hopeful pain {isaac, day 1.5}

[lance]

oh, my mind's getting violent
it only multiplies in the silence
give you a fist full of violets and
watch 'em blossom underneath your eyelids

It's over almost as soon as it began, the chaos of the storm calming before it ever really built up to steam. A pity, perhaps - I hadn't felt this alive in months.

I decide then that that's how I want to go - locked in the middle of glorious combat, bodily functions failing yet a soul pumped full of icy adrenaline, keeping me alive through every swing, through every shuddering breath.

But such a fate is not going to be consigned to me today, that's for certain. The last patch of resistance in the form of a girl flees, and the snow, streaks of red staining the otherwise pristine surface of white, is once again silent. But of course, I have to break that silence, a laugh erupting from deep within, locked somewhere in a battle of amusement and bitterness.

For a boy who signed up for the Hunger Games with the sole purpose to die, the fates seem to be doing everything they can to ensure that my suffering is prolonged, that my fate is not to fall in the snowy wasteland without suffering through the cold for a few days first.

Hah. Dunno why I'm surprised. Life always has been about pain and suffering for me, and I don't know why I expected that to change in the crucial last days.

I turn, all intents on searching through the spoils of war that the four of us have claimed, only to be interrupted by a sharp pain that wells in my right foot and shoots up through the leg. Seems I didn't go unscathed in the whirlwind of death and decay after all - but it's no matter, really.

After all, it's not like there's the medical supplies for twenty-something people lying in a pile just for us.

So instead I sit, plopping down next to the large pile of supplies. A quick inspection reveals that the back of my head has been sliced open, as well, but aside from that and the welts on my arms from somebody's whip, I appear to to be fine.

No death by blood loss today, at least. That part reassures me - the last way I'd want to die is slowly.

Perhaps that's why I drop the knife and claim Aeson's forgotten axe, perhaps that's why I opt for the full ski suit despite how ridiculous it looks, perhaps that's why I intentionally ignore the spare chest plate left after Aeson claims the former, opting instead for gloves and boots. Perhaps that's why I let Euley sew my head back up together, and why I bind the broken bones in my foot so tightly that I can manage a passable walk-limp hybrid.

Death on my own terms is not the same as death outright - and perhaps there's some small part of my brain that clings ever so tightly to life, for there were times when I would not have cared how I passed so long as I did.

But then I remember that this was the alternative to a slow death, no matter how long it takes. How long is weeks when compared to a standard human lifetime?

When the sled arrives, I can't help but snort - for now I can rest whereas previously I would have been forced to irritate my foot even further by putting weight on it. Not like I did myself any favors when it came to choosing items, as well - for along with the axe and the armor, a crossbow sits alongside jars of flammable tar, an item not seen in the games for nearly half a decade. Add that to a medkit, my armor, and my broken self - well, you see the picture.

And so we travel, four odd companions on the back of a sled pulled by who knows what, until the snow gives way to patches of red and green - but this is no blood, but floral life instead. The temperature rises from freezing to just barely above freezing, and it's a wonder that anything so vibrant can survive in such conditions.

But these are the Hunger Games after all, I remind myself. Regular logic does not apply here.

But so we split, like confetti to the wind, each traveling a different direction. Euley goes one way, Aeson stalks off in another, and Violetta makes the promise to scream at any danger, leaving me behind to watch our free transport.

Not that I mind, really, for something tells me that solitude will be something in very short supply as we trudge our way across the line that divides life and death.

Carefully, awkwardly, I step down to the ground, the satisfying crunch of snow beneath my boots taking me back to more carefree times, when I still was a child capable of joy and innocence at seemingly inexplicable phenomenons. But it is the plant life underneath that I look to, the herbs that can help heal wounds almost like any modern day medicine, and the plants that, in a pinch, can provide sustenance to the empty stomach.

It is only as I find and tie the first bundle of healing herbs together that I realize a truly unique fact: I have yet to have found something to get annoyed or angry at this day. No parents, for they are long gone. No breaking of bones or splitting of flesh, for they are nothing in the grand scheme of things. Not even Aeson, who seems to have found a truly unique way to get on my nerves, perhaps obtainable only by the experiences that we've shared with no other.

The pain is still there, deep in my chest, everlasting as always, but something new has joined it, at least for this day.

And I find that that scares me more than any sword flying towards my face ever would.

i've been running from the moon
since i got burnt by the sun
your face is brand new
but your smile is gone