Inside Out [Thundy]

[Kire]

C r u o r  H u g h e s

Hey, what's going on? Whatcha doin' here?
Is there something wrong tonight?
Do you remember who I chose to be?
My best friend in this life

I wear my scars and tattoos like badges of honor. Each one represents a way I have bettered myself, and each one holds more value to me than any jewel or finery. Around me people sport their riches - or their shame at poverty - but I know that money is only a small part of a person's worth. My family isn't rich, not in terms of currency, but we aren't in need either. Still, I never feel poor. The love we all feel for each other means more than any amount of money. A lot of others aren't so fortunate, so I always seek to help them in finding where their true wealth is. I haven't been able to assist all that many people, but eventually I will make an impact - one more real and widespread than the one I have tried to create.

The weight of my small pen knife is a happy burden and I want to bring it out into the light. The passing footfalls of a Peacekeeper holds my urge at bay, denying me the chance to draw up a spring of rubies. If I was caught with a knife, even if I showed and explained my scars, I would grabbed up and hustled off to the Detention Center without a second thought. No one there knew anything about true wealth, or the gift of helping another. I wasn't about to teach them, not now, not yet. If I found myself there then maybe I would, but until I had become the person who I knew I could be - the person impervious to fear and hate - I was better off working out in the open air.

My finger stroked the smooth handle of the pen knife, the metal and wood so well polished that there was nearly no difference to the feel of the two. The catch was simple, able to be activated by slight squeeze, and would release the blade with a small snick. Whenever I heard that sound I knew I would be decorating more of my body, and in that decoration I would further release the real me that lurked under my skin.

I am thought. I am  f l e s h . I am blood. I am bone.
I am thought. I am flesh. I am blood.  I am  b o n e .
I am t h o u g h t . I am flesh. I am blood. I am bone.
I am thought. I am flesh.  I am  b l o o d . I am bone.

My mind buzzed with my ideas and notions, filling my head with cheerful inquiries and comments. That woman had a very bright coloured shawl, which made me smile because I always thought that bright colours were happy. Warm, bright, and overall a lovely colour, the sight of the shawl made me feel just the same. Would mother like a shawl like that? She probably would, she always loved the things I picked out for her. Before I could ask the woman where she got her shawl from, she disappeared into a crowd of people.

They jostled me as they passed, reminding me of the limits of my body. I felt their warmth as they came near, and then I felt the return of the outside temperature as they left - by comparison the air felt chilly. I knew in my veins that my blood flowed, warm, rich, and a beautiful shade of red. The urge to reveal it to the world itched in my finger tips and I gripped my pen knife deftly. With a quick glance around for Peacekeepers, I withdrew the tool of my art and clicked down on the catch. Snick. Ahhh, there was the sound I loved so much.

I spread my fingers wide on my left hand, knife held in my right. Palm up, I looked at the flesh of my hand, choosing my spot. There was only one silver line on this hand, straight and lonesome on the meat of my thumb. Even a scar needed company, and finally I would give this one its companion. The knife point twinkled in the sun's light, smiling at me as I smiled at it. The slice I made was clean and easy, a crescent starting from a point beneath my middle finger to curve around the outward edge of my hand. This was nearly twice the length of the other cut and almost immediately I felt the pleasant sting and burn. Rubies bubbled up from the stroke, first marking it in stark contrast to my pale palm, and then streaking my hand with a vivid red.

I marveled at the feeling, at how the pain had mostly subsided, at the way the blood pooled first in the lines of my hand and then in the center of my upturned palm. A single drop oozed to my wrist before beginning its trek down the landscape of my arm. With a finger, I stopped it. Wiping it away, I lifted the escapee to my lips. Iron spread over my tongue and I smiled. My pen knife was clean, my cut having been swift enough to avoid getting blood on the blade. I flicked it shut and returned it to my pocket.

Then I stood there, watching closely as the blood began to slow. This wound may take a bit to close, but I didn't mind. The wonder of watching myself heal was always an extra joy, something nearly as fascinating as seeing my own flesh become marked first in red and then later in silver.

Softly, a ruby plunged to earth with a gentle pat.

Life doesn't run a clear course
It flows through from within
It's supposed to take you places
And leave markings on your skin

word count: 873

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

______________________

Here I am, a rabbit-hearted girl
Frozen in the headlights

When I thought about becoming a Career, I didn’t realize that the people would be so mean.

”Wrong!” is my trainer’s favorite word, or so I think, because every time I even breath in the wrong direction, she’s on my case. She gives me blunted weapons so I won’t hurt myself, and whenever my elbow’s tilted wrong or I’m facing right when I should be looking left, she flicks a nasty finger in my face and hoists my body where it should be, shoving at my elbow or grasping tightly at my chin.

”Wrong!”

My trainer shoves me to the ground with the blunt edge of her training weapon. I land on my hands and knees with an oof and hang my head low, feeling a surge of pain in my back where she hit me. Eyes all around the room glance in my direction, but I’m too insignificant to garner much attention.

Everyone in District Two’s training center looks a lot like a lion to me, poised to kill at any second.

To them, I think I look like hopeless prey.

My only hope is that I can improve myself and do things better, because I know that everyone must have started somewhere. Even the Careers who shed through dummies like butter and exemplify a perfect air of murder in everything they do. Even they were once like me, or at least that’s what I hope.

I push myself off of the mat, wearily searching for the eyes of my trainer. All of this must be worth something.

”Go again?” I ask, wearily pulling up my wooden sword.

”No,” she tells me, crossing her arms across her chest. ”You’re done for today.”

Disappointment rushes through me, but I don’t say anything else. It’s not like we have a time limit on our training, it’s just.. we tend to stop whenever my trainer gets fed up with how inadequate I am.

”Alright, thank you for your help today,” I say, ever polite to the woman who couldn’t care less if I showed up or not. I think I owe her my respect in the very least, because without her I know I would be even worse, constantly stuttering and holding my head low, speaking only in whispers and mumbles and words that aren’t meant to be heard.

Though she hasn’t fixed the problem completely, she won’t allow me to make myself weak.

After a curt nod in goodbye, I shelve my training sword away and push through the door, feeling small as giant careers tower above me and shove their way out the door in front of me. I’m like a shadow compared to them, but I’m working on it.

Sometimes I try to puff out my chest and hold my head up and pretend that I’m six feet tall. Like I’ve got killer muscles and a killer weapon and a killer smile, and I’m shredding through dummies and intimidating the whole entire country with my prowess.

I try to think like that when I walk, pressing my shoulders back and feigning confidence with every step.

Fake it ‘till you make it, I think, but my confidence wanes when I get closer to a crowd of people, adults who wear crisp, clean clothes and menacing glares. Walking into the group of them is like being tossed around in a washing machine, because they jostle me and step on me and try to get me out of the way so they can reach their ever-important destinations, and I get knocked over in the process. My breaths start coming out shallow as the nerves begin to overtake me, because I can’t get up. They’ve knocked me over, and there’s so many of them that I’ll get trampled to death before any of them make a move to step around me.

A pounding heartbeat wreaks havoc on my body, and my fingernails dig into the dirt, and someone’s leg knocks into my back, right where my trainer hit me.

Crawling, crawling, crawling, and I’m scurrying out of the crowd on all fours, letting out a yelp as someone’s foot lands on my fingers. By the time I make it out of the stampede – even if they’re just walking, I’m all covered in dirt, and I’m looking straight at a boy who’s.. cutting into his own body with a knife.

I stare up at him blankly as breaths shake through my torso, and that’s when I begin to cry.