red sweden // fridae & lore

[Deleted]

l o r r a i n e

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Honestly, I sleep a little too comfortably here. There's something home-y with it, it might just be the memory foam but my body fits right in place with it, I set the walls to the skyscrapers and imagine I'm at the top of the tower. The air conditioner is the wind outside, I breathe it in and out like nicotine and I can watch the night sky from the white satin sheets.  

A year ago, a different girl slept in that spot and died in the snow. If I had to pick I would choose the tropics, somewhere warm, where the air is clear. I feel like most kids would agree, especially the polluted districts; eight and nine, we're used to the smoke sticking to our skin in pockets. The way it clings to your hair and eyes and it feels like my body just got wrung through an oil diffuser being here. My skin's smoother than it's ever been, eyes that don't burn and I rub them out of instinct at this point. 

Not out of necessity, not out of smoke burns. 

But out of fuckin' shock, "sis, what the hell is wrong with your face?" Holy shit. I can barely step into the training center without getting caught off guard -- maybe it's my fault for not talking to everybody day one. Last night I had looked forward, kept my eyes on Kyler's head as we boarded the elevators, but this morning I'm staring district nine female in the face and "get mugged on the train ride here? Goddamn," those poor stylists. 

So much for solidarity. Nine's been on the backburner for twenty years and I ain't feeling too threatened this year either, make up and canned charisma can't save a broken mug. I shiver looking at her, surprised she's even in good enough condition to be here; only thing I can hope for is that I don't look like that in a week's time. Maybe that's just me being shallow but damn. 

The second my nose is broken, I'm raising my white flag. 

[rook]

fridae drummond

mars, the god of war, pretending so serene
he's keeping his hands clean
while i make war on this war machine

It's another night of tossing and turning, broken sleep and waking nightmares. Distinguishing what's real and what's exaggerated by my overactive subconscious is too mentally exhausting to cope with in the dead of night, and so since before the sun rose I've been up sorting through my training equipment and taking cold showers. None of it helps.

I've been told that it would be a good idea to find some allies, some people who I can depend on inside the arena. It seems strange to me to place my life in the hands of people I've never met before, all of whom have their own agendas and priorities in place. Trust is hard to come by, you can't really trust any of the kids here, not really, it's always temporary, and it's always fragile.

I don't really have a plan - that's always been my problem. I've been wandering around doing a training station here, working out on the weight machines there, sometimes stopping to rehydrate or get some rest back upstairs. Making it up as I ago along, the same thing that got me into this whole damn mess in the first place.

I'm approached, not for the first time, and told how grotesque my swollen face looks. I don't take offense, I look like hell and people are probably, no, definitely talking behind my back spreading rumours about what the hell happened to me. They'd laugh if I told them the truth and think I'd made it up, so it's better to pass it off as inconsequential, I think.

"I'm a cagefighter," I say, plucking an apple from the refreshments table and taking a bite out of it. No good, sour.

"You should really see me on a bad week." I chew.

a careful chosen word, designed to hurt
but will it stir some new philosophy?
retreat or be defeated, baby

lyrics: mars the god of war by the beths