Fear No Pain // (Cameron) [Justice Building Blitz]

[L△LIA]

( C A L L I O P E L O R N E B L O O M )





A boy with a coin he crammed in his jeans
Then making a wish he tossed in the sea
Walked to a town that all of us burn
When God left the ground to circle the world

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There's a certain kind of masochistic curiosity that can't be tamed. Those are the moments when you know you should stay away, but you also know there's no stopping yourself from walking through that door to find out just what kind of person it is who will be following in your brother's footsteps. Maybe you pause at the all-too-familiar door first, gently running your hand over the surface as you try to swallow down the bile that rises up your throat as you realize that repeating this visit is akin to creating a sick tradition, that a year isn't long enough to forget anything properly, that even if the boy on the other side of this boundary is nothing like Aesop there will still be no shaking the connection between him and—

Sucking a breath in through your teeth, you pull your fingers back into a fist, but forget if you were planning to knock for the sake of politeness or if you're just trying to prepare yourself properly. Instead you tuck your hands into your pockets and nudge the door open with your foot, which is a smart move, because children always learn from a young age not to touch surfaces that will burn them. It creaks open with a sound like go away, but the momentum of it all is enough to pull you forward anyway, past more than one kind of threshold. "They said your name was Ethan?" The question feels ridiculous, but you want to be sure. Sometimes memories are the only thing a person has worth giving to another person, the promise that death won't erase them completely from the earth, and you certainly don't have anything better to offer the boy in front of you now, the boy who probably shares nothing in common with your dead brother except for the part where they've been sentenced to the same fate.




(OOC — There's a rule somewhere that says Lalia blitz posts must be in 2nd person. I didn't even mean to do it. It just happened. XD)

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[cameron]

tongue tip tied to the roof of my mouth
bad naughty little angels come rushin' out
i guess you guessed that i'd catch hell
i just caught a cold but now i'm feelin' well

He was placed in the justice building to wait. To fucking wait for what seemed like hours upon hours upon motherfucking hours when he could be outside doing anything else. Ethan just wanted to fuck shit up; how the hell was that supposed to happen if he was trapped in the fucking justice building in case his family wanted to say goodbye? He didn't even have a fucking family. He ate his parents alive and Phunke was supposed to make his sister but never did his sister is lost to him. So who the fuck was he even waiting for? Their ghosts?

Fuck that shit. Standing up, Ethan went to leave the room, when he heard the doorknob fumbling around. He dashed back to his seat in case it was a Peacekeeper--didn't prticularly want to get shot by one of those at the moment--and waited for the door handle to turn sideways. The door opened and in stepped some small, squinty-eyed, dark-skinned, Sundra-Wie-looking girl. "They said your name was Ethan?" she piped up, obviously nervous. What the hell was she even doing here? Fucking bitch. He should bite off her pinky, teach her a lesson on interrupting Ethan from ..well, nothing, but not like he wanted to talk to this bitch!

"That's damn right. I'm Ethan. And who, may I ask, are you?" The blatant sarcasm and the venom in his voice should sting that defenseless little devil, he hoped, as he spat his words at her in the most fake-polite way he could manage. Hmmph. Served her right. Interrupting his nothing like that. Motherfucker.

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[L△LIA]

( C A L L I O P E L O R N E B L O O M )





Memories fade like looking through a fogged mirror
Decisions too
Decisions are made and not bought
But I thought this wouldn't hurt a lot
I guess not

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Maybe it's because you're something beyond rattled by everything about this day and the cruel memories it stirs up in you, but the contrast of such polite wording as "may I ask" against his tone of voice catches you off-guard enough that a single beat of unexpected laughter bursts out your mouth. This is not the kind of attitude one would expect from a tribute of the sixth District — there is certainly none of Aesop's teary-eyed fear in Ethan's face. You immediately slap a hand over your mouth, eyes terror-wide as the sound settles awkwardly in your ears, because it is so wrong wrong wrong in a place and time like this. Still, you have to continue to hold your hand there as the implication of his question becomes apparent.

You are a type of Games poster child all your own. After your brother practically preached sermons about your goodness, you gained something of a cult following in the Capitol. Reporters followed you around not simply because of Aesop, but because of you. The more attention he drew to himself — a drugged-up bloodbath and ensuing spiral into withdrawal, a shotgun marriage to the girl from District Five, constant rambling with more words than sense — the more the camera sought you out, begging for shallow insights, because, despite it all, no one ever really cared to understand, they just wanted to play pretend too. As a result, there aren't a lot of people left in Panem who wouldn't immediately recognize you as the sister of a certain almost-victor. Although their way of wording it tends to be far less kind.

The lack of recognition is refreshing, something you didn't even know you missed until now, and when you pull the hand away from your mouth, you realize you've actually cocked a grin. "Thank you —" Despite being genuine with the sentiment, you can't help how it's laced with your own measure of sarcasm. "— for your kind words." You're about to continue with the snide sparring, reveling in your own unexpected amusement, until your eyes drift from him for a moment and catch on the deadly-sharp edges of the room, reminding you exactly where you are. This is haunted ground. Your smile dies and becomes a ghost all its own. "I'm Calliope Bloom."

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[cameron]

we'll all start a fire
if the bells don't ring in our home town
they're just cheats and liars
they will serve you well

Crossing his arms, the male leaned back in his chair and measured the scrawny child, looking her up and down, determining if she'd be a good candidate for an after-Reaping snack. Despite her size, he seemed to imagine her tasting rather scrumptious, like a fucking roast with cherries and a side of applesauce. Maybe it was just her skin complexion, but she practically radiated honey-baked, and Ethan could never pass down a nice home cooked dinner.

Her mouth moved and she seemed to be talking, but Ethan didn't give half a flying fuck what she was saying. Words didn't affect her fate. She could try talking him out of it with sweet sayings of sorrow and her sad little life as an only child who lost her parents in a tsufuckingnami, but it wouldn't change shit. In an hour's time her body would be in separate pieces, most already travelling down his digestive track. Of course, she had no clue it was coming, but once he took his first bite she'd have no time to react anymore. He was aiming straight for the neck with this one. Juiciest neck he'd eyed in a while, and the girl who previously used his token had a grand neck as well. Maybe the D6ers were just becoming fucking giraffes or some shit, who knew. Who cared. Fuck that, it was dinner time.

As he began to move forward, preparing to lunge, the girl told him her name, and he stopped dead in his tracks. She was the Bloom boy's sister, that famous one with the name that sounded like that type of shrimp—calabash? Some shit like that. She was a fucking legend 'round these parts, especially in the justice building he was sure. Several of the recent girls he had devoured had mentioned her a time or two before their ultimate demise.

Of course, someone that famous would probably be considered a delicacy to his taste buds. One little bite wouldn't hurt.. Biting his lip and drawing blood, he stared her in the eye. "You. Wish me luck, alright? I don't fucking need it, but wish it nonethefuckingless. And when I return, maybe we can meet up again." If that happened, she'd be a goner. Gave him something to look forward to in the Games, at least. Honey-baked bitch, ready to be eaten alive.

Oh, what a wonderful life he lived.

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[L△LIA]

( C A L L I O P E L O R N E B L O O M )





Control yourself
Take only what you need from it
A family of trees wanted to be haunted
Control yourself
Take only what you need from it

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Disappointment flickers through your eyes for the briefest of moments as he pulls up short at the mention of your name. You will never escape the Bloom family infamy. All those childhood thoughts you used to have about growing up to be like your mother, making medicine and being renowned for the preservation of life... that is foolishness. Although there's no doubt that you will slip from people's minds — each year, new children (like Ethan) will steadily take your brother's place and each of their deaths will push Aesop's a little further into history until he is as much of a hazy blur to them as they were to his morphling addled eyes — that name of yours will forever cause them to pull up short. They will say (perhaps more to themselves than to you): "Bloom... huh. I've heard that name before. You look familiar, like someone I used to know. Have we met?" You will shake your head in response — silent, awkward, and unable to stop from thinking to yourself: No, we haven't met, but you watched my brother die once. You make forgetting look so easy.

Then again, here you are, lost in your own thoughts instead of your concern for the boy in front of you. Can you name the ones who came before Aesop and Ethan, Calliope? Can you tick them off on your fingers with enough sorrow to make your hands shake? I didn't think so. "You." Ethan's voice sends a jolt down your spine, almost as though calling you out on your own selfishness. That's right, Calliope, aren't you supposed to at least be pretending that you're not here because of yourself? "Wish me luck, alright? I don't fucking need it, but wish it nonethefuckingless. And when I return, maybe we can meet up again." Maybe his word choice should bother you, maybe that's even his fucking intention, but you've heard worse growing up around your street rat brothers and their colorful clientele. It's the sight of fresh blood that sets your feet off, closing the distance between the two of you until you're close enough that you swear you can smell it.

Stupid girl, you're too busy looking at how he's bitten through his own flesh to realize how much he'd prefer to bite into yours. Instead you're reaching out impulsively, wiping the red away from his mouth with the pad of your thumb, as if that could somehow be helpful to anything. It's not. "Good luck," you say compliantly as you study his blood on your skin and wonder how different it feels to be covered in the blood of someone you have to kill to save yourself as opposed to that of someone you'd like to save. "I'm glad you don't need it though, because I don't think I actually have any to give you." There certainly wasn't enough to save Aesop. "But good luck anyway. I hope you kill them all, tearing them limb from limb until there's no one left to say you're crazy for it. If one of them tries to say you are —" There's so much bitterness in your voice that it leaves no room for the sarcasm you originally intended to fill your tone with; your words hold too much truth. "— cut their tongue out with a switchblade for me? Tell them it's a present for Aesop Bloom's sister; she's —" crazy "— a collector too."

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[cameron]

face away from the sun
just have to keep a dialogue
teach our bodies: haunt the cause
i was only trying to spell a loss

Breathing became hard when he realized how fucking badass this honey-baked bitch was. At first glance, he had mistaken her as a soft-cored, innocent little child, like a kitten wanting to play games with a ball of yarn. Now he could see that she wasn't a kitten, but a fucking tiger. Cut their tongues out so they can't call him crazy? The fuck was that shit about? He had never cut a tongue out before, and Lane hadn't seemed to enjoy the experience too much—it also made a certain activity more difficult; but, who's to say he wouldn't like severing tongues? Might even give the bitch an orgasm, and that was always something to look forward to.

Blink. Back on topic. Callifarrarri, was it? Yeah, sounds about right. Whatever. Staring into her eyes, he tried to see if she was kidding or not, but no sarcasm was displayed; instead, the ferocious side of her shone through, and it fucking turned him on! He was squirming in the chair, trying to push the rising bulge down and out of visibility.

Maybe he could just go piss? Yeah, that would do. There was a bathroom in the back of the room.

So he ran.

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[L△LIA]

( C A L L I O P E L O R N E B L O O M )




Regrets collect like old friends
Here to relive your darkest moments
I can see no way, I can see no way
And all of the ghouls come out to play
Every demon wants his pound of flesh

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It takes a moment for the horror to set in, for the sinister echos of your words to come rebounding back toward you. They take a cheap shot, right at your gut, knowing you're too stunned to fight back. It's almost enough to make you wretch and perhaps it was too much for Ethan, as he turns heel and bolts for the bathroom before another sound can escape your throat. Would you apologize even if you could find your voice? You just stand there, choking on all the emotions you're usually so much better at suppressing, but can't seem to keep swallowed down now that the Reaping has returned to remind you just how much you hate the world.

Everyone remembers the moment Aesop Bloom began to beat a girl to death with her own severed leg. There wasn't a television screen in Panem that wasn't lit up with the scene, scorching the memory into the mind of every man, woman, and nightmare-stricken child witnessing it — particularly the ones in District Six, for whom the violence hit a little closer to home. However, you seem to be the only one willing to see the shame in him that followed. Where was their attention when he was curled up in a ball of shell-shocked guilt afterward, when the drugs had faded and he was himself again? While there was much debate as to exactly why Aesop Bloom carried that leg with him (and maybe you're the one who's a little too forgetful of the second time he used it as a weapon), one thing is undeniable: there weren't enough tears of regret in him to wash his legacy clean.

No matter how often you reassure yourself that Aesop wasn't crazy, the rest of your District still seems to whisper the contrary whenever you walk by — just loud enough for you to hear. The idea of judging any of the children forced to enter one of the Capitol's arenas of death is something beyond cruel to you and rage burns steady whenever you're faced with such offhand comments, because they don't know. And maybe you don't either, but after watching your brother slaughtered without hesitance, you are absolutely certain he wasn't the crazy one. After realizing just how many people in Six were relieved that Aesop Bloom would not be returning to them, you're even more convinced that if he was crazy, then you must be the real psychopath for mourning him.

Still, the question you've presented yourself with nags at you: Would you really feel satisfaction if someone cut their blasphemous tongues out? You can't forget the look in Sawyer Monaghan's eyes when Aesop pulled those severed limbs from his rucksack at the end; the words were there even if they didn't leave his mouth: Aesop Bloom is a mad dog who needs to be put down. All the eyes you met in District Six agreed... and there really is a part of you that wishes you had a switchblade all your own to shut them up with. They planted this seed of hatred within you; you swear you didn't grow these emotions on your own. It's the same piece of you that wants to wrap your hands around Mace Emberstatt's throat, should you ever meet him, until you do more than leave bruises. In your worst moments, it's also the voice that screams at Napoleon — the brother you've disowned — about how you wish he had been in Aesop's place. Dead.

Ethan is not your brother, but you are still acutely aware of your connection to him and you don't want to be like the rest of Panem when his Game begins. If others begin to call him crazy too, you're not sure what you'll do, but you swear that word will never leave your mouth. Maybe you can't stop them from saying it — maybe you can't punish their tongues for such sins — but you'll be damned if you won't cut your own tongue out should you find yourself tempted to say the same. "She's a collector too." You turn the words over in your mouth once more, with a soft murmur just short of silence, only to find yourself laughing softly in response. You're no more a collector than Aesop was. These aren't things you want, no. So much the opposite. Just. Like. Him.

You don't know what to say in the wake of your own words, but you follow in Ethan's direction anyway, pausing at the bathroom door to rap your knuckles quietly against the frame. "Ethan." There's no need to explain yourself. Only a truly crazy person would take you seriously enough to believe you were requesting a bouquet of severed tongues as if they were a substitute for flowers. Leaning against the wall, you press your cheek into the cool surface and close your eyes as you speak, as though that might be enough to tame the burning within you, the part that knows you weren't out of line when you told him you hope he tears the other tributes limb from limb. After all, that's what tributes are supposed to do. "Save yourself." No one is going to do it for you. "Slit their throats, claw their hearts out with your bare hands, or crack their skulls with a goddamn coconut. I don't care. If Aesop taught me one thing about the Games, it's that they're not really about dying. So whatever it is you have to do to live —" Aesop also tried to teach you that there is more to living than not dying, but as you open your eyes and look down at the dried flecks of Ethan's blood on your thumb, you suddenly find that detail impossible to remember. "— fucking do it."

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[cameron]

filler