they're gonna eat us alive // {willis/lyric} - train
Feb 4, 2014 18:17:02 GMT -5
Post by rook on Feb 4, 2014 18:17:02 GMT -5
can you hear my heart
beating like a hammer
help i'm alive
my heart keeps beating like a hammerI tremble, trapped in a luxurious prison, travelling faster than the speed of sound along alloy rails. My heart thunders against my chest, desperately trying to burst through my ribcage and run back to District Six. As each second passes, I get further away from my home, from where I belong, and I get closer to my death sentence. There's no denying it, no matter how many times I shake my head at the idea. This is final. It's been decided. I have no say. I want to scream. I want to open up my lungs and erupt with desperation, and I don't want to stop until my throat is raw and my eyes are streaming. I don't, though. I just sit in my tiny metal carriage, hugging my knees and wishing this was nothing more than a surreal dream.
My hands shake. Of course my hands shake. They've been shaking for three damn years. Today is no different. I try to rest them on my knees, but they tremble violently, making my knees judder with them. I tell myself that it's just psychological, and I tell myself to stop shaking. Like that ever works. I grit my teeth and my eyes threaten tears. I just want it to stop. I want it all to stop, and go away. Something tells me that it won't be long before I get my wish. When I'm out there in the Arena, and a spear has been driven through my heart, will my hands stop shaking then?
I slide open the fancy black door, slumping through the frame and into the carriage. I find myself leaning against the walls for support. Accepting this situation is draining physically, not just mentally. I would collapse with exaustion and sleep all the way to the Capitol, if I wasn't shaking so much. Ain't that the story of my life? I glance around for a distraction - for something to take my mind off of dying. My escort is sitting in a regal antique chair, sipping at a glass of cyan liquor. Looks like toilet cleaner. Alcohol is alcohol, I guess. There is no finer medicine for my condition.
"Hey, you, what's your name?" I ask the woman who picked my name at the Reaping. This is her fault. If only she had moved her hand slightly to the left, or the right. I wouldn't be here. She looks up, gazing straight through me, like I am not even here. I am a ghost to her already. Her gaunt features let no emotion betray them, and that hurts me.
"You can call me Trina, if you wish..." She says. If I wish? She makes it sound like that isn't even her real name, just an alias she can hide behind so that she doesn't feel guilty when she goes home. So she doesn't feel so bad when I'm dead, because she can remove the mask of Trina, and go back to being her normal self. It disgusts me.
"Give me some of that green stuff..." I say, reaching for the large bottle that is raised on the black marble table. Trina, clearly rejecting the notion, takes the bottle in hand and slides it further from me.
"Give me some, hey!" I say, louder. She doesn't understand, I need a drink, or I'm going to go insane.
"You are far too young to be drinking alcohol, and clearly not mature enough!" She says with bulging eyes and a vulture frown. I want to leap over this table and strangle her thin neck. It would be so easy. Isn't that what they want me to do? Kill? Why not start here. I gotta start somewhere, right? I'd kill for alcohol, don't think I wouldn't at this stage. Don't think I'm afraid of killing when I'm backed into a corner like this.
"FUCKING GIVE IT TO ME!"if we're still alive
my regrets are few
if my life is mine
what shouldn't I do?