BITTER HORSE UNDER THE STEEL.

WHAT IS HOME IF NOT THE FIRST PLACE YOU LEARN TO RUN FROM?

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“I do not really know whether I have survived. My inner self has shut itself up more and more. As though to protect itself, it has become inaccessible even to me,”

— Rainer Maria Rilke, from a letter to Elisabeth Schenck wr. c. January 1919

[favathornewood]

location: the outskirts of the ballroom

Sixteen Capitol attendents are dressed in Oversee originals – more if you count the ones that were dressed in “vintage” designs pulled from the vaults of her mother’s work. She doesn’t do any styling anymore; not since the incident that left a permanent tremor in her fingers. (Shame, they said, she was something special.) At least they had her daughter to take her place.

Truth be told, Holls didn’t want to be there. Another grandiose soiree meant that another Reap was coming, another chance to dress the children that would more than likely meet their demise at the hand of the Careers. It made her own hands tremble at the thought. She flexed them instinctively at her side.

It is beautiful, though, the mansion. Signature white roses are everywhere. Hollis wonders why anyone hasn’t made a dress out of them yet. In due time. Perhaps that will be her next project.

The stylist slips a flute of champagne from a passing tray before settling against the wall that she had claimed as her own. There is security in feeling something strong against her back, as if nothing can hurt here there. That doesn’t stop other people from approaching, of course. Thankfully, this one doesn’t seem like the type to ask her a million questions about her process like the last person she ended up in a conversation with.

Playing nice now, “hello. You look absolutely lovely.”

[pistaclearmark]

he counts the minutes in his head--tally marks, increments of sixty, carved into the table of his brain with the ragged edge of a fingernail. five more--he keeps swallowing the words down into the pit of his stomach, hoping that they wrap themselves around the ache that is developing in the small of his back, in between the valley of his shoulder blades. five more minutes and no one will notice that you need the wall to hold you up, that you keep dragging the back of your hand over the sockets of your eyes. five more minutes, and you can find some place to collapse--to crumple like sheet metal, like old and rotted through wood after impact. 

just five more minutes. inhale and exhale, another mark. 

he grits his teeth in an effort to stop the impulse, but he can feel the familiar sting, the familiar itch setting in behind his eyes--they’ll start to fall closed, be rimmed with red, if he doesn’t remove himself from the equation. he shoves his hands into his pockets in an effort to head-off the impulse to drag them repeatedly over his face, to dig the heels of his palms into the delicate flesh, and he moves to withdraw himself from crowd--to find an abandoned dark corner somewhere and just close his eyes, just for a second. 

he makes it about five steps, to the outskirts, when he’s stopped in his tracks by someone speaking to him. 

“uh,” he says eloquently, feels color rush to his cheeks as he briefly casts his eyes over the clothes he’s wearing. “thanks? i uh, didn’t really have any say--i just put on whatever gets left for me.” he shrugs his shoulders, and the corners of his lips pull up briefly. “i think they’re just glad that i’m not wearing something stained or ripped.”

[thevictorious]

VICTORY CELEBRATION .

Fava hated dresses. They represented all of the things that she shouldn’t do. Her mother had insisted that she could not climb trees, could not wrestle, could not hide frogs in the lining of her skirt… Really, nothing fun ever happened when she’d worn a dress.

What’s more, she’d come to view them as a symbol of the Capitol. The only time that she was ever made to wear one, at least after her poor mother realized what a wild child she’d raised, was when she’d attended the Reapings. Now, in the Capitol, she was expected to wear one to every event. The parade, the interview with Caesar Flickerman, her victor ceremony, and now a party that was meant to celebrate her win with Hudson.

And still, nothing fun happened when she wore a dress. These days, she had even more restrictions. Griffin had instilled in her that she’d best hold her tongue, smile at everybody, and keep up the romantic angle. If she didn’t, her family would pay.

He knew just how to make her try.

She smoothed her hands gently over the skirt of her dress, admiring its silky golden fabric, and tried to force herself to wear a natural smile as she stepped into the room.

Fava tried her best to ignore the gasps and stares as she stepped into the room, the people of the Capitol admiring her in brightly colored throngs. She had nothing but contempt for them. They’d let her people starve, while they ate until they were sick. No, she didn’t care for them. They were only of interest to her when she was in the arena.

But they would not be ignored. As she tried her best to look for Hudson or Griffin or even Nelly, she was whisked away by a chatty socialite. Fava barely listened to anything she’d said, nodding and making soft sounds of agreement as the man went on and on. He gave her a glass of something and a glittering plate, and insisted that she get something to eat and join his party.

She blinked, flummoxed by the assortment of foods spread out before her. At first, she tried to look as though she knew what she was doing, but Fava hadn’t the slightest idea where to begin. She glanced at the nearest person and murmured. “Any recommendations” Fava asked, a faint crease forming between her brows. “What… is all of this?”

[pistaclearmark]

“i got sick, the first year after i won--spent the whole party throwing up.” he says quietly, with a shrug of his shoulders. there’s a part of him, deep within the fraying sinews of his muscle, his fissured bones, that thinks perhaps he should be cruel--tell her to figure it out for herself, because she’ll be eating off of golden plates until she drops dead in a feather bed somewhere, while the rest of us keep slowly digging our own holes in the dirt. he’d been ruthless once--he’d made things with his own two hands that had the express purpose of causing pain, of stealing the life from others so that he could live it better and without suffering, he could be as venomous as any of the gilded eagles that stalk this marbled nest, especially if it served him. 

but before she opens her mouth to speak, he studies her face and he knows--he knows by the way she keeps pulling at the fabric of her dress, the way her gaze keeps flitting towards a door, a nearby window, the way the skin around her mouth pulls just slightly too tight. a hungry kid knows another when he sees one. a kid raised on the wild, with only trains and the ground beneath his feet for company, knows another who craves open sky when he sees it. 

there will be time later for cruelty, and it will come worse from people above him--for now, he doesn’t see why he can’t uncurl his fists, why he can’t be the boy who from district six who was convinced he could outrun a train, that he could fly with wings on his ankle bones. 

“i’d spent my whole life up until then not knowing when i’d get to eat again, y’know? so i tried everything, to make up for lost time--almost out of spite for the way i’d grown up.” he smiles as warmly as he can, which he’s sure is a poor approximation--a clumsy imitation from someone whose face was never meant to pull in that direction. “after that i figured out that the easiest thing to do is hold it for a minute, move the food around like you’re interested, and then put it down somewhere. that way you avoid having to comment every district’s terrible regional delicacy.”

he offers a hand. “i, uh, don’t think i’ve congratulated you yet on the win.” 

[hcrdcreeks]

OPEN STARTER

Location: Snow’s mansion | lounge area Time: 8:47pm

Another tailored suit ruined. Not by spilled food or drink, but by the handsy attendant of another stylist. Retired, of course, had terrible taste beyond repair. But had been running around, already lost on absinthe, pressing hands of paint onto patrons of the party. Before she could get dragged off, she’s already planted two neon hands to the back of Slate’s suit. He was disappointed to say the least.

Without getting the paint on anything else, he had stood, sipping his own drink slowly, and nodding at any conversation that went by. When he was by his lonesome for a moment, he caught the wandering eye of another and huffed. “Mutterfly got a little handsy, what can I say? I don’t believe the neon is quite the look for me, unfortunately. You on the other hand, look par for the course.” He nods politely. As much of a compliment as the man can manage.

[pistaclearmark]

“if you want,” pista drawls, deadpan, “you can do the same to the back of my jacket, and then it will look like a fashion statement. stop the rumors that you have a sunny personality hidden somewhere within the depths of you.” he feels the corner of his mouth pull up into a kind of half-smile, half-smirk, but he hides it behind the rim of his glass. slate may be the closest thing he has to a real friend, to a tether tying him to the world outside of district six, but doing this--cracking jokes at parties in isolated corners, conversing casually about life outside of work and order, has pista feeling clumsy. he half expects slate to roll his eyes and simply walk away, as a silent reminder of exactly where he wanted pista to remain in the hierarchy of his life. 

“par for the course? you see me looking awful on a regular basis, slate.” he snorts and rolls his eyes--like always, there’s no real heat behind the action. it’s more like muscle memory, something comfortable, something evolutionary his body does without the consent of his brain. “is that what made her want to put her hands on you so badly? your silver tongue?” 

[dawnhardin]

Garden Strolls || Open Starter

There’s a sick feeling in her stomach, the kind that rolls around every year she attends a Presidential event, but strangely, it feels different from parties past. Dawn has never been immune to a love story and there was something so terribly compelling about Fava and Hudson’s devotion to one another. Truly, she wants nothing more than to fall into the throes of romanticism alongside them, but Dawn knows better. If the rumors are any indication, Fava and Hudson are anything but mere star-crossed lovers, not that she really minds. After all, despite all these years, there’s an undeniable part of Dawn that would burn it all down to ground if she could. 

But that was neither here nor there. 

Tonight was about playing her part and working within the system that she despised so much. With a Quell on the horizon, she knows there are soon to be tributes who need her, just as much as she needs them. She needed to be prepared for whatever was to come. And so, Dawn smiles, shielding her constant, inner fury with a pleasantness so unshakeable that golden sun rays might turn green with envy. 

“It’s such a lovely evening, isn’t it?” Dawn muses, sipping from an elegant flute of champagne, as she spots a familiar face, “I would be remiss not to stroll around the garden, if you would care to join me.”

[pistaclearmark]

pista sweeps a thumb over the back of his hand, exhales slowly. 

he can never get them completely clean. 

he scrubs his skin raw every time, tries to erase every trace of six, every trace of himself, but there is always something there--a grey brushstroke tattoo to remind him that he will always be a stranger to these people, a rusted automaton in a room full of grecian marbles and oil portraits, no matter how many times he repeats the motion. back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. 

the dirt does not go away. it just seeps deeper inside of him, into the marrow of his bones, into the cavity of his chest. one day, he’s certain, the room will fall silent as he begins to choke on it, to cough it up onto the pristine floors until he can be buried underneath of it all. 

at least then, he will get to sleep. at least then, the poor bastard kids that will get pulled up from six with bright eyes and black lungs will know the truth of it. you can run, but never far enough. never away from yourself. 

he’s startled by the sudden intrusion of another person into his space, shoves the offending limb into his pocket where he curls his fingers into his palm, hard enough to leave crescent marks in the skin. it’s a short lived panic, and the corners of his mouth immediately pull up unbidden when dawn meets his eyes, as warm and as welcome as her namesake. he’ll never understand why she has such a talent for that--for appearing when pista’s very skin feels like an ill-fitting costume. 

“just got a hell of a lot lovelier, if you ask me.” he laughs, offering his arm to her. “maybe i won’t look like such a stiff, with you there to take all of the stares.”

[bloodbonesteeth]

“What did I know? How could I have imagined then how alone I would become.”

— Dorianne Laux, from My Brother’s Grave in “Facts About The Moon″ (via adrasteiax)

[pistaclearmark]

THREE: What was the first reaping you remember?

“i thought it was fucked up, that the kid’s family were so happy to see him gone--” he speaks the words quietly--he’s not really sure why. maybe it’s because he’s spent so long treating his mind like a cemetery, digging through the grave dirt with his hands to just bury everything that felt too painful to think about. maybe it’s because it feels dangerous to speak of the dead in district six, where everyone and everything seems to transverse that boundary with ease--neither fully alive nor fully decayed. speak the words too loudly, and the thing will come back to you, in the worst way you could think to want it.

“i realized it later--that the reason was that they had one less mouth to feed, that it was probably their only chance at something better.” he bites down hard on his bottom lip, ignores the taste of copper, salt, oil--the way they briefly sting individually before they become one scorpion’s tail. it’s a smaller pain to mask something larger, something that sits on his chest and threatens to crush the bones of his ribs, like the impact of the fucking train. “it was the first time i wondered if my parents would have been happier without me. if they would have been relieved, if my name had been called and i didn’t make it back.” 

he chuckles, rubs a hand over the back of his neck, the strip of skin that the worn neck of his shirt does not cover. “guess i never got to find out the answer, huh?”

[pistaclearmark]

EIGHT: What is your end goal? What happens after it's reached?, TEN: What fragrance immediately takes you somewhere? What is that place?

EIGHT: What is your end goal? What happens after it's reached?

the answer sits thick on this tongue, as though he swallowed oil and instead of burning the back of his throat, it just coated the inside of his mouth slick and black.

i want to run, god please, that’s all i’ve ever wanted. i want to run until the bones of my ankles turn to wings, like in those stories of the old gods. 

he swallows, the sticky tar feeling sitting heavy in his chest now. it chokes the desperate hope out of that statement out of him--burns the places where such things take root until he’s reminded of who he is, of what he is. this is the easier way, he reminds himself. this is how you emerge with wounds that can be treated, instead of fatal ones. 

“i--” he shrugs his shoulders, tucks a dirty strand of hair behind his ear. “i want the trains to move faster, i guess. i don’t know--beyond that.” he exhales slowly. “i’ve never thought that far ahead.” 

TEN: What fragrance immediately takes you somewhere? What is that place?

“six always smells like smoke,” he says, and the words fall from his mouth mechanically--as though his jaw is being powered by heat and a piston he has no control over, that just keeps firing as long as his heart keeps providing. “even though the trains don’t run on coal anymore--it’s like--” he shrugs his shoulders, stuffs his hands into his pockets. he doesn’t make eye contact as he answers--instead his gaze falls to the middle distance, to the congested line of the horizon. “it’s like it got in the ground somehow--seeped into the soil. stained the walls of every building.” 

he feels the corners of his lips pull up into a kind of half smile, and a small chuckle escapes. “makes other people feel sick, the first time it hits them--you have to get used to it. after that--” he curls each of his fingers into his palms, nails digging into the flesh and leaving crescent shaped marks. “you hardly notice anymore.” 

[pistaclearmark]

NINE: What does happiness look like to you?

“happiness doesn’t look like anything.” he says quickly, with a terse shrug of his shoulders. he bites down hard on his bottom lip--the skin is broken, and his stomach twists when he realizes that he’d hardly noticed, that he hadn’t felt the sting of sweat making its way down the bridge of his nose, that he’s become so used to the taste of copper on his tongue that he doesn’t think about flicking his tongue over the wound, coating the inside of his mouth with the blood. he inhales and exhales slowly--maybe that’s what happiness is, becoming numb to the pain. removing yourself from the equation entirely. 

“it’s--” he shrugs his shoulders again, doesn’t look up from his work. “it’s--blurry. colors and shapes as you move past them as fast as you can. beyond that--definition, complication--it’s not happiness.”

[bloodbonesteeth]

“I told myself to stop loving things that look like sunrise.”

—  Mckendy Fils-Aimé, “Dracula to Mina Harker,” published in Borderline (via rottenappleheart)

[murakawatoru]

[megairea]

“I choked / on such longing I couldn’t spit out. Yes, desire is so different / when God bore you hungry.”

— Yves Olade, from Belovéd