#d. 3

[caroleyre]

empty cages / self para

That music was going to follow him forever. Carol wasn’t sure how it began. It just did, and his ears immediately accommodated to it. After having spent the first couple of days ignoring it in the midst of his life’s most critical moments, it became white noise, if anything. In all fairness, he was enjoying what seemed to be the last bite of shadow in that whole arena, under one of their cardboard buildings. It was difficult to get lost in enjoyable nothings. The warmth was healing last night’s effects. Those of it the sunlight could touch. He was still sniffing, and his throat felt sore, but at least he was no longer shuddering from all bones.

On the street, he found a couple of spare tokens. He took them without hesitation. It was strange how the two tokens in his pocket, the ones he got from Magnolia Doyle back when he didn’t even know her name, stayed in his pocket throughout his dive into the pool, the entire glass shattering incident, two long strolls through the desert and, shortly put, hell itself. 

Still, at some point, as if calling for him, the music got just one pitch wrong. Maybe he made it up in his mind, but one note was off from the way his ears knew it. That was when he realized it wasn’t all in his head. That was when he realized it was playing, somewhere entirely different from that damned casino lobby. With eyes as big as saucers, he sensed the trap and knew what he had to do: walk right into it. 

Following the music wasn’t difficult. In fact, it was the best navigation he’d done ever since reaching the Vegas hell. Usually, regardless of time of the day, it took him ages to spin around and find that one hotel that opened its doors. It wasn’t that he couldn’t tell which one it was. It wasn’t even that the streets were mazes -- because it was actually so simple. Still, he couldn’t help but get lost, almost miraculously so. Not this time.

This time, the right door was already opened. He chose to investigate, instead of approaching his assigned elevator. It felt like too blatant of a trap to walk into blindly. Instead, he met with an old friend. The music was getting thicker and thicker, as if frustrated by his disobedience. There, bumping into Maize, it felt like perfect closure. He actually had enjoyed it. It had been their most pleasant interaction yet. When he left, there wasn’t much left of her. The blood stain would never come out, damn it. 

Then, he returned to his first problem, with slightly heavier shoulders. It wasn’t guilt, it was never guilt. It was just difficult to keep avoiding that spot near the casino door, the one that had to still be all bloodied. Carol’s eyes kept skimming the lobby blankly, going over that one spot with a stubbornness that wanted to look, but didn’t want to see. And, just so he wouldn’t look, he got into his own elevator, the one with a prize marked Four. Whatever they had to give him, he couldn’t tell. He had nothing to receive. 

As expected, the elevator doors snapped closed. Carol couldn’t even roll his eyes properly, because the elevator itself started moving at a vertiginous rate. If he had any food left in him, he would have definitely thrown up. This way, it just took him twenty seconds off that countdown to catch his breath, still holding onto his jacket. He dropped it, and looked around, trying not to get alarmed by the cold blue LED countdown, the only thing that gave off any light. 

A minute passed by him and Carol wasn’t anywhere near making a move. He was thinking. What was it that Rio said about him and thinking? A knowing smile hovered over his lips for a moment. This was not the place to think of Rio. 

The realization that the walls were moving closer and closer to him was electrifying. Suddenly, the stakes became obvious. That alone excited Carol, even if it became concerning all the same. Still, where there was a trap, there was at least a way out. Especially in the Hunger Games, there was always a way out. Rolling the sleeves of his shirt, he studied the insides of the elevator. 

It was clear to him that the doors couldn’t have opened. If he was somewhere hanging, they would open into the sort of void he didn’t want to see. After carefully examining the platform, he decided there was nothing about it either. His palms felt every inch of it, and for nothing, no button, no escape. The floor was getting smaller and smaller, now visibly. Still, he didn’t allow himself to panic. Over three minutes had passed, without him trying anything to actually escape. This couldn’t have been force. There was no way this opened with force.

Then, with a gesture he would never regret, in one single attempt to act in order to actually get out, Carol stood up, and his finger pushed against the Alarm button. The door opened. How anticlimactic. How convenient. He couldn’t help but laugh, full on. It echoed over the music, but no one was there to hear it. In the meantime, they’d taken Maize’s body. Good. He took the Four inscripted bag and found medicine inside. For the upcoming cold. He took the pills, stuffed them into the jacket’s pocket, and carried on.

It appeared it was luck, not force, that cracked doors open and made room for him.

[caroleyre]

a conversation with death // self para

A conversation with death;

Except he can’t hear you.

It was raining when he first met him. It smelled of salt everywhere, and he didn’t have boots for the weather, but at least he was, for the first time, so far away from home he didn’t know how to walk back there.

It wasn’t raining anymore, but the water dripping from Carol’s hair made room for a similar feeling. He never cared for goodbyes, now less than ever, but this wasn’t a situation to walk away from. It was not about remorse, and it was not about pain. It was about not knowing how to leave a dead man after having left and come back a million times when he was alive.

He didn’t move for what felt like the longest time. If he moved, he would explode or something. He was still expecting something to break, to blow up, to burn. Something to seal the deal. The stillness was driving him crazy. It was all denial, painted over his face, as he took stubbornness by the hand and refused to look death in the eye. 

His fingertips turned white from how deeply he dug his nails into the back of Rio’s palm, holding his hand like one last, desperate grasp on life. Carol really needed to remind himself he was not the one who was dead. His skin felt transparent, and his heartbeats too loud. Was everybody in the world now watching him curiously, to fish for a reaction? As if every camera fly in the arena was about to rest on his cheek, annoying and a slap away from privacy. It freaked him out, so he stood as still as he could, more dead than the corpse. If he didn’t move, they wouldn’t know about his heart rate. They wouldn’t know about everything boiling inside him in sheer shock. 

So he didn’t move for the longest time. Rio’s laughter still lingered, circling the corners of the room. He knew it by heart. He could play it anytime in his mind. Maybe because of it, half of the time he spent on that floor, Carol could swear he heard him breathe, too. An arrogant scoff, or, maybe, just I’m still here, for once. But he wasn’t, because if Rio Odair were here, everybody would know from a mile away. Carol stared into the distance for the longest time, not knowing what came next. This was supposed to be at the very end, but it just felt never-ending. 

Carol didn’t make it into a tragedy. He swallowed the tears before they attacked. He decided this was no time for tears. A strength he hadn’t known before revealed itself. The way he was holding his chin slightly pointed upwards was called damage control. The way he was searching with his eyes for something that didn’t exist was called a lifeline. Half of the time he spent on the floor, he imagined things the other way around. The boy next to him, alive, impatiently spinning the dagger in between his fingers, as he watched Carol’s skin turn into porcelain. Rio wouldn’t have cried, either. He would have broken something. Carol learned there was nothing left to break. 

Then, Rio would have left. That had always been the main difference between them.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. That miracle strength -- or dignity, or pride -- cut off emotion, but not the ache behind it.

For the first time, he glanced at Rio from now. There was no difference, just a stillness that never characterized him. And, oh, all that blood. Carol reached out and wiped off the blood running from Rio’s mouth with the wet sleeve of his shirt. There. Even in death, it wasn’t an affectionate gesture. Even in death, he wanted nothing more than to laugh at it. The way he looked like a statue, like something made of wax by the hands of a peasant girl, to sell at the fair. It made Carol want to throw up, but he didn’t let go. 

There it was, the body of the only one he’d ever loved. It just didn’t feel real.

And then, the sign. From the ceiling, everything fell and crashed in a heartbeat. 

The same way his father smiled when rain interrupted a burial from their village, the glass all shattered as some sort of protest from the above. His lips almost moved upwards -- no, a protest from below. He glanced at Rio’s corpse. Carol had never been a spiritual person. He knew it for a fact that death was code for when things stopped existing. And yet. And yet. When all the glass shattered, with thunderous noise, it screamed Rio. He didn’t care that it wasn’t real. 

There was no shock left in him when the crystal almost crushed him underneath. It felt surreal and out of reality that he was now caged in shards. Sharp cuts painted blood on his face and neck and palms. A piece of crystal was in his foot, and that distracted him for a moment. In the greater scheme of things, all that meant nothing. A concealed, low heat chuckle escaped from his throat, but he didn’t open his mouth to deliver it. 

There it was, their shiny little prison, except Carol was the only one in it really. Thin cuts spread all over Rio’s face too. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Escaping this one was going to be fun, but, for the first time, he wasn’t sure he wanted that. “Oh, you would have hated his,” Carol muttered, hopefully for no one else to hear. 

There was no rush. He could feel his face burning, and the blood dripping, gathering at the bottom of his chin like tears he refused to cry. Then, for a moment, he was angry. This was not the time to try to escape a deadly trap. The deadly trap was the silence between him and the dead man. Carol wanted to groan and punch the crystal until it cut some more of him. This totally ruined his moment of coping.

But that wasn’t smart, so he did not. Instead, he let go of Rio’s hand. It was time. They’ve never been ones for sappiness. It was, indeed, time to stop thinking so much. If he didn’t pick himself off that floor now, he would never get to it. So, he stood up, cracks entering his palm as he pressed it against the floor, feeling the cold dangling of a crystal shard still holding onto the frame. Carol lowered his head. In that position, he felt the cold, the wetness, the blood draining from him more intensely than ever. 

The Hunger Games were a trap he could not defeat, a trap that already got one of them. But he took the knife anyway, to try. For a moment, he hovered over Rio, holding his breath, maybe more nervous than the first time they’d kissed, and Finnick Odair’s necklace, some dumb shell and, incidentally, District Four’s main symbol ever since the man’s victories, shone louder than all the broken crystal. Carol thought about it -- he would, of course, retrieve it, one way or another, dead or alive -- but he couldn’t steal it away from Rio’s body. As epic as wearing the token of the one that came home twice was, Carol Eyre did not want to think of Finnick Odair at that moment, or ever again. Instead, without giving it a second thought, he pressed his own token ring -- made of stone, chunkily carved -- into Rio’s palm and clenched it close. 

Better than to take a souvenir was to leave something with him. He needed less, not more, now that Rio was dead. There was nothing left to say, anyway. He was dead. He’d been dead for a while now. And Carol? Carol was bleeding out.

This was nothing but a trap, but he needed to remind himself of that constantly. This used to be his favorite magic trick in the world, escaping.

So, instead of thinking about crying his heart out, he tested the paths he could go on. The entire room was now a labyrinth of glass, but, with a little grace, he could do it. Leaving everything behind in that crystal cage, Carol started sneaking under. It took him over an hour, but all distractions were good distractions. It took some significant scratches from his skin, too. He was bleeding out from everywhere, but he got out. 

For the first time in forever, he was out and alone, not knowing the future by name.

[caroleyre]

A silver parachute drifts slowly to the ground. A medium-sized container is attached with a note from Sirena Atlantica. Inside is a pair of sneakers and a small meal. The note reads: “Looking a little dry, drink. -S.A."

He couldn't sit still after the encounter with Poppy. All the arrogance in the world couldn't have counted out that she'd be back, soundless and quick, and push that knife, after all, in his throat. Carol wouldn't have done it -- there were things worse than death, first of which had to be living cowardly. But Carol also didn't know what her moralities were capable of. All the thirst in the world couldn’t have slowed him down. 

He closed his eyes and listened to the footsteps for a while, on guard enough to toss a trident exactly where sound came from. Probably not lethally, but enough to leave a mark, if needed. Still, that wouldn’t have been satisfactory. He wanted to lure the blood out, not just spill it. He didn’t want to rush the outcome, no matter whose funeral it ended in. A proper fight was long anticipated by now. He’d deliver it. Just a little later. Something in him was seething, but, for now, low on water.

So weaker than ever despite all the weapons up his sleeve, the remaining tribute from District Four stood up to the night desert, all alone. At this point, he could no longer feel his face. Crinkling his nose, all he could feel was the dry blood that Troy left behind, stinging from the inside. He was all in pieces, but dehydration was its cruelest threat. Where the fuck was that comforting parachute beeping, that glimmer in the black night that-

Ah. Yes. There.

Carol stopped into place, watching the red bulb climb down slowly, seemingly unbothered by the windy grains of sand in the atmosphere. At that moment, it appeared he had infinite attention, infinite patience and some sort of weariness that usually came with the first snow of the year. 

The note had been quickly disregarded, tossed against the sand without as much as an arrogant huff. He didn’t care for Sirena Atlantica’s snarky comment. The closest thing to mattering was that damned water -- because it had to be water, and nothing else. And it was. 

Hesitation had never characterized Carol. He flicked the canteen lid open and drank, trying to temper his thirst instead of wasting all the water in one long, desperate sip. He tried to save some of it for later. He tried not to be sickened by too much at once. Rationally, he knew all that, but reason was getting its ass kicked by thirst. Just a little more. Measure has never been where Carol excelled. He had a tainted definition of the word enough. And just like that, no half-full, no half-empty, but decidedly deserted, the canteen became useless.

Damn. Still, he kept it around his neck as he turned to walk in the opposite direction from Poppy Battenberg. They’d find each other soon enough, he was sure. There was no reason to chase her through the desert.

[caroleyre]

A silver parachute drifts slowly to the ground. A large container is attached with a note from Forty Love. Inside is a trident. The note reads: “What if you live, though?" -F.L."

What if you live, though?

Carol stood kneeling on the sand, face red, lit up by the red lightbulb of the sponsor gift container. The parachute fabric fluttered in the wind. The note was almost unreadable, but he caught it. In between furrowing his eyebrows in confusion and smiling a knowing smile, the boy from Four raised his shoulders into a shrug. This called for a monologue. 

“Well, F.L., I suppose it wouldn’t matter in the slightest, either way.” Was that his catchphrase by now? Would it infuriate his famous escort that he didn’t even bother to decipher his name? Carol almost hoped it would, as grateful as he was for every crumble of civilization (or utter lack of) sent his way. His own words made him giggle, but the giggle had something monstrous in it, so he stopped, clearing his throat.

What if you live, though?

What was there left in the world for him? Two parents, too decent to be proud, even if relieved. A handful of cocksuckers who would forever shut up and bow to him, as they should, from back at the Academy. All his trainers and professors, proven wrong. So that was what satisfaction tasted like. He could get used to it.

The glory would fit like a glove. He’d even put on a real Victor's crown on his head before, even if it was just fooling around with Rio in his grandfather’s house. It suited him. If he won, it would suit him. Even if things were mostly confusing, even if the back of his head still hurt like a numb bruise you can’t help but keep pressing with your thumb, if he won, he would lick the blood off his lips and smile.

Mostly nothing ever mattered, but he would make not mattering the sweetest flavor there was.

Then, he lifted off the lid of the silver container, and something shiny smiled with teeth at him. Even in that blunt darkness, he knew exactly what sort of weapon gleamed against the moonlight like that. He could recognize the shape and size of the box, at this point. There it was, the very symbol of his district, wrapped up nicely for him to end these Games. There had to be something mythological about the moment. The dagger he was previously holding on to still had its worth. You can never carry too many blades with you.

He could have used a belt for it. Still, Carol didn’t ask. Before, he didn’t know when to stop asking. Now, he wanted to ask for nothing more. He used the parachute strings to create a sophisticated knot. In bare, deep desert, Carol Eyre sat down and almost crocheted. There had to be something funny to the sight, yet, his fingers moved quickly. He could do a braid such as the one he was weaving, spider-like, even in his sleep. Then, he caught it onto the tie still loosely wrapped around the collar of his shirt, and hung the knife on the inside of his jacket sleeve. Just in case. In close reach. There it was, his preparation for war. 

The trident would travel in hand, always. So that was what unstoppable actually felt like. He could get drunk on the momentum.

What if you live, though?

We’ll see.

[caroleyre]

He couldn’t breathe anymore. It was as if every breath was sticking to the insides of his mouth, like gum way too chewed. In lack of water, in search for water, desperately. This time, for less damage on his brand-new shoes, Carol decided to follow the highway, but after a few hours of walking and after enough swallowed dust that it became clear he’d never be hungry again, he began to think it was all pointless. Deserts roads led nowhere. The Gamemakers were making a solid point.

In the distance, a pool of water glimmered. Carol actually blamed it on his eyesight, not quite expecting it to be real. As he approached the spot that bathed all the moonlight, he became convinced that he hit the jackpot. With his last soundly, determined steps, he rushed to get there. The reality was quick to become depressing. Carol collapsed (almost dramatically) in the sand with a heavy sigh. He had his trident with him. He had his dagger with him. What he didn’t have was the slightest source of water.

All of a sudden, the possibility of dying of thirt became palpable. And so damn dumb. He knew it could happen, even though he had never seen it happen before in the Hunger Games. It was a long-lived myth of faded days. However, it felt as if he was going to become the first one in a while. What an undeserving ending.

With no cacti in sight, maybe he was doomed. There was something sisyphic in his quest that he couldn’t help but appreciate. There it was, human nature at its finest. With his driest chuckle yet, Carol stretched out his neck, as if to catch a camera’s attention. His words were less suffering than he thought they’d come out. For that, he was grateful. Finally, a drop of dignity (and no drop of water). “I could really use something to drink, thanks and please. I might actually die, so...”

Then, something in the distance moved. Carol looked back, his neck snapping in the direction of where the noise came from. Having expected a coyote, he was both intrigued and alarmed to recognize the President’s niece. “Oh, please, find your own part of the desert to die in,” he sighed out, exasperated but suddenly revitalized enough to jump back on his feet and give his best attempt at a fight, if needed.

@poppy-battenberg​

[caroleyre]

The desert almost ate him whole. It felt decent. He walked, and walked, and walked, until he expected to find the beach. If he struggled enough, he could fool his mind into believing he was at home, looking for the opposite shore, hoping to wander off too much to return. 

As the sun was lying its first rays upon the sand, Carol closed his eyes. He kept walking, this time with his eyes closed, until the sun became insufferable. Then, he took off his jacket, holding it with a finger, over his shoulder. He was done hiding in between buildings, in the civilization of the concrete. This felt more like the Hunger Games than before. At least that. 

Carol’s eyes lied on the chain link fence. It was unpassable. From an entirely different side of the fence, close enough to recognize the character and maybe shout at her, but far enough that he’d have had to walk too long to sink his fingers into her hair and drag her by it all the way back to the city, Poppy Battenberg was gazing at the same oddities. For a little, Carol decided not to say anything. But he couldn’t. Oh, he couldn’t. The morning light turned him braver.

“Is this where your aunt lives?” he started off, mockingly and trivially, because he genuinely did not know how else to speak to her.

@poppy-battenberg​