low on feeling // syd & lore

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l o r r a i n e

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"Acaba de matarme ya," please. I mutter it under my breath, ever scared to speak out loud like I'm one to be quiet -- I hate pity. I've always hated it, helping people so loudly makes my skin itch and my heart throb, but I every time I see him I bite my tongue and cringe in my gut. 

Syd Scoria, to think I thought I'd die alone in here. 

Shelby leaves the reaping videos on in the rooms, like it'll teach us in passing and she gets a 'get out of jail free' card. Maybe it makes it easier for her, to surround herself in it gently so the pain never stops. You never get a happy moment and you never have to lose one again. Don't get me wrong, it's a terrible way to live and she knows it too, Shelby Leviane doesn't need a therapist at this point, she needs divine intervention. 

In that same sense, I do too. She's the one who gets to live and that leaves us 0-1, she's already won and I'm staring down the barrel. Every hour I question what the hell I can do to get ahead, to reinvent something about myself, but I can't stop seeing these people. Like Castor and Sin, and Syd, and it pangs my gut because these are boys I'd protect with my life back home. I see him in the animal handling, small mutt in his hand and I don't know if he's learning anything or imagining a petting zoo, but if it hurts less than I guess he's doing fine. 

Fuck me. I clench my hand around the throwing knife instead of gritting my teeth, if I'm dying it's with full enamel, baby. Two days in and I've learned enough names, burdened myself too much as is but sinking a full ship has always hurt the best; maybe I just want to make myself depressed. Walking over to him and I just imagine every way this kid will die in eight days and that bald head will be covered in blood and shit and sweat. 

"Syd. Right?" Stupid. Him and me, I want to yell at him for volunteering when it's so obvious he won't make it back home, but I can't be so confident myself. This boy was four districts off from being part of my haus, "congrats on being the first bald volunteer! Milestones," and all that. I eye him up and puff my sleeve, drawing attention to the D8F on my right forearm. That's fucked up, I mean, he volunteers for a death games and they can't even drop him off in the right casket. 

I'd be pissed! 

"Do you have any extra shirts? I can fix the details for you," district eight pride, darling. I'd do it for myself any day of the week, I can spare an hour for someone else. The things I do for my co-stars.