blonde jesus; aza [blitz]

[heather - d2 [mylee]]

s h e l b y ♔ l e v i a n e

Though I do not believe in the same past lives as my sister, I do believe in the simplest form of déjà vu. Though the world is not that dependent on preconceived notions alone, there is no limitation on the amount of times certain instances can occur.

And as I had every other afternoon that I stumbled into the training center on unsteady limbs, I have an arrow in one hand, a bow on my back, and I am fucking hammered.

Today is no different.

People who have certain knowledge in certain areas have said that dexterity decreases with rising levels of alcohol in the bloodstream, but I think that they’re either full of bullshit or simply a bad shot. Due to the amount of alcohol replacing blood in my veins, my body is absolutely clear of any and all forms of bullshit, and I’m still a damn good shot.

I’ve got an aim on my target but not the bullseye, and as I release the bowstring I catch a glimpse of a girl watching. Due left ninety degrees and not one extra, I am lost until the thunk of arrowhead into foam chest catches my attention and I see the point just left of center. Close enough is decent enough and never not enough, so I shrug off the exceptions of almost within the seconds it takes me to actually think of the word almost before dropping my bow, walking over to the girl—still watching— and taking her head in my hands and turning it until she is looking at the arrow still wedged into target. My hands loosely let go and I place one hand on her shoulder and pointedly make motions with the other towards my show of pride, “That is how you shoot a drunk arrow.”

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

WYLLA LYSANDER

I've never been fond of fighting. Axes and arrows have been enemies since I first saw them used in the games years ago. Traditional and blunt, the family of killers I know consist less of metal, and more of speech. Words have become weapons I am more familiar with; my Mother's endless sentences which are built into skyscrapers taller than the ones here in the Capitol. They are not glass, they are stone have seen been bashed against my own will to shape the person I am.

It's not a fight I've wanted to be a part of, but I can't get rid of it.

But mass destruction is a choice that some people are forcing themselves to take; should I follow those who have their heart set on leading by example? Pointed vertebrae align against the chilled wall that has absorbed the breaking breaths of the ghosts who once walked the same footsteps as I, my eyes caught in a trance watching those who dare to dream.

A girl shoots an arrow, her aim both high and low all at once. I suppose that if that was where she was targeting, she has perfect aim. Something tells me that is not the case, though. Her guts are shaking, her name is breaking under the weight it places on itself.

She will get there eventually. I've been through my guts, I'm just waiting for the glory.

The bow crashes against the floor, and her figure walks a fine line to cross my path. She wades through the thick into the softer empty, where I stand alone and silent, only loud through observation. Her touch meets me with skin, her force turning my head towards the arrow in the target.

She lets go—Mum is thankful, she thought the girl was going to break my neck.

The air changes, tension draining when she places her hand alongside the devils on my shoulder.

"That is how you shoot a drunk arrow," she says.

"It's an okay shot." 

Mum says drink is for the weak.

"I know better than to drink and I'm twelve, so why do you," she looks as if she could be an older sister. "Why do you do it?"

I look at her, trying to figure out why. Mum's theory doesn't work here because I don't think she doesn't looks weak at all.