you can always bleed a little more.

Your worst sin is that you have 
destroyed yourself and betrayed yourself /
for nothing.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT / FYODOR DOSTOYEVSKY

﹙ chapter sixteen, act two ﹚

somewhere in the capitol.
some time after the games.

                    THE WORLD IS DARK. Midnights in the arena don't compare to this. It's like a heavy curtain has been pulled over the world, blocking out the moon and stars, leaving Mara with nothing. Nothing at all. Shadows drape over the forest, inky black, and in the background something is beating. The rhythmic lapping of the sea? Then again, it could be her heart jumping erratically. She doesn't know much. Running with no way of telling in which direction, she puts up her arms to shield her face from the branches that pull her back, trying to reclaim her as their own. After all, she really ought to be dead. There are at least twenty three deaths that should've been hers. Mara wished for survival, didn't she? And this is what she got ─── purgatory.

                    There's no telling which way to go, other than away.

                    Mara is aware of three things, and three things only. The first is that she's alive ─── her whole body aches so deeply, so painfully, and she imagines death doesn't let you feel anymore. Every step on uneven ground sends jolts up her legs, means she really is running. Every scratch and scrape that stings and draws blood means she must still be alive. Pain, after all, means there's something left to fix.

                    The second is she's either asleep, or having an extremely realistic hallucination. After seeing ghosts for so long, she can't be sure.

                    Horrors chase her ─── wolves run circles around a helpless ghost that begs for her attention, begs to be saved; the blood of a dark-skinned boy who she should've forgotten rains from the sky; a high, cruel laugh echoes in the background. There are bodies, broken and ruined, wearing her own face. Her own eyes, unseeing, stare up at her from the shadows. She dreams of forcing knives into girl's throats, of their blood running down her hands ─── but what really is the difference between dreams and memories?

                    She runs, but they always catch up. As they're doing now, climbing up her heels and worming their way into her thoughts. Now all she can see is what they show her. Phantom tendrils of kelp curling around her neck, starting to squeeze. But Mara cannot keep running forever.

                    The third is she's scared. That, she's most sure of. Fear is familiar, never ending and cold; it claws up her throat and makes its home there.

                    There are slight interludes to her dreams, ones she can't explain ─── unbidden, stark lights flood her vision and the beeps of what sounds uncannily like a heart monitor interrupt her terrified sprint. Maybe she even tries to sit up, but hands grasp her arms and force her back down. She feels a pricking sensation in her arm, and the world goes dark and lucid.

                    Ghosts are waiting for her, and the chase resumes again. It doesn't end when she eventually wakes up.

⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹ ⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹⭒

darkmoor, district eleven.
july, 72 att.

                    THE REAPING IS AS MORBID AS EVER. The wind howls softly around the Justice Square, a faint whistle that sets Mara further on edge. She plays with the smoothness of her skirt while she sits on the stage, posture rigid. She has had two years, almost, to prepare herself for this. It is quiet, though the low hum of all the people present resonates dully around the square. So many people, something she could only ever really notice from her vantage point up here. When you're in the crowd, it brings security, a blessing to being unnoticed ─── but up here, she can feel every single gaze lingering on her.

                    Mara was early; beside her, Chaff is still absent. She frowns at the thought of him being so careless about such a responsibility, and remembers he was absent when she herself was reaped ─── but she's quickly learning that it's ever so hard to judge him. In a world of retching over basins, drinking the nightmares away, and falling into episodes of apathy, mentoring only becomes that much more difficult.

                    She hadn't properly realised this would be taking place. Existence has been particularly difficult since she learned the true nature of Amira's motives. On her victory tour, there had only been one man on the platform for the families of the deceased. One man holding a writhing, wailing bundle of blankets.

                    The mother was butchered in the arena after begging to go home. Was her son watching? Could he even comprehend what was happening? Mara set three things in motion by killing her: one, she won the games. Two, she avenged Avens, though it did nothing to ease the grief of his death and only served to hollow her heart out some more. Three, she ruined any hope of a child reuniting with his mother.

                    No, she's been too lost in her lonely little world of knives and stitches and vomiting ─── until two days ago.

                    It's all so pointless. Two more dead children, just like the years before. The names and faces and arenas are different, but there's nothing new. To her, the reaping has sprung from nowhere, because it doesn't seem right that the world doesn't mourn as she does ─── that already, every sacrifice made for her crown has been forgotten.

                    Her games are discarded and the seventy second are about to start. There are no memorials for those who died in her games or in last year's, just headstones in the bleak graveyard of Victor's Village. Little care for the slaughtered lambs. 

                    And Chaff has been enduring this for nearly three decades. He will probably arrive later, drunk silly, and maybe he'll draw attention away from how she can't quite pretend that she's the winner of this game.

                    On her other side is the mayor of the district, just as contemptuous as the years before. She realises that Antonia has been speaking the whole time, a high-pitched whine that grates against her ears, when he gets up to deliver his part of the speech. Chaff isn't here, and Seeder will arrive in a minute or so. The weight of a thousand gazes is heavy ─── what's the difference between being on stage and in the arena?

                    Though Seeder isn't here, it's almost impossible to dislike her now ─── whatever her drawbacks as a mentor, she has been invariably kind to her. Even when she is screaming and vicious, the woman always forgives her. She even took upon the mentoring of last year's tributes to give Mara more time to adjust, and when she saw how nervous the youngest victor became as the reaping drawers opened, she coached her on the matter. The systems of sending sponsors, how to behave at the social events she's expected to turn up to, how to deal with the guilt.

                    How to not pick sides between her tributes, though in the end, only one of them might return.

                    "Happy Hunger Games!" The mayor says, and she flinches at the phrase.

                    Though she hopes it doesn't show, Mara is pushing against the back of her chair, hands neutrally arranged on the plain little skirt of her dress. Her time of stunning outfits and prep sessions have come to a close ─── there are always more tributes to dress. Her wardrobe mostly consists of clothes that are sent from the Capitol, since there are hardly any victor-worthy pieces for sale here. No, in Eleven, clothes exist for their purpose, not looking pretty. She chose the most modest one she could find. After trying and failing to put herself together with makeup several shades too light, she can only hope she's presenting a put-together image. After all, she's still a victor, even if half-forgotten, and she can never shake off the feeling she's being watched.

                    Such acute pain prickles at her, only just held at bay, and leaves her feeling both numb and overwhelmed. Everything and nothing at all; not enough yet still too much. There aren't the right words to describe her mind, so she doesn't bother to try, instead ignoring anybody who tries to get too close. A storm, perhaps, sums it up best; swirling around so quickly she can't organise them; stray parts end up lashing out on the wrong people.

                    But these walls have been welded into place, and it's far easier to hide behind them.

                    ( Is it a prison of her own making? )

                    It's almost like she's trying to hide away from the bright sunlight and the crowd before her; she can't tell which she wants to escape from more. Usually, the sunlight burns her skin and lets her know that she can still feel things, but now it just shines a spotlight on something she wants hidden. But, of course, she has no such luck ─── it's an unjustly dazzling day, which highlights the hundreds and thousands of eyes nervously watching the stage. Terror hangs in the air, hiding in the shadows she so desperately tries to seclude herself in; but for once, it's not her own.

                    It used to be, but now there are no slips that bear her name.

                    Mara no longer has to worry about the reaping, other than which dress to wear. But, she can tell that nobody envies her. In Eleven, they remember their few victors, because they're forced to watch ─── the Capitol chooses to watch, and to forget. She doesn't know if she wants to forget or remember. She's sick of not knowing which is worse, of the cruel hand of cards she's been dealt.

                    The expression smothered onto her face, practised in front of the mirror for hours, is one of nothing, of uncaring and being somewhere else; neither of which are true. Everything seems to have become a lie; telling Alec that she slept just fine, not meeting Mercy's unreadable gaze as she heard retching again, looking at herself and saying that she's fine, absolutely fine. That she doesn't care, that she's moved on, but her dreams and drinks say otherwise. If anything, she's more confused and grieving and terrified than before.

                    The months of silence from the Capitol, their lack of investment in her story after the games, are not unwelcome. But, at the same time, it stings that everything she's lost has been forgotten. She supposes it could be worse.

                    Sitting on the other side of the reaping, she realises that it can always be worse. Seeder joins her onstage and the ceremony begins; they don't bother waiting for Chaff.

                    Were it not for the formalities and propaganda being spewed by Antonia ─── who, she's realised, has only ever played her part in the games; a good little toy like the rest of them ─── the area would be silent. Dead silent. Beyond the cordoned-off sections for the children, among those lucky enough to have not made the cut, there is also an unnatural hush. All throughout the ceremony; during the mayor's statement and Antonia's frivolous words. Fear is familiar, and it rings as clear here like nowhere else. Fear is paralysing.

                    "And now, the moment we've all been waiting for!" She's right, of course, but for all the wrong reasons. Her breath starts to shake as the escort totters over to the glass ball on the left; a few hysterical sobs from the crowd. It could be either the children or the parents, Mara doesn't know; her attention is solely focused on shutting out the world.

                    The walls around her just aren't tall enough; they come crashing down. Next time, she'll rebuild them higher, better. She's not on the verge of falling apart, not at all.

                    Finally, Antonia chooses a slip and makes a big show of unfolding it, before looking directly at the crowd. "The female tribute is Sommer Layfield!"

                    There is a moment of silence, of searching. When she was eligible for the games but not reaped, those three lucky times, she didn't care for the tributes called forth. But now, when she is not being brought onto the stage, there is no relief. No letting out her held breath. Not this time.

                    The area sectioned for eighteen year old females part around a girl like she's covered in poison. The girl, who must be Sommer, doesn't move. Her eyes are glazed over, unseeing, not receptive to the world. Her face is scrunched up, holding back tears, but there's no point. They spill out anyway; she stands there, silently crying. Abruptly, two Peacekeepers march into the area ─── the girls there scatter away from the shiny white armour, the faceless helmets and barrels of guns that are supposed to be pointed at the ground. Yet they are facing Sommer. At gunpoint, she takes a few steps.

                    As she walks up the stairs, she sees Mara's hairstyle, neat braids done by Mercy the day before and pulled into an updo. And there's resentment there, in her gaze, amidst the tears. Perhaps from the simple fact that she is now in a living hell, or that Mara has the time and the money for hairstyles, something she has to forgo. Her mouth falls into a frown, a pale slash across her chestnut skin. Something clicks, Mara can almost hear it ─── anger is a pit only too easy to fall into.

                    The Peacekeepers only relent when she is on stage and Antonia begins speaking, the usual routine.

                    "What's your name?"

                    "Sommer." She answers shortly ─── the tears on her face have started to dry. She's tall, all long legs and hair cut close to the scalp. Well-built, too, after a lifetime slaving away for the Capitol's sake. Mara pictures her with a machete in her hand and suddenly she is a strong player of the games. She hates thinking in the way Capitolites do ─── she knows more than anyone that this is far more than a game ─── but Seeder has told her this is inevitable. To play the game, you must understand it and take advantage of it.

                    Antonia doesn't seem to pick up on this, though she does inch away from her a little. "And how old are you?"

                    "I'll be nineteen in a month." And that is all she's willing to say; Antonia asks for volunteers ─── predictably, there are none ─── and moves to the glass ball on the right, interest already lost. She doesn't even bother to clap, because Sommer may be older and have better chances but she'll be dead on arrival at the games.

                    The odds of one victor are miniscule; the odds of two in a row are non-existent.

                    Once more, she dives her hand into the heap of paper slips, and Mara watches from behind, breath bated, immobilised. Every inch of her screams silently ─── but she has left one cage for another and there's no escaping. Antonia's nails, painted a shimmery turquoise, flash among the death sentence, and hold up the chosen piece.

                    She must know what it means when she says: "The male tribute this year is Oren Fallow!"

                    There are more than a few stifled sobs. It seems he will be missed and mourned. The boy in question cannot be older than sixteen, and he looks like Avens in that sense. But the similarities end there. Where Avens was tall and lean, Oren is shorter and more stocky. Broader nose, longer hair. Though, for all the differences Mara can find and distract herself with, her thoughts invariably lead back to her dear, departed district partner.

                    Briefly, he seems to be carved of stone ─── like when a Peacekeeper's baton comes into contact with the back of your head, and for the briefest second there is nothing but dull shock. And then he starts to walk. Still that odd look on his face, somehow empty yet agonised, but forcing his muscles to move. By the time he gets to the stage, his movements become fluid enough to call natural.

                    According to his answers, just as brief as Sommer's, he's just shy of seventeen. He nervously plays with his hands, scratching at his skin, until the ceremony is over and a group of Peacekeepers escort the pair away. Chaff never turned up ─── and part of her wishes she'd done the same. But then there would be nobody fighting for them. While Chaff and Seeder have never been exemplars, Mara has never forgotten the gift of the matches.

                    ( There are no volunteers, for either of them; there have never been and will never be any. )

⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹ ⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹⭒

train station, district eleven.
july, 72 att.

                    MARA CAN'T BRING HERSELF TO GET ON THE TRAIN. She knows, logically, that it's not hard to stand up from the bench, walk a few steps, and just get on the train. It really is that simple ─── and yet, her muscles are frozen in place; immobilised. She stares at it and wills herself to move but she just doesn't. The problem lies within her own mind, and she takes the loosest thread and begins to unpick why.

                    Everytime she boards one, the unnaturally fast movement induces nausea. She supposes it's natural to avoid it. But really, she knows. Mara hasn't been honest with herself long before the games or since, but this is so obvious it's undeniable. The last time she took a train to the Capitol was nothing short of a death sentence ─── but that's where this becomes irrational. Mara isn't a tribute anymore.

                    She won. The arena does not wait for her at the end of the journey. There is no reason to be reacting like this. This is where she hits a wall ─── except the more she thinks about it, there is something like that waiting for her.

                    That was what Finnick Odair told her the night of her victory party. Welcome to the next arena. My advice? Pick your allies well. Everything Seeder has told her lines up with that, too. And then it makes sense ─── she is still afraid. The fear she felt in the arena never left her, just as she carried the ghosts with her too.

                    Antonia has already tottered onboard after trying and failing to coax her onto the train. She now waits for the next part of her duties; schedules for the tributes, identical to the ones she gave Mara and Avens two years ago. ( And, last year, to the unnamed tributes Mara couldn't afford to care for ). Chaff is there somewhere ─── she can guess which carriage he gravitated to ─── having drunk himself so silly he thought the reaping was already over.

                   She might have hated him for that, were she Sommer or Oren. No, she certainly would've, and she did; she recalls how she kicked him and held a knife at his throat in her desperation for something, some kind of support. How Chaff punched Avens, how the two of them had to fight for what little help they got. But Mara's anger towards Chaff started to fade as she realised how sad he really is, even more when she learnt what winning was actually like. She suspects she'll understand even more once she's mentored ─── now all she hopes is not to end up like him.

                    Footsteps. Her fearful bout of paralysis abruptly ends as she tenses. Footsteps mean approaching threats, until she looks up and sees it's only Mercy and Alec. Her grandmother is just as miserable and bitter as ever, but the lines on her face relax as she and Mara make eye contact. As does the latter, any tension leaving as quickly as it came. "There you are, girl." Mercy says, hobbling over.

                    Alec walks beside her, not behind as she would've dragged him during his depressive episodes. One good thing came out of the games ─── it was a wake up call for her father, who pulled himself out of the numbness. Who now tells her how grateful he is that she's still alive. It's very easy to be resentful of how long it took him, how it took being reaped to bring him back, but Mara has enough hate in her heart. Besides, all she's ever wanted for years was for him to return.

                    Since she's been in unfriendly, foreign Victor's Village, she's tried to mend her relationship with him ─── asking him to do things for her instead of brushing aside any offered help, as she had always done; letting him and Mercy handle all the money she won. Her time in the arena made her realise how she needed to stop punishing Alec for something he couldn't help, because things happen that people aren't equipped to deal with. The important thing is that he's trying to drag himself out of the crippling depression.

                    After all; like father, like daughter. Both of them resort to feeling nothing at all ─── as she understands Chaff, she now understands her father. And it's hard to hate someone you're ever so similar to. Only one of them is starting to heal, and it's not her. She thinks that even Mercy has started to forgive him.

                    "We came to say goodbye." He says, sadness in his eyes. Mara will take his sadness over nothing any day. "Though you won't be gone for long."

                    Her mouth goes dry; she is unused to being loved like this. "You didn't have to."

                    "I know."

                    Mercy sighs deeply, sitting on the bench and setting her cane to the side. She runs a hand through her greying hair and motions for Mara to sit with her. She obliges. It's like they're in the Justice Building again ─── she's even on a train bound to the Capitol, again.

                    "I don't know much about what you're doing while you're there." She begins by speaking carefully. "Last time we spoke like this, I knew. Now I don't."

                    Mara nods. Her father watches intently, as if itching to say something, but he waits. Mercy continues: "But I know you. I know you'll get through this. Seeder has taught you what I couldn't, and you're . . . not just going to . . ." She sighs again. "What I'm trying to say is you are more than strong enough to survive whatever comes your way."

                    "I doubt that." Mara says dully.

                    "I don't." She replies without missing a beat. "You kept us alive for months while he was depressed and I could hardly walk. Don't you think I ever forgot about that, because I didn't. You then made it through your games. This is unfair, but you will survive mentoring. I trust in that."

                    The way in which she says this isn't demeaning, as the words would be on their own. Mercy, of all people, knows how hard it is to live. "Thank you." She says quietly. "Really."

                    On the other side of the platform, closer to the road, there is the sound of car tyres over dirt. The tributes of this year's games get nearer, having already said goodbye to their own families. She stands up, knowing she can't stay much longer. Once they get onboard, the train leaves ─── and she must be on it.

                    "I agree with everything Mercy said," Alec says. He glances over to the barriers, where the car has now stopped and the doors open. He clasps her shoulders. "You are strong. Capable. And you have us waiting here for you when you return."

                    She smiles sadly at her father. Turns to leave. But then, as she has been for most of the afternoon, her thoughts stray back to the day she was reaped. How she wasn't sure she would ever see her father or grandmother again, and how bitterly she regretted not saying goodbye while she lay awake in the nights before the games.

                    So Mara turns and wraps her arms around him. He's surprised, for a moment, but reciprocates. And she feels like a small child again. Not helpless, though, but loved. She's not sure who holds on more tightly. Or who regrets it more when she has to get on the train. 

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 :
( 4,101 words! )
and guess who's back for real this time with
some actual new chapters!! while the earlier
version was not bad, per se, it was slow. and
unnecessary at times. old readers will know
what things happened, how mara initially
reacted, and new readers can imagine it ; i 
thought it best to leave that part of the story
up to interpretation.

but we see mara as she is now. a victor. all
of act two is a very different theme but still
 mara,, my poor bby mara 🥺just can't get
a break. it's a new insight into the life of a
victor which is such a unique form of torture.

so we start with the dreamscape, pretty self
explanatory. i'll move on to the reaping scene
which is from the earlier version, and just say
that it sets up the characters and dynamics
for the next few chapters. the main new part
is the scene with mercy and alec  ─── again,
we don't know anymore exactly how and when
they changed so much, but we see them now.
 finally moving toward something healthier✊
🥰 and just offering support. i can't tell you
how good it was to write a scene with them
that was just being kind and loving. live laugh
 love the caydens.

tysm for reading, voting, and commenting
it means a lot <33