s what they referred to you as: ‘The cold hearted bitch.’ I didn’t listen to them, I thought I could lure the real you out. Turns out you’ve been showing your true colors this entire time, and I was just too stupid to see, or perhaps I was just an optimist. Well guess what? I’ve finally seen the heartless, selfish bitch you truly are. Hey, delusions are part of my fucked-up brain, thinking you were a good person was probably just one of them. I was so fucking dumb to let myself fall for someone like you.”

A blaring silence fills the alley, only my ragged breathing disturbing the quiet. I want to take back everything I just said, but what was the point? What does it even matter anymore? The walls around me are leaking blood, and the ground is sloshing around like it is alive. I’m sick. I’m really sick. I should not be here. You really shouldn’t. They can get you if you walk out and about like this. They are always watching you, but if you leave your house they can get you. They can snatch you up and muck around in your brain. I fell invisible eyes on me, millions of them. Goosebumps rise on my arms, and the hair on the back of my neck prickles. I cast fearful eyes about, looking for something, anything. I don’t see anything. It’s her fault. She brought them here. She is doing this to you on purpose! I grit my teeth, and through my bag away from me. I assume a fighting stance, slowly raising my fists into position. “You want a fight?” I snarl. “Fine.”

[Deleted]

You were my conscience
So solid, now you're like water
And we started drowning
Not like we'd sink any farther

I like to think that I am not easily wounded, that silly things like words and how other people feel don't have an effect on me. And for the millionth time, it seems, I'm proved wrong. I flinch when Goss yanks his hand away, my eyes momentarily obscured by a flurry of surprised blinks at the sudden shift in his attitude (I'm beginning to think I'll never get used to the mood swings). And there's something about all of this - the recoiling, the glares, the harsh words - that actually burns somewhere behind my sternum so intensely that I begin to wonder if it's altogether healthy. I usually walk tall, spine straight and head high so no one can touch me, but with every scathing sentence I get the highly unpleasant sensation of sinking to the ground because he's right, he's always been the only one who stubbornly believed that there was a whole person, a good person somewhere inside of me, and now he's realized the truth, and it kills me inside whether I choose to acknowledge it or not (I don't, of course, things like emotions get too messy if you admit that they're real). Still, the scathing venom from the last person I would ever have expected it from sears white-hot all through me no matter how hard I try to stop it, words reverberating through my mind.

What are you?

I'm the girl you kissed on the playground the first day of kindergarten.

You don't care about anyone but yourself...

I know. It's the only way I know how to be.

I’ve finally seen the heartless, selfish bitch you truly are...

I'm glad. Everyone else has. I wonder what took you so long.

I was so fucking dumb to let myself fall for someone like you...

You were.

Someone like you...

It's okay, I hate me too.

Fall for you...

Wait, what?

My eyes widen involuntarily, that scorching spot in my chest kicking up a notch, almost bringing me to my knees to the point that standing becomes an all-out battle (but nothing, nothing will ever make me surrender because the word is not in my vocabulary). The words stick in my throat the way they always do, the awful burning threatening to spread outward and consume me completely unless I speak or act or for the love of God do something besides standing here and being incinerated from the inside out.

"Wh-what?" It's all I can manage to get out, but it's better than nothing although the relief from this awful new sensation (guilt, perhaps? It's not something I've ever experienced but if this is an indication of what the feeling entails I'd prefer to never deal with it again) is minimal at best. Under everything else is a swirling current of confusion that continually keeps me from regaining my formerly firm handhold on reality. "Harlow, what are you talking about? What do you mean 'fall for someone like' - oh."

Oh. There's nothing else to say because I can't deal with something of this magnitude, I won't deal with it because matters of the heart come none-too-easily to someone whose heart has been encased in a carefully-constructed stone vault for so many years that it doesn't remember that it exists anymore. Words like love and care and together sit on some high shelf in my soul, dusty from lack of use, and I refuse to move them from their place because they are indicators of weakness, attachment, countless other things that I can't afford to get tangled up in. What could I possibly say that would make everything go back to coveted normalcy after Goss has dropped the atom bomb of emotional turbulence into the midst of things? A million condolences swirl on my tongue but I bite them back, for once in my life scared to damage someone else.

I'd like to think that maybe one day you could be the one to put me back together. But I need to stay broken for now. I feel safer this way.

When I snap back to my senses he's still scowling, seething with anger that I never intended to cause (can I not do anything right? I'm beginning to think I can't). Icy orbs narrow in my direction and make me feel much smaller than I'd like to admit as his bag collides against the wall with a dull thud. The agile form that has grown so familiar over the years folds itself into an even more familiar fighting stance, that cold glare never leaving. "You want a fight? Fine."

There are too many unwanted emotions boiling just below the surface and it makes me edge on hysteria, heart pounding far too fast and air refusing to enter or leave my constricted lungs. The sensation is uncomfortable similar to the feeling I get just before a seizure (all that it's missing is the phantom tremors through my limbs), making fear spike through my veins along with all the other rushing sensations. I clamp my eyes shut and take a deep breath, once, twice, three times, willing balance and stoicism to return until I finally become something resembling my normal self, opening brown orbs that hopefully are as empty and void as usual to take in the scene anew.

"Cool your jets, Harlow. Maybe I was a little pushy; my bad. Come on, let's go back inside. We can do target practice or something." I reach out gingerly and my fingers brush his arm slightly before renewing their grip around his wrist, giving a slight tug towards the door.

I try to ignore that same burning sensation that rockets under my skin at the contact, pushing it below my notice until it's just more white noise. As many as my shortcomings are, I'll be the first to brag that I have a talent for shutting out the world for my own self-preservation.

But I let my heart go
It's somewhere down at the bottom
But I'll get a new one and come back
For the hope that you've stolen