Rust [Python]

[kousei ♚]

During my steps towards isolation, the world feels like pure lead.

Dragging the spear along the ground is a burden unchained, I may as well be made of metal. A simple twitch and I can practically feel a large manacle rattling at my ankles. There's a deep sense of caged nostalgia rattling deep inside my cage and I don't need to stutter or stop to know that this is a familiar feeling in a different setting. The old career center was hollow, whitewashed walls kept me penned in place and they forced me to swing, one time too many or risk being scolded for one time too little. I preferred to swing one time too many.

When I swung one time too many the world turned unbearably heavy and I became the definition of a burden unchained. Dragging what felt like torn muscle and sinew to the next target and hefting my spear for the one hundredth swing, the fiftieth throw and the infinitive stab. These colorful walls bring back that sense of burden and I haven't even taken a single damn swing or stab. I don't dare mumble a single complaint to myself, after all, I asked to no longer feel nothing. Perhaps this is just the price of something.

On the step towards isolation I realize that I must be losing it.

I don't like the noise of other tributes asking questions, or grunting with frustration when they dare miss yet another target. I keep my head hung low and my chin down, my feet practically dragging across the ground and the manacles along my feel being dragged along. I don't dare look up to catch the eye of Torka Hammerfell or say a word to a tribute or trainer who brushes past me. I can't form a single link of friendship in these walls; I'm just here, gears grinding and all.

Armies and armies of Capitol crafted dummies and weapons to choose from and I chose the ones neglected to the corner of the center. Each step a new burden built onto my muscles, each breath a build up of preemptive collective sighs; it's a special form of torture I feel. After each burden has mounted to breaking point I come to a grinding halt in front of the outermost dummy in the corner, staring down the eyes of the statue.

Gears grinding, sinew and muscles stretching and twisting and I heft up the spear point at the dummy. Shutting my eyes, I picture the whitewashed walls of District One and the choice of one swing too many and one swing too little.

The manacles shatter and lead evaporates with a single thrust.

My eyes flicker open and I twist and turn the spear before wrenching the spearhead from its chest cavity. I inhale, lead lifted from my shoulders and the weight lifted from my chest. I clench the shaft of the spear tight between my finger tips and I exhale in relief.

Gears unwinding, muscles relaxing, I do a short half turn before spotting movement in the corner of my eye. "What do you want?" I question, gripping the spear tighter in my left hand. I came here to be alone, not to be followed.