Ezekiel Jones, D11 Tribute (oneofme) wrote in colosseum, @ 2014-04-10 10:23:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! 57th games, - arena, tribute: 57th shift rhodes |
Who: Shift Rhodes, D6
When: Day 7, late morning
Where: Somewhere in the mist of Cloud 9, unknown to Shift.
What: Fighting off injury ...
Rating: Medium, the usual.
Status: Complete.
Shift knew it was bad when he couldn't figure out where he was bleeding from. He also couldn't figure out what, exactly, hurt the most. To him, everything hurt. His head, his eyes, his stomach, his lungs, his hands, his legs. His entire body ripped through with pain. He didn't have his mace anymore, not since he dropped it on his foot, but he had his canteen. It still had water in it. He didn't know if he should drink it or clean his wound -- no, wounds -- with it. He chose the latter. Propped up against a tree trunk's stump, Shift began tearing his fleece and shirt away from the dark wounds. The material caught and stuck, taking as much skin with it as fabric. Or maybe that wasn't skin at all. Shift stopped looking. His stomach turned over. God, was that smell him? His blood? His everything? The cool air first stung then soothed. He opened the canteen and dribbled water into his blood-caked palm. It ran through his fingers, brown. He did so again, this time with his hand over his stomach and chest When it hit his open wounds, Shift howled and screamed, writhing a bit. He had to get it clean. Had to. Had to. He tore his pants at their zippers. The scrunched up position did nothing but add to the pain, and with only one dirty pants bottom in hand, Shift fell back, flat against the ground, heaving. He had nothing in his stomach to throw up, but that didn't keep bile from rising. It hurt to breathe. Air was harder and harder to take in or even let out. If this is what it felt like to die, Shift just wanted to get it over with. Time passed in waves, both slow and fast. The mist seemed to swirl above his face, then drop down on him, coating his cheeks and jaw with droplets of water. It was like a slow-moving shower. Shift fought to keep his eyes open. He groaned as he sat again, realizing as he did that he'd stopped feeling any pain. He wanted to cheer, but a quick glance to his stomach said that not feeling any pain wasn't a good thing. It didn't mean he was improving. He was just... fading. He wished he wasn't alone. Silas died in the fight. He heard the cannon, and it couldn't have been anyone else but him. But where were Terry and Buckwheat? They'd got away? He hoped so. Shift shuddered once, tried to swallow but failed. His throat was dry, the back of his mouth cottoned. He didn't want to be alone when he died, but he didn't have a choice. His Reaping hadn't been his choice. Odds were ... not good. "I'm sorry," he said, not directing it to anyone in particular. He was sorry for a lot of things and to a lot of people. To Oyle, for not being more willing to be her friend, for even just not comforting her as his sister tribute, but then again, she was alive and he wouldn't be in minutes. To Halle, for not coming back her first year as a victor. To District Six, for dashing their probable hope for back-to-back winners or, better, sibling winners. To Terra for letting her down, for not trying hard enough. To his parents for their false hope after watching one son come home from the Games that they'd see the other home, too. To Miles for not being good enough to follow in his footsteps. He was so cold, and it wasn't from the air or the mist. It was an inside cold, deep in the blood that was left inside him, seeping slowly now out of him. He wasn't hungry anymore. Or thirsty. He didn't need anything, not even air. Shift knew if he closed his eyes to sleep, he wouldn't wake up. He didn't know how much longer he could fight it. His breaths came fast and hard and raspy, wheezy. Just another moment, he thought. One more moment, please. Shift closed his eyes, and he didn't open them again. |