wanna guess the ending, if it ever does
i swear to God that all i've ever wanted was
a little bit of everything all of the time
a bit of everything all of the time
apathy's a tragedy and boredom is a crime
so this is how it ends.
i promise to never go outside again.
She’d managed to stand up twice, and she’d fallen just as often.
Give me a chance.
Holland should’ve killed her. Truly. Anything would’ve been better than seeing the stairs in the distance and being unable to walk towards them. To walk towards anything at all.
This wasn’t a chance, this was a taunt, and Honey had asked for it herself. The goddamn stairs in the distance were taunting her with the promise of survival, and she was too far away to reach for it.
But, who was she kidding. Even if she’d been there, she’d have had to crawl up there on her hands and knees. Perhaps the underworld would’ve collapsed before she could’ve even gotten there.
Miserably, a sob got stuck in her throat and it only mingled with the pain all over her body. Everything hurt, everything was hell. Never in her life had she wanted to lay down and give up this much before. Did the ends justify the means? Was the journey worth the pain? Was life worth suffering without an end in sight?
No, it did not, but maybe it could, with time.
Harrow, sweet Harrow, he would’ve had a word of advice for her by now that she’d have scoffed at outwardly and inwardly stowed away for future reference. Desperately, she wanted to know if he’d cheer her on now. If he would’ve been here still to tell her that maybe if she tried enough, just maybe, she could be worth it.
I just wanted to be good. I wanted to be like you.
Her arms were caked with dirt by now, and she dragged herself forward another miserable inch. Across grassy ground, dull and grey-ish instead of the rich greens of the villa gardens. If she had to die, she’d have rather had it happen there. More peaceful than anything in her life had ever been.
No, if she had to die, she’d prefer if that moment was still far in the future.
So, she mustered up all her strength and pushed herself up off the ground, a muffled whimper of pain accompanying the movement. Right, she could do this. She could absolutely do this and get up those fucking stairs and -
As soon as she’d stood back on her own two feet and had taken a step, a violent sort of pain zapped through her body, causing her to crumble forward, like one of the walls in the city above. Like her stupid chance.
The fall was harsh but the burn in her throat even harsher once she was unable to keep her fear and anger and frustration and sorrow pent up inside and it released in the form of a primal scream that tore at her vocal chords. That left her throat feeling like she’d downed an entire bottle of whiskey in one go and then decided to sob her little, blackened heart out.
Fuck this. Fuck all of it.
“Don’t leave.”
Honey went from shaking all over to being quiet as a mouse. That voice. She knew that voice like her own. No. No no no-
“Nini, you promised you wouldn’t leave.”
Slowly, breathing unevenly, Honey turned to look over her shoulder. There she was, her little mirror. Wide eyed and brimming with this distinct glow of life about her that Honey had always lacked. That was different about her twin now, too. Instead of this almost annoying, ever flowing optimism, Clementine Bellerose looked utterly heartbroken looking down at her sister.
Silence lingered.
And then, in the bleak atmosphere, Clementine took a step forward and Honey reciprocated the movement by crawling forward as pitifully quickly as she could.
And then, she had her in her arms, cowered on the ground.
And then, Honey allowed herself to cry in earnest.
“Why are you here?” she hiccuped, desperately drawing her sister closer. “Why- What is this supposed to be?”
Clementine wrapped her arms around Honey’s shaking form, a tight embrace that felt like salvation after being starved of it for nearly a week. She’d never appreciated her sister’s hugs like she should have. Honey had never not left, be it for the night or a whole week. “They gave me something to drink, while I was watching. I woke up here, Nini.”
Naive of Honey to think that just because Clem hadn’t volunteered in her place, that she’d be safe from this. Utterly fucking naive.
“Don’t leave me alone here, Nini. Please don’t leave me alone.”
“I- I can’t walk. I can’t fucking walk, Clem.” Tears painted hot streaks down her face as she pulled back a little, glanced over her sister’s features so terrifyingly out of place in the Arena. Like they weren’t exactly her own. Well, not anymore. Honey finally had the distinction she wanted. An ugly gash across her face and a haunted look in her eyes that would never again leave her.
Clementine paused before asking the question that was clearly on her mind "Is it true? Only one person can go up the stairs?”
“You- Yes. It’s true. I can’t walk, so... you should just go. Walk up those stairs and get out. Then you’ll be safe.”
“No,” Clementine’s voice was uncharacteristially sharp as she spoke the word before Honey had even finished talking. In the next moment, she whimpered again. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she briefly glanced around. “Please, Honey, I’m so, so scared. This is constantly scary. I...I’m working on your victory tour outfits, and if I go up there I’m just going to have to wear them myself like a huge dork! I'm staying with you. Will you stay with me?”
“Right, yeah, we really wouldn’t want you to look like a dork now, would we?” Honey shakily joked, a fresh sob restricting her throat at the prospect of laughter. Clem lightly pinched her arm and faintly giggled along. Honey held onto her sister tighter.
“I’m always going to be here,” her little mirror smiled. “Don’t worry. You and me? Best team.”
If whoever had sent Clementine into the Arena had only known that there didn’t need to be any more pleading. The groundwork had been laid in nineteen years of being around one another. Nineteen years of so much pain and yet, so much warmth. If only they’d known that all Clem had to tell Honey, was to stay, to not leave her behind and she wouldn’t, because if it was one of them, it would always be the two of them. A victor’s crown meant nothing without her sister smiling at her as she wore it.
This was a cross roads.
Honey knew which path to take.
Her fingers dug into Clementine’s arm as the trembling resumed. “I’m sorry, Clem,” she whispered, tone shaking. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“I know,” her sister smiled. “You kept saying that and I said if you want to say sorry, you should do it in person. And here we are.”
Fresh tears brimmed in her eyes. Honey looked down, pressing her forehead to Clementine’s. Her sister reciprocated the gesture, but one of her hands found its way into the pocket of Honey’s rain coat. Seconds later, the smooth surface of a painted rock dropped into her palm.
Was the time almost up? She couldn’t tell anymore. If only one of them could make it out of here, none of them would.
The Bellerose sisters came in two, didn’t they?
“Thank you for staying, Honey,” Clementine whispered.
A deep rumble echoed through the Arena, but Honey kept her eyes closed. Let the bitch rumble.
Another one, much louder this time, followed.
In the ruined city above, the statue of the king of gods lay in ruin, the head separated from his shoulders. A streak of ash painted the path of a tear into his blood red face.
After that, the rain began.
It wasn’t a light, warm drizzle like when she’d run into Holland in the pretty garden, or when she’d washed Harrow’s blood off her hands.
It was stone. Stones thrown at miserable souls who could’ve done better in their lives, but hadn’t.
They clung to their own polished, colorful piece of stone together as Honey pressed Clem’s face to her chest, arm wrapped around her sister’s head to shelter her from the harsh downpour.
Thank you for staying, Honey.
in the garden
i will die.
in the roses
they will kill me.
i was going, mother.
to pick roses,
to find death.
Surya had never been squeamish, but it was something else entirely that made it difficult to look at Honey as she struggled so close to victory. Pride. Pride hurt to see her tribute struggle in such a humiliating way, pride hurt to have victory slip away with each slow crawl toward the stairs. There was no sponsor that could help now. There was nothing to help now. “Honey,” Surya pleaded, letting her phone fall from her hands as she bent forward, hands grasping at the corners of chairs and tables to keep her standing up. As Honey took a step, Surya straightened. And as she fell, her mentor hunched forward and grabbed the arm of a chair for support. This couldn’t be it. This couldn’t be how things ended. “Crawl!” It was uncertain, strangled, and overshadowed by her tribute’s own cries. “Honey!” But she saw it, clear as day, like a request sent down the factory line: a golden funeral shroud. Stained in blood.
Grass ripped from the ground, dirt caked under her fingernails. Holding onto the earth, digging her fingers into it, wouldn’t propel her forward faster. Hopeless. Fucking hopeless. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she whimpered under her breath, repeated the curse over and over again. Maybe someone would hear. Would anyone care? How many people were glued to their screens right now, watching someone else, in favor of looking at the victor instead of the dying child. Was anyone watching? “Fuck.” Panicked beyond belief, she continued on. Dragging her tired, beaten, bruised body across the ground.
So close, and yet so fucking far.
Was anyone watching?
Honey wasn’t going to talk to a camera again. Why waste her last breaths on uncertainty? No, she wouldn’t waste her breath on that. Instead -
“Fuck!” She yelled the word out into the world, screamed it on top of her lungs across the wasteland that gave her a perfect view towards the glow of the stairs. Her fist banged into the dirt ground, as she gave the people watching her anger to remember her by.
If only rage could lift her up, if only rage could make her walk. If only her rage could save her this time.
Surya’s makeup was smudged on her cheek, and the powder had rubbed off on the screen of her phone. She didn’t have time for polished looks, only making phone calls as she kept her eyes trained on the screen. Honey was so close, but threats loomed in the arena still. She was in need of help, quickly. “Pickuppickuppickup,” Surya hissed into the phone as she based, eyes almost unblinking as she remained locked on Honey. The beeping tone of yet another message going to voicemail was met with the phone thrown into the pillows of a nearby couch. “There’s help out here,” she warned her tribute. Surya had always felt a deep connection to the Universe, deeper than the average person. She hoped her words, even if only a vague whisper, found a way to Honey. With her neck craned to keep an eye on the screen, she grabbed her phone and dialed another sponsor. “There’s help out here, Honey, keep going.”
It was embarrassing.
Beyond humiliating, in fact.
She was so close. So close to those damned stairs, to coming home. All she had to do was walk towards the stupid, glowing thing in the distance. And exactly that was the problem. She couldn’t. Honey couldn’t fucking walk. Blood flowed freely from her wound, molten lava spilling out onto the ground.
She struggled to her feet, too much force in her movements, almost too much determination, that sent her stumbling to the ground quicker than she’d gotten up. A distressed whimper of pain escaped her. Honey kept crawling forward. How much time was there still? How much had she wasted on fighting Holland instead of just running the fuck away?
Honey kept crawling forward, dragging herself forward by fistfuls of dry grass. The pain in her leg subsided the smallest bit, as she put less pressure on it. It gave her courage to try anew.
She put pressure on her good leg first, shoving herself off the ground. It went well for a moment, hope rising in her chest. And then, she took a step.
Everything crumbled once more. A scream tore out of her throat as she landed on her hands again.
Honey had dragged herself into the river, the stairs in the distance a glowing beacon of hope. Swimming had momentarily made it easier for her ankle, barely any pressure being put on it and the cold pressing down on burning fire gave her the illusion of a chance.
An illusion of a chance, much like Holland letting her live instead of just finishing what she’d started.
Her brain adapted to the illusion easier than to the grim reality of the situation. Much like she’d dragged herself into the river, she dragged herself out of it.
Now, though, it seemed even harder. Now, she could barely stand up without letting out yelps of pain. Now, her chance was dissolving into nothing right before her eyes.
DISTANCE MAKES THE HEART GROW FONDER THE FUCK UP // SELF-PARA
have fun tomorrow, we’ll see if you make it past noon.
i’m sure you can bet on it, or some shit. could be good money for you, if you’re right.
you couldn’t care less about how i feel about you going out there just to get yourself killed, why should i waste my energy thinking about you after you die? you get what you give.
Dear Rust,
I hope I lost you some money. I made it past noon, who’d have thought?
I know, it’s not a real loss. Why care about some cash if you had it thrown at you since you were a baby? But still, I hope you lost it on me, if you didn’t simply bet on my death.
Because that bet, you might just win.
Rust, I took drugs. Rust, I’m still high. Rust, I killed someone. Rust, I kind of want to fucking die just so you can say you told me so and choke on it.
I don’t want you to fucking choke to death, but I want breathing for you to be a little bit harder. Like it was for me my whole life.
Life’s never been good to me, and all the luxury at home just ends up making me sound like a hypocrite. Every second I’ve lived wrapped around my throat like a fucking piece of rope and strangled me with every step I took.
I wish I’d have told you about it.
I wish I could’ve talked to you about everything.
I wish I hadn’t held back in fear of being seen.
I wish our last words hadn’t been in anger.
That being said, choke on your betting money, you winner.
She wanted to ask why. In fact, it was on her lips, they were poised to say it, to demand an answer for why she would give Honey a chance. Honey had been given a million chances in her life, hadn’t she? –but this was just hypocrisy, from the girl who stood to inherit a fortune, a railroad company, who had never gone hungry in her life, who had the luxury to embrace and give her all to a hobby.
Skinning and redressing animals. That was what she loved to do. And Honey was no more than an animal right now, a scared mammal just like herself, on the ground in front of her.
She wouldn’t kill her.
But she had already taken her chance, hadn’t she?
“Good luck,” she said, getting to her feet, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. The same thing she’d said to Thetis. Good fucking luck. And then she walked away, turning her back on Honey, knowing that the pain she was in was enough that she surely wouldn’t get up, chase after her. Holland had bought herself time. The guilt she felt walking away was the same as the guilt she’d had with Otto. With Doriss. Even with Amalthea, traitor that she was.
She and Honey weren’t so different, no. They were both just girls, trying to survive in a world that didn’t want girls to survive.
The breath she’d held found release.
Good luck.
Honey wordlessly watched Holland adjust the strap of her bag, turn and start walking away. She tried to shift onto her knees but every movement made her wound burn as though someone was pressing a branding iron to her skin, leaving her to gasp for air. Perhaps, that was essentially what this was. She was being branded a loser with a sliver of a chance that seemed slim to none.
“Good luck,” Honey repeated, quieter, and she doubted Holland would hear it over the drizzle as she walked away.
She could barley sit up. Standing and walking would turn out to be torture. Once more, her anger and desperation mixed with the cooling rain.
The look they shared seemed to Holland to hold some understanding. The understanding that the two of them were not allies, nor were they friends, but they weren’t going to kill each other, either. They’d both been put into this situation not of their own will. They were both stuck, stuck in between who they were or who they’d been made out to be by others. Surely they had both killed. Surely they both regretted it. Maybe they weren’t as different as she’d thought they were, back when they’d met in the Tower.
Still, she didn’t push the knife into Honey’s neck, and Honey didn’t use her knife, either. Instead, she let go. She made to run. A panic set into Holland, blinding her somewhat.
They were alike, yes. They’d both been made into monsters, villains, by their circumstances. And Honey might, at this moment, now be running towards the stairs.
Maybe it wasn’t mercy at all that she let go. Maybe this was a race.
She lunged towards her, still on the ground, on her hands and knees, and grasped Honey’s ankle with one hand. The other hand, the one with the knife, came up as well. There at the back of Honey’s foot flexed her Achilles tendon. Holland didn’t think.
She wouldn’t kill her. No, she wouldn’t.
But she could stop her.
The knife dug deep into the back of Honey’s ankle, as Holland knelt there in the mud, the rain coming down around them.
From the moment Holland’s hands closed around her ankle, things seemed to progress in slowmotion. There’d been this brief moment where everything had been looking up for just a second. She’d chosen for there to be no more blood on her hands, more literal than metaphorical. Metaphorically, those people would all still die for her, once she made it up those stares. Literally, she wouldn’t have to look into their eyes as the life left them.
But, euphoria only lasted so long.
Holland grabbed for her ankle and Honey could feel herself tip forward with a frantic shout. Honey landed in the wet grass with a thump, panic coursing through her as she kicked back, trying to get her ankle out of the girl’s grip.
To no avail.
Honey cried out in agony as the knife sank into the back of her foot. This was beyond the worst pain since the slash across her face, delivered by a piece of sharp stone in the drugged out fight over a blanket in a searing hot, ancient town.
Stop fighting for useless shit.
Finally, too little, too late, she wormed her ankle out of Holland’s grip and hopelessly crawled back a few paces, staring at the girl with eyes widened in agony. “Give me a chance,” she blurted out between heavy breaths.
If she deserved one, or if Holland should’ve just taken that knife and plunged it in her chest, was up for debate. But, it wouldn’t kill her to ask. Literally. Metaphorically.
“Give me a chance. You have a fucking headstart now. But just,” she grimaced, eyes screwing shut and a pained noise falling out between clenched teeth, as a new wave of pain shot through her ankle, her leg. “Just give me that chance.”
She was half prepared for Holland to simply shake her head and say no. To pick up that knife and be able to walk away in the certainty that even despite a ruined tendon, Honey Bellerose would never walk again. She’d thought they’d shared at least a sliver of understanding in that brief look. But who could’ve blamed Holland?
Holland hadn’t quite expected Honey to wrap her arms around her, and the hold was tight, so that she couldn’t get a full range of motion. Her mind moved quickly; she needed to win this fucking fight, she needed to get away, she needed to win. She needed to survive.
(A small part of her mind asked, What for? Honey had more to live for, surely. Holland didn’t know what was waiting for her in the world, but it probably wouldn’t be very pleasant. But that note – She’d want you to win – the idea of Aspen somehow seeing this, Aspen would root for her, urge her forward, to keep fighting.)
She tried to wriggle free, but couldn’t quite do it. Her hand with the knife came up to Honey’s neck, she was ready, she’d do it– but she hesitated, didn’t move, frozen for a second, as she looked into Honey’s face, a face which seemed just as scared as her own in some ways.
Honey rolled on top of Holland, beyond graceless and arduously. Her grip on the girl from Six was tight nonetheless, but right when Holland’s knife came up to rest at her throat, a threat that didn’t need to be vocalized, Honey’s rose as well, reflex more than anything.
Both of them froze.
She looked down at Holland. Holland Westbrook, the girl that’d never been a friend to her at each and every turn, but never quite an enemy like this either. She could’ve killed her as she’d gotten the mask, and she’d chosen not to. She could’ve killed her at the graveyard, but she hadn’t. She could’ve killed her now, slit her throat even while she was on top, but still, she hesitated.
So much of Honey’s own emotions was mirrored in Holland’s face, and Honey came to a conclusion. A decision her mind, the most clear it’d been all Arena, had made quickly.
The life of two people (perhaps three, she had no idea what had gotten Arachne in the end) on her conscience was enough. At least, directly. Whatever happened once she walked up those stairs was the doing of the Gamemakers. Honey could choose this one last kindness to give to Holland, to not kill her there and then, even if it wouldn’t last long.
I’m so sorry, Honey. I just wanted to be good. I wanted to be like you.
Perhaps this was her turn to be more like Harrow Pitt, and run away. She didn’t linger to find out if the knife cut Holland as she sharply drew away from the girl, hastily getting to her feet as she turned to run towards the river.
She thought back to Thetis, the idea of last words. But she couldn’t think of anything she wanted to say, anything for her last words to be. And anyway, she and Honey were a better match, fight-wise. So she shrugged a little. “I guess I don’t really want to do it at all, but.” She gestures above them, then around. “Here we fucking are, huh?” The knife burned hot in her hand. She would want you to win — it was what Viola had said, and it was true. Aspen would want her to fight. Right now.
So she lunged at Honey, knife out, but aiming instead to tackle her to the ground.
A bitter, melancholic smile tugged at her lips. Her eyes were burning. Was it tears again, or did the rain just irritate her eyes? “Yeah, here we fucking are,” her voice was a low rasp, barely heard over the steady pitter patter.
The moment of mutual understanding seemed to be over. In conversation at least, that was. Honey watched Holland rush closer, and she let her. She wasn’t going to dodge. They’d both be on the ground then, knife against knife, strength measured in strength. So, when Holland tackled her, Honey grabbed her around the waist tightly as they both crashed to the ground, a pained grunt leaving her lips at the impact, aiming to roll them over with clenched teeth, aiming to get on top of this.
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