Shy Aubergine D2 (Updated Bio)
Oct 3, 2020 8:08:09 GMT -5
Post by uwu on Oct 3, 2020 8:08:09 GMT -5
I’m so tired. No matter how much I push myself in the gym or the training center or at school, I can't get the pain to go away. Six years of training and the only thing that's changed is my appearance. I'm no longer the scrawny short blonde haired kid that I was back before... before what happened. Coming back home was a blur for the first few months. Everything was covered in a fog that only stuck in my mind. I shouldn't have made it out of their alive. None of us should. I couldn't focus on anything. My parents suggested going back to school. I get what they were trying to do, wanting me to distract myself with school work and extracurricular activities. I wish it worked.
As soon as I took my first steps back into the school, everyone rushed towards me. "How did it feel to die?" "What was the Capitol like?" "Do you still talk to Quest? To Fiona? To Carmen?" My body crumpled onto the ground with a river flowing out of my face. Some teachers pushed everyone else away and someone walked me home. My parents didn't force me to go back to school until I asked again... a year later. That year where I stayed home was the quietest I've been. If you had met me before and thought I wasn't too social, this was worse. I didn't have anything to say, not that I could. The fog got worse as it condensed into a solid-state and flowed throughout my body. Even if I wanted to talk to someone, I couldn't put what I wanted to say into words. How do you explain to someone what it was like to feel someone's head crush under your weapon? Or having to kill your own friend? Or die? All within a few days of each other at the age of 12?
To make matters even worse, most nights I got to relive those moments over and over and over again in the form of nightmares, so sleeping it off wasn't an option. Of course, staying up for as long as possible wasn't feasible either, because by day three I'd manage to fall asleep and the most random places only to be woken up again by a nightmare. I thought about finding something to help me stay asleep without anything waking me, but I was too nïave to come up with an idea, so I dealt with i.
Finally, when the dreams seemed to be getting better, I got the courage to start school again by the next school year. The leaded fog was still there, but it was more fog than led at that point, and I could hold a normal conversation with my parents from time to time. As I entered the new building, no one surrounded me this time. I got a few glances as I walked to my locker, but no questions. My heart, which had been running at the speed of light, slowed down to the speed of sound. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than nothing. Another game had passed, so the hype must have died down from my games. I avoided watching them at all costs that year because I felt shitty enough having survived my own; why would I want to watch other people suffer the same fate? That, and I broke down over every small thing, and watching others die while I should have wouldn't have ended well.
School went on as normal. Still had nightmares, still had random bursts of sadness and crying. My fog kept with me as well. It wasn't until the 82nd games where life got worse again. I had the idea that since I was feeling 'better,' I could handle watching this year's hunger games. As you might have guessed from the possible irony, my throat clenched up, I couldn't breathe, and I almost drowned myself in my own tears as soon as I saw the tributes on their platforms. My family nor I didn't understand what just happened so in response all my family members decided to yell at me for not being over it already. I thought I was too, but I must have only gotten used to the internal fog. I thought I deserved all of it. I'm a 14-year-old career who died in battle two years ago. I should be tough and strong, so why cry? I shouldn't cry. I'm tough. I'm strong.
The very next day, during my family's training session, I knew I had to do more. Every day, during weight, cardio, and combat training, if I didn't want to barf at the end of it, I didn't do enough. If I wasn't sore by the next day, I didn't do enough. If I got caught by the seeker in the labyrinth, I'd accept the punishment and request to have it doubled. Yeah, it led to more injuries than it should have (which I didn't let fully heal because, you know, training), but I didn't want to experience what happened again. But hey, my parents were proud of me for finally accepting the role of a 'career.'
Every day for the next few years I would go to school, go straight to the gym and push myself to the limit, and go home to eat and sleep and repeat. By the second or third year, some days I struggled to get out of bed, but still made myself go out. If I wasn't training or at school, I wasn't in the right place. At the end of the third year or the beginning of the fourth of my changed life, something 'snapped.' I don't like using snapped because it doesn't feel right to the experience because that one morning, I didn't want to move. I could have easily lifted myself out of bed, onto the ground, and do my morning routine, but I didn't. My muscles weren't sore nor was I paralyzed because I could lift my arms and wiggle my toes, so I knew I could easily have done everything, but I didn't. I laid there in bed, staring at the white-painted ceiling above my head. The fog inside of me that I have gotten used to became led overnight and wanted me to stay in bed, alone. My parents came in and yelled at me after walking into my room 30 minutes after school should have started. Still didn't move. My dad tried pushing me out of my bed, but my mom stopped him before he could. Nothing. Didn't move a muscle. They tried again and again as the day progressed.
As soon as they mentioned training, I sprang out of bed, got dressed, and went straight to the gym without talking to anyone. As I did my first clean squat rep of the day, something popped in my leg and I fell over with over a hundred pounds on top of me. It came to my realization that I wouldn't have minded dying right there if it came to it. If the pain had come sooner, I would have agreed with myself more. Laying their in painless bliss got me thinking about life again. The 80th, while it might have been terrible and hell-like, had my last few good memories of life. Yeah, I met up with a few of my friends between then and now, if I had the time, but I wasn't enjoying myself. If I felt that if I wasn't working out, I was doing something wrong, which didn't let me properly enjoy those times. Maybe I had wasted the past few years focusing on the wrong things. Maybe... then the pain hit and I stopped thinking.
Someone yelled stuff, magic pixy dust, I'm in a hospital all drugged up and confused. The doctor happened to be in the room at the time, out of sheer coincidence. He explained to me that I broke my knee caps, and essentially should wait a few weeks before doing anything like I was doing before. I nodded along, agreed to what he prescribed, and stood up to get out. Pain shot up and down my leg, forcing me back down. The doctor chuckled, which was followed by some expletives from myself before he further explained that I'll have to stay a few days in the hospital so they can monitor me to make sure that the knee cap. He brought up that some people had mentioned how stubborn I've gotten recently when it comes to working out, so he warned me not to overexert myself again unless I didn't mind the possibility of not walking again. I obliged and took the pain meds he offered. Soon after I fell back asleep.
I don't know how much time passed before I woke up covered in sweat, but the room around me was dark. My brain refused to remember what happened then, and it refused to this day to tell me what that dream was about, but all I could tell you is that everything I just said was a lie. I should mention that the dreams I've had of the arena hadn't been happening as often as they had been, nor have they been as vivid. The fog still faded between a gas and a solid, but importantly the dreams got better. So much so that I wouldn't even lose any sleep over them. This one was the worse one I've had. I re-experienced every single death I caused or witnessed in the games from both points of view. I felt every bone snap, every sword cut through flesh, and every soul leave the body, over and over and over. I wanted to curl up, to scream, to escape, but I couldn't. I became trapped in my own torment forever and for a few seconds at the same time. Finally, I woke up in the sweat part as I mentioned.
After waking up from that dream, something inside me changed again. At this point, it isn't even surprising. If I could explain it in words better, I would, but I'm no goddamn poet. I managed to feel even emptier after that point. I stayed in the hospital until they released me. When I got home, the first thing I did was an attempt to go to the gym to work out and feel better. Of course, my parents stopped me because it's hard to walk with a malfunctioning leg. They scolded me about how I need to rest and that my mistake will cost me valuable training time. After failing to convince them to let me work out, they sent me, a 17-year-old (at that point) to my room. I was too tired to argue with them, and the pain meds were wearing off. Looking back, I'm not sure if the doctor trusting me to only take the pills was a blessing or a curse.
The bickering and scolding turned into fighting until one day they finally gave up. They told me that if I wanted to be a dumbass and reinjured myself again, I could do what I want. I was taking triple the pain meds I was recommended to take at no point in slowing down, so I felt invincible. This happened for a week or two before my parents finally gave up on arguing with me. Guess who was back in the hospital again hating himself? I didn’t learn and I inured myself happened a few more times before I gave up myself. How could I give up something that made me feel better? In turn I looked towards the pills to make myself feel better until I could work out again. I thought that I could quit anytime I want. I still believe that, but deep down I’m not sure if that’s completely true.
Now a year later I’ve recovered enough to be able to exercise again, but it wasn’t as much as I could before my injury. Every day is a struggle between pushing myself to the limit again or holding back in fear of getting another severe injury, and I hate it. Maybe if I did push myself again, I won’t be as lucky as last time, but maybe I’ll be forced to live with a shitty injury that’ll never go away. Maybe if it was guaranteed, I’d try again, but for now it isn’t worth it, even when I’m physically and mentally numb.
The only good thing that came out of being reaped in the 80th is that now I mastered the art of pretending that I’m happy. Nobody asks about the game anymore, and if they do I convince them I’m okay and it doesn’t really bother me. To be fair it doesn’t. I still shouldn’t be alive and I’m high off pain meds, but yeah I’m fine. I’ve survived The Hunger Games. Most people can’t say that, which is a cool. I guess. What they don’t know is the survivor’s guilt or how mentally messed up it leaves us. It makes sense why many of those victors do drugs or drink or do something, because who wouldn’t? The only difference between them and me is that they at least get to live in the Capitol, which I don’t think is much better, unless they’re from a lower district. I’m surprised all of them are still alive after all this time. I’m getting sidetracked. Yeah I’m not happy with life right now. I want to believe it’ll get better for me, but over these past few years, everything seems to have gotten worse. Maybe I’m overthinking everything per usual, but I hate it here. No one should have to feel like this way. Ever. Maybe I should focus on helping others later on, but right now I need to fix myself. I can’t keep living like this. Something major’s going to have to change, good or bad, before I I can go back to living normally again.
As soon as I took my first steps back into the school, everyone rushed towards me. "How did it feel to die?" "What was the Capitol like?" "Do you still talk to Quest? To Fiona? To Carmen?" My body crumpled onto the ground with a river flowing out of my face. Some teachers pushed everyone else away and someone walked me home. My parents didn't force me to go back to school until I asked again... a year later. That year where I stayed home was the quietest I've been. If you had met me before and thought I wasn't too social, this was worse. I didn't have anything to say, not that I could. The fog got worse as it condensed into a solid-state and flowed throughout my body. Even if I wanted to talk to someone, I couldn't put what I wanted to say into words. How do you explain to someone what it was like to feel someone's head crush under your weapon? Or having to kill your own friend? Or die? All within a few days of each other at the age of 12?
To make matters even worse, most nights I got to relive those moments over and over and over again in the form of nightmares, so sleeping it off wasn't an option. Of course, staying up for as long as possible wasn't feasible either, because by day three I'd manage to fall asleep and the most random places only to be woken up again by a nightmare. I thought about finding something to help me stay asleep without anything waking me, but I was too nïave to come up with an idea, so I dealt with i.
Finally, when the dreams seemed to be getting better, I got the courage to start school again by the next school year. The leaded fog was still there, but it was more fog than led at that point, and I could hold a normal conversation with my parents from time to time. As I entered the new building, no one surrounded me this time. I got a few glances as I walked to my locker, but no questions. My heart, which had been running at the speed of light, slowed down to the speed of sound. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than nothing. Another game had passed, so the hype must have died down from my games. I avoided watching them at all costs that year because I felt shitty enough having survived my own; why would I want to watch other people suffer the same fate? That, and I broke down over every small thing, and watching others die while I should have wouldn't have ended well.
School went on as normal. Still had nightmares, still had random bursts of sadness and crying. My fog kept with me as well. It wasn't until the 82nd games where life got worse again. I had the idea that since I was feeling 'better,' I could handle watching this year's hunger games. As you might have guessed from the possible irony, my throat clenched up, I couldn't breathe, and I almost drowned myself in my own tears as soon as I saw the tributes on their platforms. My family nor I didn't understand what just happened so in response all my family members decided to yell at me for not being over it already. I thought I was too, but I must have only gotten used to the internal fog. I thought I deserved all of it. I'm a 14-year-old career who died in battle two years ago. I should be tough and strong, so why cry? I shouldn't cry. I'm tough. I'm strong.
The very next day, during my family's training session, I knew I had to do more. Every day, during weight, cardio, and combat training, if I didn't want to barf at the end of it, I didn't do enough. If I wasn't sore by the next day, I didn't do enough. If I got caught by the seeker in the labyrinth, I'd accept the punishment and request to have it doubled. Yeah, it led to more injuries than it should have (which I didn't let fully heal because, you know, training), but I didn't want to experience what happened again. But hey, my parents were proud of me for finally accepting the role of a 'career.'
Every day for the next few years I would go to school, go straight to the gym and push myself to the limit, and go home to eat and sleep and repeat. By the second or third year, some days I struggled to get out of bed, but still made myself go out. If I wasn't training or at school, I wasn't in the right place. At the end of the third year or the beginning of the fourth of my changed life, something 'snapped.' I don't like using snapped because it doesn't feel right to the experience because that one morning, I didn't want to move. I could have easily lifted myself out of bed, onto the ground, and do my morning routine, but I didn't. My muscles weren't sore nor was I paralyzed because I could lift my arms and wiggle my toes, so I knew I could easily have done everything, but I didn't. I laid there in bed, staring at the white-painted ceiling above my head. The fog inside of me that I have gotten used to became led overnight and wanted me to stay in bed, alone. My parents came in and yelled at me after walking into my room 30 minutes after school should have started. Still didn't move. My dad tried pushing me out of my bed, but my mom stopped him before he could. Nothing. Didn't move a muscle. They tried again and again as the day progressed.
As soon as they mentioned training, I sprang out of bed, got dressed, and went straight to the gym without talking to anyone. As I did my first clean squat rep of the day, something popped in my leg and I fell over with over a hundred pounds on top of me. It came to my realization that I wouldn't have minded dying right there if it came to it. If the pain had come sooner, I would have agreed with myself more. Laying their in painless bliss got me thinking about life again. The 80th, while it might have been terrible and hell-like, had my last few good memories of life. Yeah, I met up with a few of my friends between then and now, if I had the time, but I wasn't enjoying myself. If I felt that if I wasn't working out, I was doing something wrong, which didn't let me properly enjoy those times. Maybe I had wasted the past few years focusing on the wrong things. Maybe... then the pain hit and I stopped thinking.
Someone yelled stuff, magic pixy dust, I'm in a hospital all drugged up and confused. The doctor happened to be in the room at the time, out of sheer coincidence. He explained to me that I broke my knee caps, and essentially should wait a few weeks before doing anything like I was doing before. I nodded along, agreed to what he prescribed, and stood up to get out. Pain shot up and down my leg, forcing me back down. The doctor chuckled, which was followed by some expletives from myself before he further explained that I'll have to stay a few days in the hospital so they can monitor me to make sure that the knee cap. He brought up that some people had mentioned how stubborn I've gotten recently when it comes to working out, so he warned me not to overexert myself again unless I didn't mind the possibility of not walking again. I obliged and took the pain meds he offered. Soon after I fell back asleep.
I don't know how much time passed before I woke up covered in sweat, but the room around me was dark. My brain refused to remember what happened then, and it refused to this day to tell me what that dream was about, but all I could tell you is that everything I just said was a lie. I should mention that the dreams I've had of the arena hadn't been happening as often as they had been, nor have they been as vivid. The fog still faded between a gas and a solid, but importantly the dreams got better. So much so that I wouldn't even lose any sleep over them. This one was the worse one I've had. I re-experienced every single death I caused or witnessed in the games from both points of view. I felt every bone snap, every sword cut through flesh, and every soul leave the body, over and over and over. I wanted to curl up, to scream, to escape, but I couldn't. I became trapped in my own torment forever and for a few seconds at the same time. Finally, I woke up in the sweat part as I mentioned.
After waking up from that dream, something inside me changed again. At this point, it isn't even surprising. If I could explain it in words better, I would, but I'm no goddamn poet. I managed to feel even emptier after that point. I stayed in the hospital until they released me. When I got home, the first thing I did was an attempt to go to the gym to work out and feel better. Of course, my parents stopped me because it's hard to walk with a malfunctioning leg. They scolded me about how I need to rest and that my mistake will cost me valuable training time. After failing to convince them to let me work out, they sent me, a 17-year-old (at that point) to my room. I was too tired to argue with them, and the pain meds were wearing off. Looking back, I'm not sure if the doctor trusting me to only take the pills was a blessing or a curse.
The bickering and scolding turned into fighting until one day they finally gave up. They told me that if I wanted to be a dumbass and reinjured myself again, I could do what I want. I was taking triple the pain meds I was recommended to take at no point in slowing down, so I felt invincible. This happened for a week or two before my parents finally gave up on arguing with me. Guess who was back in the hospital again hating himself? I didn’t learn and I inured myself happened a few more times before I gave up myself. How could I give up something that made me feel better? In turn I looked towards the pills to make myself feel better until I could work out again. I thought that I could quit anytime I want. I still believe that, but deep down I’m not sure if that’s completely true.
Now a year later I’ve recovered enough to be able to exercise again, but it wasn’t as much as I could before my injury. Every day is a struggle between pushing myself to the limit again or holding back in fear of getting another severe injury, and I hate it. Maybe if I did push myself again, I won’t be as lucky as last time, but maybe I’ll be forced to live with a shitty injury that’ll never go away. Maybe if it was guaranteed, I’d try again, but for now it isn’t worth it, even when I’m physically and mentally numb.
The only good thing that came out of being reaped in the 80th is that now I mastered the art of pretending that I’m happy. Nobody asks about the game anymore, and if they do I convince them I’m okay and it doesn’t really bother me. To be fair it doesn’t. I still shouldn’t be alive and I’m high off pain meds, but yeah I’m fine. I’ve survived The Hunger Games. Most people can’t say that, which is a cool. I guess. What they don’t know is the survivor’s guilt or how mentally messed up it leaves us. It makes sense why many of those victors do drugs or drink or do something, because who wouldn’t? The only difference between them and me is that they at least get to live in the Capitol, which I don’t think is much better, unless they’re from a lower district. I’m surprised all of them are still alive after all this time. I’m getting sidetracked. Yeah I’m not happy with life right now. I want to believe it’ll get better for me, but over these past few years, everything seems to have gotten worse. Maybe I’m overthinking everything per usual, but I hate it here. No one should have to feel like this way. Ever. Maybe I should focus on helping others later on, but right now I need to fix myself. I can’t keep living like this. Something major’s going to have to change, good or bad, before I I can go back to living normally again.
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