Task Description:

Tributes are locked in a room and given time to refect, entry must be based off of a song.

I am not a tragedy, merely a canvas that has been scribbled on, torn, and left to rot by myself.

I was still in shock, I think. The freezing cement floor of the small room whose walls were lined with mirrors bit like frost into my torn skin as I lay sprawled on the floor, unable to make myself move. I could feel the mechanic arm shackled to my ankle; the thing that had ripped me from my companions mutilated bodies and had dragged me into this room to face some other unspeakable horror that was bound to rear its head any second.

Still, I didn’t move. I didn’t try to get up and find a way out. I didn’t see the point. This was a war, a war we didn’t ask for. It had grabbed us around our necks and forced us to fight to the death. No one would be life alive, not even the one who was left standing, for their would be nothing left to them.

That deep overpowering will to live had left me, it had packed its bags and left realizing that I was too far gone to save. It had been years since I had felt like this; the crushing desire to simply end it all.

Three days ago I had dreams, dreams to go to college and study the beautiful mysteries of art and the methods of weaving words together, I had dreams to publish a book of poetry that would inspire millions, I had dreams to be a renowned poet someday. Three days ago when Arwen had pulled me out of bed early and announced we were going to the carnival my life had been at dawn, painting the brilliant colors of pink and purple across the sky. Three days later my sun was nearly set, it was dipping below the horizon line quietly, surrounded by grey clouds.  I was empty, even if the police were to break into the carnival now and save me, there wasn’t much left to save.

I had seen so many people die. I had caused a girl to die, a boy had begged me to save him but I could do nothing, another girl’s eyes had been burned out next to me as I sat and stared. I hadn't even known their names. Images of the gory deaths flashed through my mind, each one raking across my soul, gnashing it with its teeth as it passed, grabbing a small part of me to take away with it. Then I thought of Bobby, my own brother who had been here and I hadn’t even recognized him! I should have protected him. I felt tears well in my eyes as the gory image taken of his death flashed through my mind. Arwen had done it. Arwen had killed him as she fell apart.

I remembered her pleading for me to let her explain. She had felt terrible, I’d seen it in her eyes as she tried to offer my comfort. And what had I said? I need time. Now she was dead. If only I had realized

I bit my lip and tried not to cry as the memory of the axe that had swung out of nowhere as we ascended the stairs. It had hit her, slicing her in half. She had tried to say something to me in her last seconds but Cleo had grabbed me and yanked me upwards as another axe narrowly missed us, screaming that it was too late for her.

Whatever Arwen had wanted to tell me haunted me like a ghost, but what I had wanted to tell her haunted me even more. She had died without knowing how much I still cared about her, my lips were heavy with the words that still wanted to fall from my lips; I forgive you.

I had said I wanted time, but time was something I didn’t have.

Then it had been Maxine to die. She had been right in front of Cleo and I, dodging the  items that soared at us with the agility of a cat- then from nowhere a burst of flame had enveloped her body from a small crack in the wall. I remember Cleo yanking the back of my shirt, keeping me from stumbling into the flames myself. Maxine’s body had crumbled and charred under the flame shrieking as the flame overpowered her strength, her wit, and her drive until all that was left was a charred corpse, a shadow of what she once was.

Then we were running again, my legs burning from the resistance, almost as the top. Some spiked balls shot toward our heads, one grazed my shoulder but we kept running.

Cleo’s death happened fast, it happened as I placed my foot on the landing, I heard a cry that was laced with terror. I had spun around, heart beating as I watched Cleo falling backward down the stairs. I tried to reach forward and grab her, but I wasn’t fast enough as her body tumbled over itself and down the stairs as if she were nothing more than a rag doll.

A flaming arrow finally ended her cries as I stood in shock, completely alone. I’d never known that living could be so heartwrenching.

As I lay here I felt the pain get too much to bear,  water bubbled in my eyes and smeared my vision burning my cheeks.

I think tears are the soul’s way of bleeding.

Why me? Why was I the one left standing when everyone else was so much more qualified? Cleo needed to live for her family, her boyfriend and her dreams. Maxine was stronger than any girl I’d previously known and far more agile than most men. Arwen had been one of the smartest people I have ever had the privilege of knowing. And then there was me. What could I do? I could write rhymes. Shit, I was useless.

But somehow, in the end none of the attributes that made them so much more qualified to live than me had saved them. I suppose its true that death waited for no one.

I slowly forced myself to sit up, I wiped my tears on the grimey tape that still encircled my wrist, binding the blood inside of my body. I looked ahead and nearly jumped at the dirty boney boy who surrounded me on all sides. His hair was wiry, sticking up at all angles, even though he was covered in a thick layer of grime it was obvious his skin was deathly pale. I stared at the black that circled underneath his eyes. Large cuts ripped like rivers down his skin, the grime was thicker in some places than others…. He resembled a map. A map to insanity.

Tediously I got to my feet and approached the boy, shaking my head as he too approached me mirroring my actions until we stood face to face. Our lips moved in perfect synchronization, “This isn’t me.” My breath fogged up his face, tears streaked down his face clearing paths through the grime exposing the pure skin below.

Fear riveted through my guts, bouncing around  in my stomach sending a nauseous wave through my body. I was terrified, I had been terrified ever since this had all begun, but this time I wasn’t terrified of anything superficial. This time I was terrified of myself, for the boy I had grown up with was quickly slipping through my fingers like small grains of sand. I was becoming cold, I was becoming obsessive, I was becoming detached.

They were killing me.

An explosion of anger and frustration rippled through my body, my fist driving into the mirror before me. It shattered, cutting me on the outside like every single emotion cut me on the inside. I didn’t bother closing my eyes as the glass exploded, flying around me for a second like a million jagged diamonds before they crashed to the floor.

I grabbed an especially large piece and grabbed it holding it in front of my face for a second, staring at it feeling a growing apprehension in my soul as I realized what I was about to do.

This was a fight to the death but  I refused to die as anyone but myself. Fear tightened around my neck like a noose as I drove the glass into my wrist watching as it tore at my flesh, slicing open the veins. The blood cascaded free, pouring to the ground as pain shot up my arm like electricity. Before I could change my mind I drove it into the other wrist as well, the glass slid through as if it were no more than butter.

I felt a small relief wash over me, mixed with a new terror. The terror of the oblivion of death’s jaws hung over me. Suddenly I was overcome with the desire to leave something behind, anything. I wanted to plant my stake in the world, even if it was just a little stake I wanted something that people would look at so I wasn’t forgotten.

With a sudden pressure, realizing my clock was running short I dipped my fingers in some of my blood that ran down my wrists like thick abundant rivers. Then I pressed my fingers to the nearest mirror and began to trace out the words that covered my soul. The wet blood squeaked beneath my fingers as I finished the title, the title of my life.

The Word Smith

A small part of me wondered if it sounded vain, I didn’t want the last thing I ever wrote to make me sound like I thought myself above others. I shook my head glancing at the blood that poured from my wrists, I didn’t have time to worry about that.

The Word Smith first discovered words when he was in the dark,

Alone and battered, out cast by the world he picked up a pen,

And so, the words began to fall from his heart,

He wrote about everything, he wrote about his beginning and his dreams in the end,

He wrote about his mother who had danced to whatever song the drugs would start,

He wrote about his brothers, whose lives he had tried to mend,

He wrote about men who had come claiming to help, but separated the four hearts,

He wrote about being lonely how every hopeful new beginning only came to an abrupt end,

He wrote about how all the dogs tried to eat the lark,

He wrote about how the world would not stop trying to bend him,

He wrote about the depression that swelled his heart,

But in the four walls of that room he found a new friend.

I stared at it, feeling a bit light headed. That wasn’t good enough, this didn’t describe the horror that that cursed this carnival. It didn’t describe it at all. I wanted people to know what had been done here, I wanted it never to happen again.

I squeezed my eyes shut trying desperately to think of something to write, and slowly but surely it came to me. I moved a few steps and placed my fingers to the clear sheet of glass and tried again.

This place was built to bring joy to the least of us,

Instead it was turned into a horror show,

It tricked us to come inside and play with it’s fake masquerade,

It clamped us in it’s jaws laughing as we bled,

Nobody warned them,

Not The Strong,

Nor The Musician,

The Electric,

The Sunset

Or The Defender,

Then fear swept in like a wolf in the night,

Eating all the little ones,

inviting them to play a game,

If only someone had warned us,

But nobody did,

Not The Young,

Nor the Fascinated,

The Joy,

The Observer,

Or The Cold,

They handed us a gun and told us to play,

They twisted an innocent game,

Kill or be killed, thats what they said,

I thought back to the ruse when they had told us to play,

If only someone had warned us,

But they didn’t warn The Odd,

Nor The Unknown,

The Wise,

The Headstrong,

Or or the Romantic,

Then came the requests as they treated us like slaves,

We saw the darkest sides of the killers that day,

If only we had known, but how could we?

Nobody warned us,

Not The Intellect,

Nor The Empathetic,

Or Naive,

They paired us like dogs and made us fight,

Stripping away the final shreds of our humanity,

With it’s greatest rival fear.

If only someone had warned us or given us a sign,

But they didn’t,

Not even The Brother

Nor The Lover,

And so how do they treat us?

They send us into a ruse,

But by this time we knew,

I thought back to the ruse when they had told us to play,

If only someone had warned us,

But they didn’t warn The Fighter,

The Bold,

Nor even The Broken,

They let us die as if we were no more than plants,

They laugh as they lock us to shrivel away,

So I make my final stand,

They can kill us,

But they can’t kill our voices,

For your can’t kill words.

A growing anger had clamped itself over my heart as I had written. They had taken everything away from so many people, they had stripped us of everything that had made us human, our compassion, our mercy, and our free will. Suddenly the decision to die seemed like a terrible idea, thats just what they wanted. They wanted to kill us, to murder us, to make us die painfully.

I didn’t know if that was the fear talking, the fear of death instilled in every human being, the fear that desperately wanted a way around this choice. I didn’t know if it was something else, if the spirits of the dead were compelling me forward, begging my to seek their revenge. Suddenly I knew what had to be done, it didn’t matter how.

I shrugged the formerly white t-shirt that was now covered with every horror that had tried to kill me but had failed from my shoulders. I grasped the material ripping it into two sections and trying them tightly around my wrists in an attempt to slow my life from leaking from my body.

I turned with a fearsome glare toward my poem, my bloody finger reaching out to write the last lyric in my poem;

So this is a warning, to the killers….