hang my mugshot in the museum [ laurel - day one ]

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

ONE SECOND WARM, ONE MOMENT COLD. FALLING FOR SILVER THINKING IT'S GOLD. I'VE HUNG MY WINGS ON MY SHARPENED HORNS, TORN MY PETALS AND EMBRACED MY THORNS. THINGS FALL THROUGH AND PEOPLE DO TOO.

I do not believe in karma.

There's something about it that is intrinsically linked to religion, and following religion is leading yourself down your own path of self-destruction. Karma feels too powerful for this world; imagine if every good thing I'd ever done amounted to hopes and dreams accomplished, if every sin I'd ever committed came slithering back like a snake to stick its teeth in and get the final say.

Venom can paralyse, in fact it can kill—I don't believe in karma because if I did, I'd be dead long ago.

Even feeling half-dead, for a girl like me, that feels like a heavy price to pay. I don't know what it is about the other tributes that made them pile themselves onto me—I'm essentially harmless: unarmed and not an ounce of protection to stop my heart from beating outside of my chest. But still it does, and that's just something that I'm trying to come to terms with, because I don't think any amount of preparation can truly prepare you for what it is really like in here. The sun is out but it is cold, the sky is wide but it is shallow, and the air is all around yet it is tight.

The tension makes it hard to breathe—constriction harms like addiction—each breath fuels a body that seeks something the world does not want to offer.

I have to count my lucky stars, though, because for twenty-two people who want you dead, there was one who didn't want me to die. Yeah, only one, sure, but sometimes one is all it takes—I'd probably have been mauled to death by those uber-pretty careers if he hadn't picked me up and dragged me out. Broken fucking leg and the first day hasn't even seen the sun set—everyone must be ruling me out and branding me as yet another one of Eight's most disappointing promises.

Let them, I think, because having someone to prove wrong is a cause to rebel for.

I fall into a clump on the ground, an awfully sorry sight for a girl who is from a family who had so much promise. I suppose this is what happens when blood is abandoned for the sake of self-interest; the pillars that hold you up come crashing down and though you may not break, you're most certainly bruised, and it is the getting back up that is the hardest part. I wince a little looking down at my leg—it's definitely snapped—but I figure that it could be worse. My lucky stars may only be counted on one hand, but I still have some to count, and for that, I have to be grateful.

The gold of the Cornucopia slowly fades away as I pull myself away, the colour growing into a dry green. The world falls into a truly autumnal palette, all contained within a hopeless looking wooden fence. Yet the post stand in a way that make them intimidating, soldiers of this ground, they watch over the fruit and vegetables with purpose.

I don't trust anything in this arena. Fences, the sky, tributes and even the pretty sights. Safety is never considered by the gamesmakers, only survival.

I help myself to some of the vegetables and their earthy taste throws me back to home, and it comes as such a pleasure to finally have another taste in my mouth that isn't blood from biting my tongue. Because biting my tongue was the safest bet—shouting and screaming when getting knocked down a peg feels like bad strategy; there is the chance you'll hit someone where it hurts and the mental scars take longer to heal than the physical—that is, if you survive them.

Amongst the bountiful harvest lies a selection of tools to aid in the tending of the plants. Their blades catch my eye through the grass and I exhale with relief because being completely hopeless can come to an end. A period of lacking the means to attack is not good for me because I feel like I need to have that security under my belt; it is scary to walk into a knife fight with only fists because they could so easily cut off your hands. I look down to my hands and squeeze them tight, watching as the veins around my wrists and knuckles bounce into action. They are a predator beneath my own skin: skeletal in design yet strong in function.

I could be the same.

My eyes look out for other tributes because now I am in a better position. I'd dare them to show me their swords because I would swallow them all; rage is nothing but love covered in a passionate blaze. If it hurts to prove a point to them then I do not mind because I may fall down but I'll drag myself back up. Even though the day draws to a close, I do not.

Sweetness does not suffice. From now on, I dare.