miles rhodes; mentor, district six (milesperhr) wrote in colosseum, @ 2014-04-11 18:16:00 |
|
|||
Miles saw it coming before it happened.
All of Panem did.
The cameras had gleefully panned on the Careers moving in on the alliance he had helped to create. The relief that they’d found each other was short lived, replaced too quickly by the horror that unfolded on the screen. It happened slowly at first. The rocks tumbled in slow motion. He could see each one fall from above as if they were pieces in an ill-fitting puzzle.
Silas and Shift on one side; the wrong side.
Then time became impossibly fast. His brain couldn’t keep up with the television. Shift was torn apart. He was covered in crimson before Miles realized it had happened.
A cannon boomed.
The sound rang in his ears. Echoed in his brain. Miles’ chest tightened and his stomach churched. Sickness rose in his throat and threatened to spill from his burning eyes. The couch he was sitting on melted beneath him as he fell forward, fists pounding in the carpet, rubbing red and raw. He tried to pick himself up on wobbly legs but barely managed to get into a sitting position.
Shift was escaping.
The cannon wasn’t his.
The sickness didn’t subside but the gulps of air he grasped for came in smoother. Tears that had threatened to fall in sorrow shed in relief. A strange giddiness overtook him as he began to giggle before finally pulling himself to his feet.
The blood pouring out of Shift was nothing to laugh at.*
“He needs medical supplies,” Miles pleaded.
“I like you Miles. I liked the idea of your brother.” The sponsor in front of him was looking skeptical. “But he’s as good as dead,” she replied bluntly.
Miles’ face fell and he launched himself across the room, grabbing at her feet, and pressing his face against her shins. “Please.” His voice caught, scratching his throat. The thin material of her skirt scratched his face but he ignored the itch, desperate as he was.
He couldn’t see the sour expression on Jessica’s face as she tried to pull away from him. “Miles, come now,” she cooed in a sickeningly sweet voice. “Now you’re just being pathetic. It’s unattractive.” She stepped out of his grasp and her heels clicked along the cool tiles of her kitchen floor until she came to a stop in front of her fridge.
“No. He can win. I know he can win. You have to help.”
The shrill laugh rang in Miles’ ears. “I don’t have to do anything,” she purred. “And it’s exciting isn’t it? Measly’s boy died. And yours is about to. I do love a sad story.”
The despair rotting in Miles’ stomach churned and he could feel his face and skin heat with a rising rage. His brain was drowning in anger and desperation. The smell of burning oil assaulted his nostrils and the shrill laugh became the churning of machinery as it roared to life. The beautifully decorated home he was standing in disappeared as his eyes fell out of focus. The white-washed walls full of colorful paintings became dank and covered with rusted stonewall and piping. Darkness set in, blocking out all light.
He was in the arena again.
There was no axe in his hand but he didn’t need one. Miles lurched at his target, bare hands reaching for skin and throat.
Jessica squealed in delight before all sounds were cut off by hands around her neck, squeezing tightly. Fingernails dug into his hand and after several moments he blinked and let go. Angry tears in his eyes. Jessica tried to laugh but this time it came out as a strangled cough.
“This,” she said after a moment, “is why I liked you then. The way you killed that little boy. And why I like you now.”