Sacrilege Is My Middle Name [zak]
Aug 1, 2013 9:39:32 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Aug 1, 2013 9:39:32 GMT -5
•TRIUMPH O'BRIAN•
[/color] You must thing I’m just a son-of-a-gun for not even wanting our own tribs to come back. Well, it doesn’t impress me if you stab someone in the neck or jab out their eyes or slit their throats. Seriously[/color]. It’s like people turn off their brains and become zombies the way they forget about what the games really means. So what if it’s fight or flight?[/color] Yeah, I get it, they don’t have any other choice. Boo hoo hoo.[/color] Their lives suck and they’ve got to do what they have to do.I got this feeling on the summer day when you were gone.
I crashed my car into the bridge. I watched, I let it burn.
I threw your shit into a bag and pushed it down the stairs.
I crashed my car into the bridge.
I don't care, I love it.
I don't care!
I usually watch the games so that I have a reason to laugh at all the phonies cheering at the kids fighting to the death. How fucked up is it that we have adults and kids weeping and wailing so that our own tributes come back to the district? It’s all in deference of the capitol, I know, but the fact that so many people become obsessed, have favorites, name their children after tributes—if I ever got like that I think I would hang myself.
I have more respect for the ones that don’t feel sorry for what they’ve done. I sure as hell wouldn’t feel sorry for what I’d done if it were me. I don’t know about anyone else, but I want to fucking live[/color], not just go down with my head held high. I wouldn’t need to mutilate anyone or do anything sick, but I wouldn’t bat two eyelashes if given the choice. It’s the thing I don’t understand: they all feel so sorry during the games, they go so far as to apologize. And what usually happens to them after they’ve so thoroughly apologized? They get stabbed and tossed away like garbage. So skip a step, stay alive, and don’t be sorry. It makes for a more interesting viewing experience, when you can see that tribute that has gone full animal; the ones that act on their instincts and kill have more respect for me than the whimpering, apologetic messes.
Tonight I’ve slipped away from the games coverage because I just can’t stomach all the cheering. Our tributes are long dead, both dead in the bloodbath. All that’s left is a smattering of people that I hardly paid attention to. I did like the tribute parades, and some of the interviews didn’t make my eyes roll out of my head. I head out along the streets of the district, cigarette in hand, my bag of tricks tucked snugly on my back. For as much as I complain about it, I can’t get the games off my mind. I should head home, my sister is probably waiting for me (I like to read to her before she goes to bed[/color]). Instead I trace my hands along the old iron fence of the cemetery and let the night air wrap around me. I come along the entrance and wrap both hands around the decaying metal bars.
Morbidity isn’t cool with me; I don’t go out babbling about the dead. It’s not interesting, it’s creepy. People that have a fascination with the dead don’t spend enough time living. I wouldn’t ever focus on the past that way, I’m too busy marching in the present. The graveyard holds something different, something that calls out to me in a mix of mischief and malaise. So I unwind the lock and push past the screaming gates. I give one shiver—maybe my only warning that I shouldn’t enter—and press further along the paths of the dead. See, that’s the thing, people are so afraid of this sacred ground, like the people who’ve been put under the ground are going to rise up and shake their fists. I would tell them to fuck off[/color] anyway, what right do they have over us? They were the ones that went and died, they don’t own this world anymore.
At last I stumble upon the real reason I’m here: the tribute graves. There are plenty of them, even from my lifetime. In all my seventeen years of life, there’s not been one victor, not to my memory. That’s thirty-four dead bodies buried here just in the time that I’ve been walking the earth. That’s thirty-four families without their kids. Thirty-four sorry displays of handiwork in the games. Thirty-four losses. You’d think by now people would realize we should stop cheering for our own tributes.[/color]
Take this year for example. Akina Hooper and Sam Tulius: two undertrained, unequipped, and ultimately disastrous tributes. I don’t fault them for not being able not to die. But looking around at the rest of our recent tributes, you’d think we were all little bitches that couldn’t hold a knife to save our lives. Am I caring about this again?[/color] I reach into my bag and pull out one of my prized possessions: a nicked bottle of whiskey. It burns with the same fire that powers my caterwauling’s against the current state of things. I take a long drink, swallowing down the fire until it splashes into my stomach. I let out a sound as I expel a rush of air, suddenly aware of how strong the brew is that I’ve chosen. Alcohol tends to help dull the senses. It helps in especial to hide the thoughts of a created contradiction. Now that August has fallen, the night air’s grown cooler, and I, in my tank top, heat up with the liquor in my veins.
The names read like a sad playbill. Aria Wolfe[/color]. At least she got close to the end, too bad she pussed out at the end. Bran Wolfe.[/color] He couldn’t even walk! Ashby Twilken[/color]. Who? Exactly. I let out a sigh and take a seat along the grass of one of the graves. I continue taking drinks from my bottle, and puffing away at my poorly rolled cigarettes. “I have to say,” I take another sip. “Life sure is a whole lot better living, guys.”
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