upside down horseshoes are bad luck >> open

[semper]

sewanee clark

Kraygon’s dead.

Beheaded.

He didn’t deserve it. None’a that.

Wasn’t too long ago when he was helpin’ me get back at a Peacekeeper that liked tauntin’ me. Kraygon didn’t waste no time gettin’ that tin lid an’ goin’ at the officer after he done whipped me once jus’ for lookin’ at him the wrong way. Kraygon suffered the punishment with me; we both was tied to a post an’ whipped unconscious, an’ when we woke up, all we could do was talk ‘til they untied us. I asked if he was awake an’ he wished he wasn’t. Not a far-fetched dream when you got your back tore open from a ‘keeper with a vendetta.

Kraygon didn’t deserve that neither. But he didn’t back down.

I shoulda told him goodbye before he gone off to the Games.

That’s somethin’ I’m gonna regret.

I don’t know what to do. Anger’s burnin’ like fire in me an’ it’s all I can do to jus’ keep myself pacin’ back an’ forth in the room. The TV’s still buzzin’ with feed from the broadcast an’ they’re showin’ Kraygon’s death on repeat: one angle, then another, then slow motion, an’ then once with dramatic sound effects an’ Caeser makin’ comments. Every bit of it grates my nerves with the same bite as a whip. That’s my friend they’re showin’ dyin’ - he don’t deserve that. It’s all for the sick amusement’a the Capitol, all them godawful folk that live for our struggle. They thrive off our desperation an’ I can’t stand it.

What can I do? Ain’t much, considerin’ I’m in Ten an’ the Capitol’s so far away. But, dammit, I need to do somethin’. Anger’s got me in a vice grip an’ all I’m seein’s red - I need things to throw, things to hit someone with. Murder’s jus’ ‘bout on my mind.

My hands are fists at my side as I’m headin’ outside. Ol’ metal scraps, ol’ horseshoes, an’ a length’a metal rod is all I can find within the time my fury’s allotted for searchin’. My pockets are full’a metal scraps an’ the rod’s in my hand, held by a white-knuckled grip. Kraygon’s death keeps playin’ in my head like some movie on repeat an’ it jus’ fuels the fire that’s makin’ me march toward the quiet district square. Ain’t too many people out in the snowy evenin’ an’ I don’ blame ‘em; s’cold an’ the snow’s fallin’, but there’s still Peacekeepers outside. Still patrollin’, still guardin’ whatever the fuck they think’s worth guardin’ here in this dusty cattle town. I know this square all-too well: s’where I been whipped on many occasions. Some for theft, some for assault, an’ others… well, jus’ ‘cause. The one Peacekeeper that was there the day Kraygon stepped in to help me, I recognize him o’er there on the other end of the square. He’s talkin’ to another ‘keeper. He’s distracted.

I know I got a good throwin’ arm. I reach into my pocket an’ pull out a broken piece’a horseshoe. Judge the distance, get the stance - throw. It’s sailin’ through the air an’ I’m already reachin’ back into my pocket to get a second piece’a iron an’ throw it in the same path as the last. I hear the thunk as the first piece hits; the asshole turns, an’ that second piece hits him too. Perfect. I hear him snarlin’ from all the way across the square an’ watch as he’s lookin’ ‘round, prob’ly for whoever threw somethin’ at him, an’ that’s when he spots me through the fallin’ snow.

I wave.

Oh, this’ll be fun.

I can already see the fire in his eyes as he’s comin’ my way an’ so I don’t hesitate to start my walk toward him. That damned whip’s coiled at his hip an’ I got my metal rod at my side. That other ‘keeper’s watchin’ but I’m sure he’ll be down here to help his buddy soon enough.

Two-versus-one? Sure. I got plenty’a fury for the both’a them.