FaceNorth&TellMeTheTime{justicebuilding}

[rook]

Wednesdae Drummond

i'm torn in opposite directions
the plot sucks
but these killings are gorgeous
god damn, these killings are gorgeous

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It's good to be out of the heat of that spotlight, away from the pressure of the cameras and the annoying stares of the scummy kids of District Nine. I can do without it all, the dirty streets and derelict buildings are behind me now as I am escorted into the Justice Building. I'll never walk those streets again, not because I'm going to die in that arena, but because as soon as I've killed the last grimy Tribute and I stand victor, I'm spending the rest of my days in luxury.

I enter the tunnel, a box of red carpet, expensive chandeliers, bizarre paintings and golden wallpaper are my dimensions. The lights are dim in the morning light, halfway between on and off, barely lighting my face at all. I do not need to be illuminated, for I give off my own glow - It is the radiance of a Deity. Rays of confidence poke their way in between my angelic form as I walk free down this unending corridor, like I'm not even on a death march, like I am free. I have no pressure on me, no fear of dying or failing. I am ready for this, because I have an advantage that few of the other Tributes share - I chose this fate. Some have little alternative but to lay down and die, but people like me opted for this route, knowing full well what was being asked.

The faces of previous Tributes are in painting along the wall next to me as I step closer and closer to my fate. Their eyes seem to follow me, I see them judge me. Do they pity me, or admire me? I am not like any of them, I am painfully perfect, so much so that everyone else is dirt to me. Even these dead faces are not pure to me, only in death, before they were cleansed they were just grubby little children scrapping for life in an arena. Will I ever find purity? Probably. I expect that in the Capitol, life will be perfect, and I will meet perfect people just like myself. It's like I belong there.

They lead me past the forgotten faces, and I forget them too. Onward to two very large wooden doors, which are opened each side by an oddly symmetrical pair of Peacekeepers, who then show me inside. The room is flabbergasting, with large expensive ornaments and exquisite furniture. They close the doors behind me and leave me on my own in paradise. I can't stop myself from having a look around the gorgeous room, to which only someone with the ideal mind could have organized. Everything is so brilliantly placed, all in right angles and dust-free. My habits kick in as I scan the polished wooden cabinets and tables, glancing at all the right angles, making sure they are as perfect as they seem. It's all so Capitol. This is the Justice Building, and rightly so, that it should be a good representation of the higher power of us all.

My hands stray behind my back as I puff my chest out to look smart. I know what is coming - My parents are. They will be emotional and saying how foolish I have been for volunteering. I have a lot of explaining to do, and it's not going to be fun. I wait in the void between the Peacekeepers leaving and my parents entering. Everything is quiet except for the precise tick-tick-tick of the large grandfather clock that faces north. Oh Ripred, it faces North, how perfect. I smile in the middle of this madness, waiting on the weight of my parents to poison this otherwise quietly pleasant moment.

In this little bridge of time between meetings, I find myself thinking about what lies ahead of me. I'll probably never have to go back to Blacksmithing, which makes me a little sad. Smithing is my passion and my life, I've striven for the perfect blade over the years, only achieving my dream once or twice. My metal is of a very high standard and it's a living that I've made a lot from. I'll miss the slow glow of the forge on a dark winter evening, when flecks of snow dance around me in a teasing wind. I long for summer days when people walk past my forge when I'm working on something and just stand to admire the raw talent of a Blacksmith. Ripred, I'll even miss accidentally burning myself with piping hot metal, jumping about, swearing and eventually treating the burn. Midst all this talk of fighting for my life, purifying the unworthy and a future vision of glamour in the Captiol I'm throwing away my beloved workshop.

I think back to Christoph Carlisle. He must see me as a Saint. His true colors were revealed up on that stage, when he turned red-faced and refused his fate. I remind myself that his fate has been altered because of me. I had the power of life and death in each hand and felt it tremble in my palms. I did not do this because I felt that Carlisle should live, I did this because I feel that I can really be something. I can win this, I know it, I feel it. All that stands in my way are twenty three other kids, twenty three unknown children who could be dizzy or dangerous. The odds are against me, but I feel so powerful and ready, like I was always meant to do this. No regret fills my body, no cold-feet or second thoughts. I wouldn't have stepped up had I not felt confident that this was what I was meant to do. Yes, I am certain in myself, it is justifying myself to my parents that will be difficult.

And here they come. I hear my mother before I see her, her cries echo through this chamber of right angles and perfectly clean surfaces. The most divine waiting room between life and death. She is pushed through the wooden doors before me, her face is smudged with a blackened rainbow of make-up, streaks of midnight purple and evening forest green from her expensive eye-liner that I bought her for her birthday last year - She only gets it out on special occasions. She would never have expected her perfect little son to volunteer in place of a scumbag like Christoph. My father follows her in, no peacekeepers shove his dominant figure, he walks in on his own steam. He is red too, I wonder if it is shame as much as emotion. What do they think? What do they make of me stepping up to the guillotine?

I am certain that blade will not strike me.

My mother runs and embraces me in her arms, so thin but so strong in their grip. It's like she never wants to let me go. I place my arms around her back and return the hold, staring straight at my father, who is shaking his head at the ghost that I have become. I return a look of apology, knowing that an explanation will be expected of me. If I want to convince all of Panem that I am worthy of cleansing it from it's scum, then I must first convince those closest to me.
"My boy! My little boy!" She whimpers, rather pathetically, I might add. I understand that she sees that her only son is stepping into the firing line with a good chance of not making it out in one piece, but she really should get a grip. I guess I just don't understand parenting.
"Why? W-Why would you do this, Wednesdae?"She asks through bloodshot eyes, stroking the side of my face with the back of her hand, she sees me as perfection, why would she want to ever let me go?

"Have you snapped?"

[/i]My father asks, as if I'm crazy. Maybe I am. Maybe this obsession with the Games and using it as an opportunity to cleanse is a little sudden and extreme, but it's who I am. I'm obsessive, and I can never change that. I don't answer, I simply stare at the floor as my frail mother grips me with what little strength she has. Her thin arms against my well-built blacksmith body are twigs, so easy to break.
"Answer me, boy!" Barks my elder, pressuring a response from me. My mother grips me tighter, like the older, bulkier man is going to harm me. I know he would never lay a finger on my perfect body, he loves me too much.
"I'm sorry..." is all I manage. I give them mercy, some kind of confirmation that this is what I want.

Autumn morning rays cast sepia effects onto our faces as she breaks away, still waiting for a real answer. It will never come, and they both know that. I feel bad, like I have betrayed them both. All these years they thought I was their little Wednesdae Drummond, so perfect and hardworking, but it turned out I was living an imperfect life. Maybe I did 'snap' out there, all this ice-cold hatred inside me that just wants to consume everything with no mercy whatsoever - It has originated from this nagging, nagging, nagging that wants to bleach all impurities.

This is something I have to be committed to, and so I can't feel guilt or sorrow on my parents' behalf. I can't afford to waste time on such filthy emotions, to let my mind trail to memories of my ashamed, abandoned parents would only hold me back and falter my progress. No. I made my decision out in that mob of sweaty youth, and no one can question the decision made. My parents could be filled with shame, but it is my duty to turn that into pride. I must make my parents more proud of me that they have ever been before. Proud that their son is a beautiful murderer.

My mother breaks down. My old man approaches me, with his black beard and tired eyes. He sleeves are rolled to his elbows and a white apron covers his chest and legs, smeared with oil and burn marks. The man who taught me all I know about being a blacksmith - He made me this perfectionist, this crazed ideologist seeking for purity... Waiting to kill. He did this to me, he always made me want to be something more. I thought he'd be happy that I have taken this route in life. Instead he looks at me like I am no more than a toddler. Maybe in his eyes, I still am.
"I want you to have this..." He hands me a small metal object, I suppose crafted by him. Ugly, is my first thought. It's a pocket watch, no chain, no cap to cover it, just an open pocket watch. The metal is scratched and dented, whilst the glass is grubby and holds a tiny crack in the corner. The time is wrong, out by fourteen hours - That's probably because it's broken. Why would he give me something so atrociously imperfect?!
"Thanks..."[/b] I say, like I'm about to throw up over the thing. So disgustingly impure. I shove it in my pocket, as it's all I have of home. At least it will keep me going in that every time I look at it, I'll be reminded of how broken home actually is.

We say final goodbyes and they are pushed out of the room by those blindingly dressed Peacekeepers. Then I am alone. Alone with the ticking of the north clock and the silence of the perfect drawers and cabinets. The weight of the ground beneath me and the smell of fresh flowers. Alone in a room of paradise. Paradise is, however, always dependent on which side of the chopping blocks you are standing. To me, Paradise seems a long way off yet...

I'll try to enjoy the ride.

it's like a bad dream
something from the back of a magazine
black and white
and cheaply put together

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notes: none

theme:[/color] "Pulp Fiction" - Motion City Soundtrack[/color][/size]