claudii vinolentia {day seven}

[thompson harvard - d2b - arc]

The night was slightly insane (though that doesn't differ it from any other day). It started with the LSD. Tripping, tumbling, crawling, falling. It was like he lost the ability to walk or focus, his mind a fleeting example of insanity. Saummer had been the size of an ant in the largest of rooms, everything was ten times larger. The chills running up and down his spine, the constant hallucinations that tried to tell him that Diorite was still alive. They tried to tell him that friends were real. The way she spoke to him, the emotion she carried? All felt real. But sometimes the reality isn't what people want to see.

The next morning was still filled with those hallucinations. With everything changing size and color, the changing of his body temperature, he didn't feel sane. Though in any arena of any Games, it should be expected to not feel same at any moment. You're all killers, and if you're not affected by that, something must be wrong with you. So when he saw two people approaching, he felt the insane immediate reaction to attack them. Just like on day one when he and Diorite ambushed those two tributes, they did it out of time.

Out of fear.

Saummer always was told by his mother to never fold to society. It's hard to not do that simple task. But it's even harder to do it when you're told not to. Because your instant childlike reaction is to do what you're told not to do. It's like telling a child to not touch the cookie table. It was already tempting enough, with the sweets just staring at you with that tempting glare that they hold. But when it's something restricted, it brings a sense of mystery to your mind. What'll happen if you touch it?

Would you be burned at the stakes, or have your throat get slit? Or would it be a simple yell, "don't do that again" One would never know until they've done it, which makes it all the more tempting to do, doesn't it? That little child in you whispers, crying for its release from the cage it's been locked away from. Saummer always told himself that he wouldn't conform to society, and would not ever attack a woman on purpose.

Guess that went flying out the window the instant his grip on the knife increased with the air he dug it towards, name of the destined target, unknown. All he knew was that today was the day he broke his promises and the future was to come with more to break.

saummer attacks
7XRpACT31-3
with knife
knife

1-3�knife

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

WYLLA LYSANDER

We say our goodbyes, hearts on our sleeves but our eyes covered in an indestructible gloss. We go our separate ways, footsteps guided by the light within and not from each other, until we find ourselves looping away, pacing and pacing, until all Lucas, Riv and Eva become are obscured faces in my head.

That's fine, I think, because as long as they aren't in the sky, I'm happy.

Plodding along aimlessly, I crash to the ground under the weight of my stuff. The sky begins to fade from baby to royal blue and the gamesmakers put on a perfect illusion amid the darkness; the swaying fish and animals swim through the sky with no worries. Soft, free, weightless—I'm convinced that my starfish is out there somewhere.

I finish the tea collected from the party, swallowing every last drop. It tastes nice, as I expected, and it has a delicate taste that has a fruity essence at the end. The citrus stays on my tongue as I lie down and prepare myself for sleep.

I lie awake, staring up, mind fixed on the thought of thousands, millions of eyes crawling over my skin; they fester on my thoughts and feed on my emotions for entertainment. It doesn't bother me, it never has. After all, they are the people I can thank for keeping me alive when I get out of this place. They are the ones who are responsible for saving me and killing the others.

Mum never used to like watching the games. She'd tell me that it was an event that would turn my brain to mushy peas if my eyes were glued to it completely; I'd only catch snippets or the summary coverage at the end of a day. Mum was wrong though—people have done very well for themselves in the games through learning through the actions of tributes who have come and gone.

Pillar Fray from One last year showed the important of flames and how they can turn people to ash within an instant. I've learnt from the best that blood isn't something that is worthy of making you scream and shout and shout and scream and cry and moan and scream and shout, and shout and scream and scream and scream. I haven't done anything of those things since arriving in the Capitol; it's a personal victory.

I've got myself all under control, and it's great.

-

Eyes open, wide awake.

WOAHHhhh—it's all spinning. And there are rainbows, really pretty rainbows and the sky is falling down but somehow I'm not dying.

Am I dead?

I look down to my hands and—wait—I have a hoof and I pinch myself with it somehow but nothing changes. Okay, I think, not dead, that's good. That's great, woah, that's amazing.

This is cool; it feels like I'm falling through time but it also feels like I am suspended in an atmosphere of dreams that have been burst open. It's so bright, the Sun must be jealous, it's so bright and I love it. I'm not definitely not dead, not dead at all, I feel so alive. hehehehehe

Tick-tock, tick-tock, beat, beat, beat goes my heartbeat and it's speeding up so fast and I know that isn't a good thing but this is just beyond belief and hehehehehehe—I really like it. My eyes widen as I collect my things together. It's all changing and morphing and moving and I'm pretty sure that some lint just flew out of my bag.

I hope that lint has a nice life. A really nice one.

Everything slows down, tick-tock becomes tick. tock. and my feet feel heavier than the weight of the world. I push on through it; the sky bleeding blue and plummeting down around me. I'm almost certain I'm not dead, but if this is what death is like then I'm ready, this is cooler than anything I've ever seen or felt or hehehehehehehe.

I close my eyes and it all disappears, everything goes black. Is that meant to happen? It happens within a split second, instantaneously and faster than the speed of light. The darkness is super fast. What is the speed of the dark?

Huh, I don't know.

Humming as I potter along, a crooked smile twists onto my face. The tune is high and low, fast and slow all at the same time. It isn't like the songs that I've sung before, not anything like the ones at school, it feels... deeper. The humming comes from within, maybe it's my soul talking to me.

The sea creatures above me swirl and swirl and swirl and they are still so pretty. I wonder whether they will go to heaven when they die. That'd be fun, really fun.

"Wee woo wee woo wee woo."

I keep moving on. Things are appearing left, right and centre. Colours are crying and the ground is shaking. Time is still slower than what I can remember it to be, but I don't mind. I love this, hehehehehe, I wonder if Lucas, Riv and Eva know about this.

Two figures appear in the distance. They look like trees, actually—they look like marbles. Yes, that makes sense, maybe I've found the marbles I lost last night. They have arms though, and they are holding sharp things and I don't think these are marbles that I want to keep.

hehehehehe

I'm scared, but I don't entirely know what I'm scared of.

"Have you guys ever thought about it?" My head tilts and it feels like I'm going on a journey to the centre of myself.

The marbles stay silent.

"If I hit myself and it hurts... am I weak or am I strong?" My eyes widen.

QGYX|Y8_1-3

3 - wylla

spiked blunt

[ 14173 -- BROKEN LEFT FOOT -- 6.5 damage ]

1-3�spiked blunt

[heather - d2 [mylee]]

Taken chance times two
I’ve seen the long strife that
Melts into self-hatred
Every third time. And

Against all the odds I am
Regarded as weak. But
Retribution it seems
Is only mine now to seek.

Long table set proper and clinking teacups aside, I am left with an aching in my body that does not burn away with the sunset. However, that dull throbbing in my bones was not one I wished to ever forget. It led to memories of actions that had not been taken since the time I left his side and probably would not ever be taken of again. The sign of the times was that religion was nothing more than falsification of a woman’s body, and for this reason alone I sought to become the greatest speaker of heresy the world was yet to see.

If my name was plastered upon anything but the grave, it would be for crimes and offenses I could not even imagine in a state of anything less than sober.

But drinks aside and divinity curbed, I find myself flat on my back, staring at the sky and searching for nothing in particular. There was nothing in comparison to the feeling left behind by intimacy— by being so vulnerable that a slit throat and broken bone were to be expected. Behind these events not coming to pass, any other undesirable effect was cast into the shadows by the very nature of survival itself.

The difference between falling in love with one’s self and being enamored with another was simply the words one chose to describe the distinctions.

When I speak of myself, I speak of a world on fire yet never burning— of the ease of falling but never finding the ground.

When I spoke of Lucas O’Hara now, I would speak of ice constricting in my veins— of a numb heart never fearing the last beat.

I am not sure which of the two I prefer.

Contemplating this underneath an unbiased sky, I am brought out of meditation by the sound of the anthem, but it shows no faces and plays a quiet song. It is not deafening tonight, either due to the nature of circumstance or the lack of heightened senses that were flowing through my body.

Either way, it felt euphoric, and I could wish for nothing more.

But when the morning sun comes to pass, the feeling is gone, and instead I am left with no sense of self and an identity stripped away.

The roses and their background color added and scent wafting on the breeze have become main intruders of my mind, and their colors shift as I bring myself to unsteady feet and attempt to put distance between us. I apologize as I pass them, speaking in excuses and reasons for why I simply cannot stay, and when they do not respond back, I take their silence as disappointment and turn on my heel and run.

Stray tears brushed aside when they are no longer gnawing at the corner of my mind, I find myself back at the exact spot where this all began— where I struck out with fists still pliable, where I fell in love with Scarlett Storms, where I knew that time cut short was not a punishment but a luxury only few could afford— and I know that being here now, I am no longer afraid but devastated.

With this in mind I take another look at the Cornucopia and sprint towards it, slamming hardened fists against its surface and not giving second thought to the dull pain of throbbing knuckles white turned red. I want to find the words that fit the guidelines of apologies and eulogies, and monologues, but there is nothing to say to a world that has gone deaf to anything that is not satirical in its foundation.

And just then, when a boy appears just to my left and says nothing, I draw the purple knife still gracefully in my presence and wait for him to strike at my skin— that exposed and protected and every joint in between, but blood is never drawn and flesh is not torn.

Instead, his blade turns upon himself and I gasp. Unable to understand the circumstance that leads to the precipice of suicide now instead of seven days prior.

The thought crosses my mind to speak, but the path between mind and tongue are interrupted by a voice smaller than my own, “Have you guys ever thought about it? If I hit myself and it hurts… am I weak or am I strong?”

Answer unknown and foundation shaken I look for something less than metaphorical and am met with the sight of the girl turning her weapon on herself as well. The tears left behind in the rose garden begin to once again surface as the inevitable fate of turning my blade upon myself crosses through my mind and rests upon my shoulder.

I am here because I could not carry out the task on my own and was searching for someone willing to take the blade to my heart without hesitation, and now I am met with circumstances similar and even more terrifying when hanging by a thread in the unknown.

[shelby leviane attacks saummerand demheaux; knife]
yscnIV|21-3

knife
[shallow cut on right calf-- 3.5]

1-3�knife

[thompson harvard - d2b - arc]

filler!!! look at me go
[attacks an unknown friend, knife]
bh3bSGQ01-3
knife1-3�knife

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

WYLLA LYSANDER

hehehehehe

The weapon comes crashing towards my foot, wobbling through the wild air before hitting against my armour. My head tilts at the immediate pain which follows; I think that was rather silly of me. Hitting myself, silly, really, I don't think I'll be doing that again anytime soon.

It hurt, I'm strong.

Girl and boy remain silent, but my elation is brought to a deadly low when the boy strikes his weapon against my leg. Suddenly, I fall from cloud nine and face plant on a concrete ground, everything around me turning to grey. Clouds loom over my head; I'm sad. Sadder than I've ever been before.

It hurts, I'm weak.

I think I'm going to die.

And I'm scared, I think, I'm scared because I've been close to death before and that wasn't a nice feeling at all, it wasn't even close to being remotely bearable. Admittedly, I got on, pushed through for the sake of Lucas and Riv and my own reputation and I did it for Hera and Cricket—but really, who cares?

I'm just a tiny insignificant pea and my efforts aren't amounting to anything more than a foot that hurts and my walls cannot keep out the storm that comes from the marble-turned-boy-turned-rain cloud. Am I breaking? I can't tell, not right now, because there is so much going on in my head and it's all coming in at once and it doesn't feel like there is anything, anything in the world that I can do to stop it.

I freeze—oh no—is Mum back?

Closing my eyes for a split second and it goes black again. It's an escape, at least, an escape from all the devastation that plummets down around me. Death crawls from corners and the darkness leaks from the light; I don't know how to put this, but I think that I am a goner.

I've not had this feeling before. It's like there is a heavy metal weight stabbing my stomach, churning my emotions round and round and round and round, until eventually, I can't separate good from bad, right from wrong.

But I'm not going to scream, I can't and I won't.

There are far bigger things than this which itch through my mind like a rash. Expectations and failure, the thought of getting so far and coming so close only to watch it all slip away in the matter of moments. I'm not here for it, no, definitely not here for it.

I need to pull my weight, yes, I need to pull my weight and I don't know how I'm going to do it when it is stuck so deep in my stomach but I have to, at least, try.

Lucas and Riv should be here. Part of me is starting to think that they were my pillars of support all along.

Lorenzo and Anton should be here. Part of me is starting to think that maybe it should have been me and not them.

I don't know which side to listen to; so many voices, so many sounds and I can hear calls from Three and the Capitol and the other side of the arena. It's frightening, it delivers you the type of fear you feel when there is a knocking on the window and you have no idea what it is, and you are too scared to check because you only feel safe wrapped up in a bed sheet.

Can't I go back to that, just for today, just for now?

"Crapsticks."

I've just sworn, but I think it's okay in situations like this.

Right?

Right.

...Right?

jUnmMPEe1-3

1 - saummerand

spiked blunt

[ miss ]

accuracy reroll

spiked blunt

[ *BROKEN RIGHT SHIN*, +7.0 dmg ]

1-3�spiked blunt�spiked blunt

[heather - d2 [mylee]]

Vindication is not the
Epitome of pride. For
Somehow it seems that
I only wish to survive.

Heaven forbid that I reach
Over lies and sin told and
Praise that wise savior for
Each truth fairly sold.

The boy with my knife in his skin turns to strike, and for the slightest moment I shut my eyes in anticipation for pain that does not come. Instead, upon moment’s notice his blade is turned and sinking deep into the smaller girl’s thigh, and I can draw no connection other than his disgust at her thoughts turned into speech directed and nothing and no one.

Her voice was so soft, as thought it should not have been able to break through the space between us and reach either myself or the boy beside me. And it’s that softness enough that triggers a memory that has instilled itself in a poison mind and given hope for a breath of fresh purity.

I had laid a hand upon her neck in the training center with the smallest show of pride— an arrow off-center but yet close enough to count as decent enough in a place where nothing was never enough of anything to count as much. She had clipped my pride at its edges, causing my mind to remember that perfection is nothing I had ever strived for before and now was not that time to begin yearning for it. She had humbled me with four words and refused to give accolades to my poor choices and questionable decisions. She had questioned my morals and requested a reasoning that followed logic that was stable in my mind alone.

I believe that now I owe her something that I cannot place a value to.

Attempting to find the apology or the compliment or the any type of phrase right to say is cut short by the sight of her raising her weapon. I believe that she is attempting to turn her weapon against my own skin, and between fair justification and righteousness I keep my eyes open as a gesture of deserving retribution come to pass.

But again it does not come, and as it does I am overtaken by a sense of grace that has not sunk into my bones at ever a prior time. My legs trembling and threatening to give way, my throat tightening with each passing second, I drop to my knees in front of her with and place the knife at my front, my hands finding my way to her shoulders as my vision stays trained upon the ground.

When the first tear falls, I know that I am nothing but a debt and burden longing to be paid by anything of value, whether blood or apologies alone.

Catching breaths between sobbing I finally will myself to look her in the eyes, and without a name put to face I begin to spit words of despair, “You asked me why I did it. Why I drank and why I was so dependent on what comfort that goddamn bottle could bring.”

I pause to catch a breath, caught in the expanse between truth and fear and coming to the realization that there was truly not a difference, “My sister, Cha, she died searching for a place that only seemed as though it could be hidden behind glass and whiskey. I just want to see her again.”

My tongue has grown heavy, my mind has turned foggy, and every breath has become a burden I no longer wish to bear. I take hold of Wylla Lysander’s wrist and hold her weapon to my throat— a silent plea for closure I cannot bring to pass of my own accord.

“Please, Wylla.”

But nothing is said and no action is carried out in time and before I can think twice my arm has lost the strength to hold up the both of us. Her wrist swings back and rests at her side, and I fall forward, my palms catching me just before my face meets the dirt at her feet.

I bring my left hand up to wipe the tears from my cheeks, and with dirt left behind in its place unapologetically I bring myself to my feet and pick up my knife.

It has taken me seven days to realize that the last few years have not been coping but suicide, and even further, that I have succeeded at neither one in the time between.

Useless, lost, and one empty bottle later and here I stand— just as afraid now as I was then with simply a lack of bravery to admit it.

A coward is simply labeled such for the absence of humanity that has taken the place of a heart once beating and now I am simply waiting for someone to come along and rip out the scar tissue in its place.

[shelby leviane attacks shelby leviane; knife]
XuzPHQmz1-3

knife
[shallow cut on neck-- 4.0]

1-3�knife

[thompson harvard - d2b - arc]

Imagine sanity.

A sanity where the deepest of purples didn't turn into the brightest of oranges, or the most roaring of reds didn't turn into the most gloomy blues. Where knifes weren't pine cones and spiked blunts weren't sunflowers. A world where I was sane. That knives didn't seem to place themselves at my throat with every breath. My mind wouldn't be fog, and every world mumbled by the zombies I've fought weren't constant gibberish.

I wasn't one to focus on the commotion of others when they speak. Especially if it wasn't to me, their conversation wasn't my interest. They were likely plotting to kill me anyways. That's what zombies do, right? They wait until you've let your...

your mind? Is that what they call it nowadays?

I dunno, but, I know that I can't let these bitches distract me. Children aren't shit. Women aren't shit. I don't give a fuck about them, do I? I should only care about myself. I do care about myself, right? It's something that is a possibility......but the cold sweats and swirling world that colored my life different perspectives and showed me lives that don't exist.

These rats need to get exterminated, and that's all I can comprehend.

With my grip sloppy and my knees weak,
(mom's spaghetti?)

I took a swing at whatever God threw my way.

Was there a cat in boots in the background?

I laughed anyways.

saummer attacks
VSLGUlMO1-3
with knife
knife

1-3�knife

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

WYLLA LYSANDER

There's a snap, and then comes the heartache.

I'm beginning to think this boy has it in for me. That's okay, we faced him before and I was the one doing the damage then. Mum would always say that what goes around come around, and when it comes around, it'll bite you on the bum. I don't think she lied.

Blood seeps from the wounds on my legs, flashbacks to a few days prior where I made it out alive by the skin of my teeth. I was higher then, higher than I am now; everything seems to be crashing in on me, it's happening all over again now, and it feels like I've hit an all time low.

The same thing happened to Mum, but I shouldn't make petty comparisons. After all, I'm alive and she's dead.

Shelby Leviane remains a drunk but she has seen some sense. A moment of euphoria; the decisions she had make in the training centre made me wonder if she'd even survive the first few moments let alone minutes. I suppose I've been proved wrong, but that's okay.

She seemed nice enough, and she seems nice enough now to not be turning her blade against my thigh. Pretty girl, another one. Maybe one day I'll finally grow another three inches and I'll finally have all my dreams down and under my belt. But I'm not going to speak too soon, not in a situation like this, and not when I feel like this.

People become shadows and the world removes any happiness, quickly becoming a patchwork Hell made up of my previous nightmares. I don't want to show fear, not now, I've made it this far, I've come so close, and I know how that feeling can make or break a person.

I made myself, yes, I made myself a legend, I think.

Shelby falls to her knees, trembling as she reaches for my shoulder.

I don't like this.

A glass teardrop graces her dull cheek and she inhales quickly between the worries which escape and billow out into the air. I can only but inhale them, my body becoming just as grey as her emotion. 

I don't like this at all.

"You asked me why I did it. Why I drank and why I was so dependent on what comfort that goddamn bottle could bring."

I stare down at her, fearful of why she holds the knife between her fingers so close to her own self. 

"My sister, Cha, she died searching for a place that only seemed as though it could be hidden behind glass and whiskey." Oh, I think. "I just want to see her again." Oh, great, I think.

Her mind is rotting with tales of her past and it is growing old with thoughts of the future. She isn't like me at all, but when she grabs my wrist with force and my warhammer dances on the air which separates the spikes from her skin, I feel as if she's looking for an escape too.

A different escape, a very different one. She's looking for an escape in death, meanwhile I'm struggling through survival to find one in life.

"I think you will, but I don't know when. Maybe soon, maybe not." My mouth scrunches to the left. "Maybe in a minute, maybe in an hour, maybe in another life." My lips curls upwards and I look down to her, helplessly and hopelessly is all that she embodies.

She sobs, she begs.

"Please, Wylla."

I close my eyes for a moment, weary of the boy who looms in the background of our scene. Shelby grows weaker, unable to hold my wrist close to her and so it is pulled back into place by gravity and is tucked neatly by my side. She falls forth, brushing the dirt with her bloodied hands which hold onto to her breaking dignity with a dying grip.

That could've been my chance.

She wipes her tears, dirt smeared across her cheeks and it looks like warpaint.

"Would your sister want you to do this?" I think the thought through over in my head.

"Don't die like this. It isn't how your story should end, it isn't how any stories end." I frown. I thought that was obvious.

There are supposed to be happy endings and not just a bleak, rotten body covered in noughts and crosses. None of the books I've ever read, in all my entire life, ended in suicide, not even the sad or scary ones.

"Happy endings are real, so fight for them."

Pause.

"And I don't mean fight yourself."

Within a second, we are pulled apart at the seams, our ties quickly become undone and cut sharply when the boy strikes again, slashing and crashing his way through the moment Shelby and I just shared. It's severed, now, and it's sealed by my own blood. I think it's rude of him to interrupt, but I think we're all a bit rude.

I can't feel the pain he brings if I'm being honest, but I know it's there. It just fades into everything else; the sad memories of friends which once were and never will be, and the dreams of a brighter future even though the fire burning is growing dim.

The boy is laughing, the girl is crying.

And I, I don't like it.

uQyDtVVh1-3
3 - wylla

spiked blunt

[ 14133 -- BROKEN LEFT ARM -- 6.5 damage ]

1-3�spiked blunt

[heather - d2 [mylee]]

Your mind was a canvas,
Or a spectrum of sorts.
Undertaken by hands trembling and
Heart quivering
And
Vulgar words not abhorred.

My knife grazes my own flesh, stinging but not suicidal— only scoring my skin and causing red to rise to the surface but not run over. I wonder where the will of mind I believed myself to once possess has gone, and further, if it will ever return. Despite the temporal answer denying me the death I have now pleaded for at the feet of another, there is still the sinking of my stomach and the trembling of my heart that convinces me of other events that are destined to come to pass.

I have not managed to catch the boy in our presence’s name, but there is no necessity in the notion and so I let it fall to the wayside, instead watching with wide eyes of terror as he raises his blade toward the two of us, grumbling and grinning with teeth as sharp as his knife blade. I know I am easily within his reach, vulnerable and splayed out on the ground as though there is not a weapon crafted of human hand that could end my life a moment before I was ready for it to terminate.

Instead, when he strikes, his knife sinks deep into the skin of Wylla’s left shoulder, leaving blood to fill the space now left between humanity and human. His laugh cuts short the thought of my horror, and if it weren’t for fear of the repercussions, I would have taken no time to backhand him hard enough to knock a tooth loose.

No respect could be found for or anywhere surrounding him— he was nothing more than desperation sheltered by a god complex that there was no use in trying to shatter.

Let a man die a false god and he’ll find himself on a rightful throne.

With false hope in my throat and fear paralyzing my mind, I know that there are many things I should now be saying— to him, to Wylla, still towering over me with warhammer in hand and wisdom in her heart, “I think you will, but I don’t know when. Maybe soon, maybe not. Maybe in a minute, maybe in an hour, maybe in another life.”

But there is no satisfaction in her reply, and instead I am left with disappointment filling the space between my bones, the sobering reality of my situation coming to mind and causing my thoughts to become lightheaded in the absence of a drowning nature.

Face first and fearful, her voice meets my ears once again, “Would your sister want you to do this?”

I could not know what Cha Leviane had truly wanted if she had outlined it in a will addressed to myself alone, but there is something in the nature of my submissiveness that leaves behind a lingering notion of her disappointment.

Before I can reply, she has closed the discussion for me and reprimanded me with soft grace, “Don’t die like this. It isn’t how your story should end, it isn’t how any stories end.” Another pause— a moment of collection and thoughtfulness, “Happy endings are real, so fight for them.”

Despite a desire to believe her, to devote my thoughts to her philosophy and guide my own mind by them alone, I cannot bring myself to speak agreement. Protest rising on my lips and souring my tongue, I go to speak and am once more cut short, “And I don’t mean fight yourself.”

I do not know if my sister was an advocate of the honorable in its rawest sense, but I knew with all certainty that no matter how much I wished to deny it, her death was not self-triggered. My own desire to find finality’s thought and rest easy in the darkest nature of the night sky starlit was nothing more than mine alone.

And if I was truly to bring this fate to pass by my own hand, this is a fact of family heritage I would have no other choice but to accept.

Caught between desire and despair I bring myself to both feet, with neck burning and heart racing and blurry vision clouding it all, and it is in this moment that for the first time in the past seven days that I realize that there is no true pain here.

There are momentary flashes of depression and plenty of bouts of death, but the true form of pain— that which lingers on for years past the moment of its birth, has not graced any of us here. Each of us knows that despite the repercussions there is nothing here that is anything more than temporary, and it is this logic alone that frightens me much more than it brings me any sort of comfort or consolation.

[shelby leviane attacks saummerand demheaux; knife]
VQuaHgil1-3

knife
[shallow cut on neck-- 4.0]

1-3�knife

[thompson harvard - d2b - arc]

Saummerand Demheaux did not understand what it felt like to interrupt any conversation. Maybe that's because he's never don it before, but he didn't understand how it felt. It felt like nothing to him, no pang where he felt bad for doing the action. He couldn't really feel an emotion in this state, where he only had giggles and laughs. There was nothing to feel in fact. There was only things to see, and some of them weren't even what he thought they were.

These people were zombies, but they were trying to kill each other? From what Saummer knows (that isn't much), zombies worked together against their enemy. Wasn't he the public enemy to any walking dead? He caused the mass fall of many people, so that's all the more of a reason for them to claim him as their next target.

The one zombie was taller, bigger. She had a deep voice it seemed, but maybe that was his brain talking. Her skin was dark and her hair was purple, the eyes were something Saummer didn't waste his time worrying about it. There was a young, more preserved look that etched upon her face and she almost looked too young for the gargantuan size that she seemed to be. She was the one that was taking most of his hits.

The other one was small and frail, yet still similar. Her hair was jet black and her skin a pale white, she seemed to have the bone structure of a pencil. Her face looked old for that young, small body of hers. It looked too scarred to match any sort of youth in anyone's life, so he doubted she was young. That was the zombie that seemed to be invincible, nobody wanted to touch them.

Were they too scared to?

It wasn't any of his business to worry about. Zombies were not his friend. Nobody was his friend, really. Only himself. Not his parents, not Cinder. Not Diorite or not even the few friends he made back at home. Saummerand didn't have to care about anyone else in this world besides himself, and maybe that was a good thing. He needed to watch himself through whatever insanity that would plague himself in the future. The first layer of insanity had already plagued him, for he's fighting the walking dead, and they don't have a life to lose.

So, in some cases, the phrase 'You Only Live Once' is a pretty accurate statement. People can risk their lives and do the most crazy things because they do only live once. Who wouldn't? Mother always told him to do the crazy thing anyways. But when it comes to these zombies, they've already lived once. This time, they'll live ten times more crazy. Is that why they don't hurt him? Maybe it is, but the cold sweats and scarlet dye that slowly dripped down said otherwise. It's like the painful cringes and twitches that one would normally experience don't want to show themselves. It's like the man himself, Pain, died. Does pain exist? It's like he hasn't felt it in years.

Sometimes the largest things of life hide in the shadows.
Sometimes it's the quiet ones that pack the biggest punch.

But it's always the unknown that kills you the most.

saummer attacks
OdJ7Eecp1-3
with knife
knife

1-3�knife

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

WYLLA LYSANDER

And then there is a silence whilst we take in what is dished. A slash on the neck, a cut on the thigh; I manage to slip between the seams for the first time. There aren't any knives raining down, slicing through the air and delivering me more blood than I own, there's just peace, for me, at least.

But I cannot help but weep for Shelby; I forgot that she had a sister who died. It's easy to forget about other people when you are so completely focused on keeping yourself safe and keeping yourself alive and protecting yourself from harm and hurt and hurricanes.

Sad, really, how she is following in her sister's footsteps. She's told me why, and I don't fully understand the reasoning behind her motives but I think she's going to get there, eventually, one way or another.

We're all the same—volunteers—but we are all so different. Different motives and different stories. Our faces may all be withering at the same pace and our memories may be turning darker and darker each day, but what divides us is what unites us: ourselves.

I feel a sharp shooting pain in my left eye and suddenly I'm transported back to the rooftop with Anton, Lorenzo and Lucas. Cold, fragmented; the memory is fading and it's gone a bit grey. There are still some frames of technicolor but the rest is black and white. I suppose that the recollections of friends past and present are victims to time, too, just like everything is.

Time. A maggot of a concept.

The pieces peel away, a gust of wind causing the crust to blow off into the distance and I am back in this arena, faced with the dying.

It's all so sad, so dull, so depressing that we are united and divided by the same damn things.

Maybe in a different world, an alternate world, all of the tributes could live together and not be like this.We could be happy; Anton and Lorenzo would still be alive and they would be able to meet Riv. I think that they would've liked her. I like her.

I like her a lot, but she's not with me now. I don't know where she is.

How she is.

If, she is.

Lucas, too.

I sigh.

This tea has done bad things to me. It tasted nice, at least. It's the little things that mean a lot.

I'm a little thing. I mean a lot.

I do.

But still I know that I cannot trust myself when my mind is lower than the ocean floor. A wish upon a star would not get rid of it, so I can only hope and pray that it isn't permanent.

The silence continues and it seems completely, utterly, truly impossible to break. The boy has an inquisitive look and Shelby—death becomes her.

Blink once, blink twice and on the third time, I hear a voice inside my head.

No, I think, not now.

Please.

OPOuD2F61-3
1 - saummerand, 2 - shelby, 3 - wylla

spiked blunt
[ 14178 -- MISS -- 0.0 damage ]

1-3�spiked blunt

[heather - d2 [mylee]]

Epiphany had and epiphany gone—
Now memory soured
On the basis of song.
With rhythm off-kilter and
Flow out of line,
Only hope can be found
Using foundations of rhyme.

Knife blade thrust out and met with identical precision upon the boy’s throat, my hand falls back to my side without fear or fault of failure. I do not speak to him now, for if he spoke without blood laced into his voice I would swallow disappointment and anticipate the sour dread it left onto my tongue.

The terrible thing about believing oneself to be a god is that invincibility is a factor well-played until the bitter end.

He strikes back in defense of pride and catches me short, matched knife for my own catching my left thigh and indenting the flesh with red ink. Body canvas of my own now marred by a hand other than that known causes anger to rise within my throat. The boy in front of me has done nothing but waste time— that of mine and Wylla’s and perhaps his own as well. His focus is not on survival or retribution or anything of true value but that of pride and reputation.

I have no respect for a man who values his image in the appearance of others over that of his own.

Despite the lack of pain tearing through my lower body, there is enough disgust coursing through my veins to spit in his face as he still stands within proximity, “Fuck off, we all know you’re overcompensating.”

Venom biting sharp within my tongue, I can feel my jaw begin to ache as it clamps shut, unmarred by the definition of common courtesies and respects. I am no lady in the face of the beginning or the end, and upon that note the times in between are always of a questionable circumstance.

He steps back and says nothing in the meantime, and the thought of him striking again in the short expenditure of seconds is dissipated by Wylla’s small frame charging forward, hammer in hand and heart and the clouds. She is met with a strike and a miss, directed towards the boy and his mind on lock.

There is a certain grace in the heart of a woman— a grace that does not know mercy undeserved.

I have not been described for my softer qualities since the day I buried my sister.

Prior to her death I was girl labelled optimist, a dancer upon dreams with a mind made for memories of mornings and sunrises. My body was always floating, my bones hollow and the spaces between filled with light. It seemed that I did not cast a shadow upon the ground, and when I stepped I tread so carefully that there was never once a dent in the grass or a flower trampled.

When I buried Cha Leviane, I buried that girl beside her, holding her hand and hoping that in time passing covered in the earth she would somehow transfer her soul to the now void space in my sister’s chest.

Stepping now upon dirt and dried blood, I do not take care to leave no trace of this body of mine. There is no one now that does not know of my existence, and it is this fact that supersedes death in gravity. There is nothing I can say now that will not be heard by someone, and with this in mind I turn back to the boy in front of us with a sneer still plastered upon my face, “You are not nearly as impressive as you believe yourself to be.”

No womanly grace extended, I know that I have destroyed any reputation of valiance that may have existed.

Laid upon the dirt and sobbing, humanity has preceded my heart and given way to sin, and with apologies aside and pleas pardoned, I am simply a girl with no soul left to search for. Everything I have questioned is here, filling the space of my heart and every crevice in between.

This body of mine does not overflow with shades of pink, orange, and yellow. Instead, it is just another showing sign of time passing and wishing to run its course. Desperation has taken the place of devotion and wielded itself come to life in the shape of a knife swung wild and a voice that now quavers with every third word not thought out prior to their being spoken.

With the loss of a free spirit comes the need to exterminate every unknown, and the lack of ability to complete this task causes first anxiety followed soon by anger, and the two pressed together as catalysts in blood that is both my own and not calls for the detonation of sanity in even the strongest mind.

As I wait for it to crumble, I will continue to debate the consequences of my defeat.

[shelby leviane attacks wylla lysander; knife]
GL5I0Cih1-3

knife
[shallow cut on right shoulder-- 3.5]

1-3�knife

[thompson harvard - d2b - arc]

They're angry at me. For some reason I awakened a beast inside of them, which, isn't shocking to figure out that they want my head on a platter. Who wouldn't want the person assisting the grim reaper dead? The black haired zombie was spitting insults and obscurities upon my name every time I struck and it was hard to configure them.

“You are not nearly as impressive as you believe yourself to be.”

And this was one of those many obscurities. The almost insane idea that was being impressive. I'm not impressive, I know that for sure. Everyone who labels themselves "great" at something is almost already bad at their so called mastered skill. People who are good at things don't have to tell themselves that they are great, people tell them that for themselves. So when the black haired zombie said this to me, I couldn't not agree with her words anymore than I already had.

"Thanks for the reassurance. Not that I needed it though."

A laugh followed my statement, one that didn't seem human. Who really did anything human these days though? That was an attempt of action that was in the past. Life is a boring thing, a repetitive thing. Kind of like how history repeats itself, life repeats itself. Somehow it does. I can't really connect the pieces right now, but maybe that's for you to decide.

I'm too busy trying to connect the own pieces of my story anyway, they seem to be scattered everywhere. In phrases and in the air, in the sunrises and the sunsets. They're anywhere that could be any place. I was trying to figure out what the entire theme was. Rebirth? Revenge? New beginnings? The story of how a young man went from the bottom to the top, and all he had was himself? I was not an author and I was not a poet, so coming to these conclusions didn't happen until the last page got written and the cover got slapped onto the faces of the media.

In the meantime, though, I'll keep fighting for the muse to continue the story.

saummer attacks
7_78B8lg1-3
with knife
knife

1-3�knife

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

WYLLA LYSANDER

fillering I am sorry <3

"Yeah. Overcompensating." She giggles.

Wylla laughs at Shelby's joke but doesn't fully understand it. Still down in the dumps because of the tea but not so much any more!

She thinks that suffering is harder than dying. She isn't scared of dying, she's sure that she isn't now. Not that she ever was.

She has a few chances left, only a few minutes or moments.

It's ride or die.

Do or die.

For now, there is life at least. She's going to live it.

"What are you fighting for Saummerand?

7p2t7wPS1-3
1 - saummerand, 2 - shelby, 3 - wylla

spiked blunt
[ 14128 -- MISS -- 0.0 damage ]

1-3�spiked blunt

[heather - d2 [mylee]]

No, I have never truly seen
Destiny come to be fulfilled. For
The truth of the matter is that
Heaven is simply at a standstill.

Prose prose prose

[shelby leviane attacks -; knife]
JwxLMBZL1-3

knife
[ result ]

1-3�knife