But Still, Is There Anything? [D8 train blitz]

[cameron]

i could be doing differently?

I'm three vodkas deep. I'm starting to feel warmer. Mom's glacial fingertips melt away. They can't wrap me up when I'm drunk. That only happens when I'm thinking.

And I'm not thinking anymore. There's no need. There's even less desire. I just want vodka. I want to be wiped clean. Blank. A brand new spoon. Not the one bending at the neck. Not the one blackened on the bottom. Not the one I'm familiar with. I want to be empty. Fresh. The bin after trash day.

I'll never have to remember another trash day. Relief falls down my throat with my drink. Ice clinks against the glass. Empty. I set it down, scan the room. There has to be more liquor on this train. What I just finished came from the Justice building. No one came to see me in the Justice building. There wasn't anyone to come. I stood by the window and stared. Waiting. I didn't know what for.

I'm still waiting. I still don't know what for. Until i find out, I'll have another vodka, thank you.

My eyes find a bottle; I'm there in seconds. As I fill my cup, I see my partner. I think his name is Faith. Or Hopeful? Either way. He's just as silent as I am. I pour him a glass too. He looks brooding. I'm brooding. It can't hurt to share that. I want to say something when I hold out my hand. I don't. I don't even extend my arm to the boy. I put the glass on the table nearest him and I blink. He'll understand.

I'm three and a half vodkas deep. I still don't know what I'm waiting for. But I'm warm. And the trees we pass are nice. Blurs of green. Dr. Eams would tell me to go talk to that boy. But I'll never see Dr. Eams again. Can't be mandated to therapy when I'm dead. Which I may as well already be. I sure feel it.

it's such a huge world, i guess any girl
is just as good as me

ooc: lyrics/title - some people by colleen green

[Tom]

Klein's visit felt heavy.

The underlying words of love and lips on his own felt too real, too heavy, and too much like a dumb decision. Ike's never been the type to make the smartest of decisions in his life, but this was by far going to be the one to get him killed. A sigh from his throat as the bruise on his chest feels like it's fading a bit more from earlier. At least, Ike left with a make out session and some hickeys on his neck. Klein's always been just a friend, but with death looming over his head, he told himself fuck it.

Nell, the other tribute, seems to be in her own world. Lost in the bottom of a vodka bottle, which he would have gone for if it wasn't for the lingering touches of lips on his neck that he wants to continue to feel. His mother and father had visited before Klein with those soft and sorrow filled eyes and he came clean about it all. The boxing, the quick cash, and the stupid decision. All they could do was tell him they loved him and leave him to deal with the consequences of his own words.

The glass clinks against the table as he can see the clear liquid that would feel nice against his chest, ease the bruising that lingers on his skin still. Fingers wrap around the glass as he tosses it back and lets the burn take over his body. A smile on his lips as he turns to focus on his district partner.

"Uh, hey." An awkward pause as he contemplates what to do on this boring train. "Wanna check out the roof of the train? I wanna see the districts pass by."

See them pass by because he'll never get the chance to again.

[heather - d2 [mylee]]

There are so many days and they are all so long.

Train rides are nothing but unnecessary turbulence, jostling memories of my last visit with Cha to my mother and I weaponizing our bodies—all screaming, no gunshots. Each annual boarding of this train in this way carries a specific rhythm, one with which I am always out of tune. I can only tell you what it feels like to kiss a young girl on the head and watch her stabbed through the heart a short six days later. I cannot capture that moment in words, but I can tell you I did not pick my body off of the floor for days.

I cannot tell you how painfully sorrow ages.

My mother has grown quieter in noticing—the screaming does not last nearly as long or sound nearly as loud. Either I am going or my hearing is, but I do not care to know which is actually the case. They tell me truth is subjective, anyway. What a sour lie to swallow.

--

When I break into the main cabin of the train, I am met with an empty room and a half-empty bottle of vodka. I inadvertently crack a smirk as I pour myself a glass and ask the attendant where the two have scampered off to. He gestures toward the roof and I head in their direction, mumbling under my breath, “Drunk and sightseeing—once upon a time these would have been my kind of fuckers.”

I no longer take time to compose myself before meeting new people—I no longer have enough of myself to gift. Instead I step onto the roof and stare at neither of them, saying, “I’ve avoided this rooftop during rides for a reason—my drunk stomach fucking hates the view.”

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