running from the skeletons in the closet [zori]

[Meghan]

| Cassius Birch; District Two|

|BIOGRAPHY|
| PLOT WITH ME |

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Our love was wasted, face it
When I try to let it go
Should've known what you do to me
The place is vacant when you're gone
Miss, you'll be the death of me

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Career I hear them whisper as the party of twenty-three gives my considerable form as wide of berth as they could possibly manage in this too-small training center. (wouldn't want to piss the big guy off on their very first day...idiots). Nobody has bothered to talk to me since I had had waltzed into the room this morning, as if my obvious flesh, blood, and beating heart was really a facade for the killer I so plainly was (if only they understood that my real demons were locked safely away in the plain sight of my homeland). I didn't contradict their hushed whispers as I went about whatever business my career-status was required to attend to. They could believe whatever they damn-well pleased. (we'll all be dead in two weeks anyway. what does it matter?)

My daily routine was effortless from the beginning of our last week of untouched life (only too soon would our souls be scattered and scratched beyond recognition). First came the running as I let the heavy feet of my inner insanity carry me across the stone floor to the wall and back again until I lay in a panting mess of my own exhortation. This could often last for hours, I only knew that I was to run. Run until I couldn't run anymore, and beyond that. (I was the lightning and they were the clouds, directing me to move in a flurry of light and agility).

Second came the meditation. I was to forget myself and simply let the beast my surroundings consume me. Block out any distraction with the brick wall of its inferiority and welcome the pieces of inner depth and control into my eager conscience. I could not let the fickle idea of emotion and feelings get into my practice, or else my actions would become obsolete and unnecessary (or so I've been told throughout the years).

Third, and finally, came the fighting. The breaking. Fire and smoke would pour like oil from my lungs and into my skin, like torture, like burning, like fear. The fear I can feel buzzing around the room as the lesser districts observe our frenzied annihilation of the blue-and-white dummies. (run, run little birds. or else the big, scary beast will consume your soul) I fought until the dummy before my sword had been shredded to a thousand flecks of cheap leather.

I can see her in the harsh silhouette before me. I can see her narrow eyes and gray hair, though they're absent from the blank figurine. I can feel her harsh glare, her screams, 'work harder, Cassius. get the hell out of bed, Cassius, it's time for training. volunteer, Cassius.' I am still her prisoner as I leap forward with a holler of bursting rage, my sword slicing through her hanging neck and throwing the head of my overseer into certain doom.

My vision clears.

The old lady still lives, and it's only the head of the lifeless doll that grabs at my tired feet. Screams tear through my earthquake-like profile, and I thrust the sharp blade deep into the body of the pretender. (I was so close to my dominion) I feel the curse of enslavement lay across my chest like the bars of steel that press across the hands of the common criminal. (I want to die)

The excitement of the day was too much for me, and I find myself scurrying to the nearest wall. I crash into stone with a soothing moan and grab at my pants for the cardboard box of my god. I made a promise long ago to never turn from its inescapable gentle touch, and its really been too long since I let myself into its tantalizing grasp. I embrace the distraction with cherished relief.

I'll play along
Something's wrong cause
I feel it in your overtones
I try to sing along, sit alone
To get away from me
But I still taste the way...

text =738C8A,
emphasis = 47857E,
thoughts = 3D5C59,
hearing = 85ADA9,
speech = 455453,
other = 0F8A7D

Word Count: 679

[Deleted]

Benat Izar

•••
A shadow past, a shadow past
Yearning, yearning
For the fool it called a home
And it whistles through the ghosts still left behind
•••

In his mind, he was ready to take on the world.

Armed with a killer grin and the jumpsuit the capitol had so thoughtfully given him, Benat entered another day of training as though he didn’t feel like every muscle in his body hurt. While the rest of the tributes seemed content sparring and scurrying around for their lives, Benat had bigger plans. He explained to his trainer that he already had a cardio routine, developed in the fields of eleven, that involved laying on his back and running in place. They wanted him to sword fight? He gave them the performance asked for by incorporating an interpretive dance routine into his floor work. Knot tying? No problem, he could tie plenty of shoeslaces together. All of it earned him the biggest of eye rolls and the sneers he rightfully deserved. But Benat wasn’t going to participate in learning how to kill—not if it meant he’d have to acknowledge he’d be the one killing.

He still got uncontrollably sweaty—whether from actual exhertion or his many attempts to avoid it—and couldn’t help but start to let his mind wander to the arena. Would there be sand and beaches like the pristine world of the sixty-first? Would they be stuck in a ball of ice like the fifty-ninth? Or maybe they would have to contend with volcanoes and fire like the fifty-seventh? He remembered watching the other tributes struggle—especially on his family’s tiny little wooden box of a television—when they came across foreign environments. He’d never seen sand in his life, and wondered what it actually felt like. He bet it was nice and soft, and good to run his toes through. Or the waves of the ocean, what did they taste like? He’d heard they were salty, but how would he ever find out?

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Benat scrunched up his face and wiped an arm across his forehead. He would have much preferred a world like district eleven, where it never was too hot or too cold, and there were stalks of corn and wheat as far as the eye could see. He’d gladly go barefoot, even if there were poisonous mutts, just to feel the earth between his toes. Perhaps he was courageous in this way, but barefooting was one of his favorite things. There was something freeing about walking along the old dirt road on a crisp fall day, or dipping a lone toe into the brook to test how cool it was during the summer. Having to go around the training center with the requisite sneakers was killing him.

Ducking away from another lesson on the issues of poisonous versus non-poisonous plants—to which Benat had stated, I’ll swallow anything that I can fit into my mouth[/color] hoping for a laugh—he sidled up along the same wall as Cassius. The boy looked as fearsome as any career could be—not that Benat was going to pay much stock to this while they were still in training. Maybe it was his ignorance, or even the fact that he just didn’t care, but Benat didn’t mind speaking with anyone. If anything he craved interaction—positive or negative—and was like a moth to a flame, he was drawn to it. Inching ever so close to the taller boy—Benat a measly five foot seven—he gave a cough.

“You know, Scruffy,” He licked his lips and crossed his arms across his chest. “Those things will kill you if you aren’t careful?” A grin spread across his face as he said this. Nailed it.
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