There's no God in my streets

Endless list of favourite films: Spirited Away (2000)

Chihiro: Granny… I just want you to know my real name! It’s Chihiro!

District Seven

Ronan Kauri - 8

Who the fuck gave her the idea that she was controlling him?

Ignoring whatever it was that she had said afterwards, Ronan focused every effort on remaining calm and not killing her right then and there. Body shaking. Face revealing what he was feeling. Chest burning. He was in charge of himself. Nobody in this world could control what he did but himself. And it was going to stay that way. And then, the woman proceeded to rant on with her false assumptions and ignorant statements.

He didn’t fucking destroy his body to have some feelings of bliss. To ignore the state of the world around him. All that he thought about every day was how fucked up the world was and how fucked up everyone was, including himself. And it wasn’t fun to get drunk or be high or anything like that. It only magnified all of his thoughts and made everything so much more painful and devastating to him. No, the reason why he did it all? The reason why he was destroying himself with these things?

Because it kept the fire inside him at bay.

Ronan enjoyed being angry, yes. Enjoyed beating people to a pulp. Enjoyed the smell of blood. But he couldn’t just run around and kill people all the time. There had to be a good damn reason to take someone else’s life away. And the shit that he absorbed into his body on an hourly basis reminded him of why he should feel like shit. Why he deserved to be in pain every day of the year. Because he was a fucked up little piece of shit that should have died years ago in the war. All of it reminded him to keep himself in check. To remain calm. To not just blow his top with every little occasion that came along that pissed him off.

The woman didn’t realize how thankful he was that he was having to go through withdrawal. He would need to connect with all of his pain to fully embrace his anger. Something he would need to do if he wanted to survive. To kill anyone that came his way in the arena. It had been a long time since he had let his anger take over his soul.

Fists were at the ready by his sides. Body shaking still. Chest continuing to burn. Eyes still revealing his anger behind their glassy surfaces. But he had to remain calm. He couldn’t be stupid. Ronan wasn’t going to beat up whoever this lady was anytime soon. The Capitol would probably cut off his limbs and throw what was left of him in the arena. They could technically do anything they wanted as long as he was still alive and would create enough drama when he was finally plopped into their fucking arena.

She was yelling again. Screaming at him, asking if he would have the guts to fight. Ronan was cackling inside. This was so funny. Did she really want to know what he would do? How badly he wanted to kill her now? How he couldn’t wait to kill those people in the arena, maybe even more than they wanted to kill him?

But he had to remain calm. Adverted his eyes from her. Tried to curb his anger. That wasn’t working. Forced himself to remain calm. Heard her demand an answer. Ignored her. Kept his mouth in a thin line. Felt his shirt get grabbed. Slammed into the wall-again. Felt the mirror shatter. Embed large shards in his back. Smelt the iron. Felt his self-restrain growing thinner. Heard blood drip and stain the tiles. Grip tightened on his shirt. Screamed at him about why he wasn’t talking. Turned his head and glared. This bitch wasn’t having any of that.

The woman pulled him forward and slammed him back again. Glass shards dug further into his back. He was really having a really fucking great time, but didn’t want glass to be his newest body adornment. He would rather get some more ink. But still, he forced himself to remain calm. To not fight back. He wasn’t going to get into trouble and risk the few freedoms he had left. But he was angry. He wanted to kill her badly. To make her bleed for what she had said.

The shirt she was gripping so tight to began to rip at the collar, and the extent of his ink began to show. It looked like she was about to slam him against the wall one more time and shred up his back some more so he decided to speak to the fucking woman. Maybe she would calm down then. He racked his brain before settling on the perfect quote. Hoped she would read what it meant. How she would know how wrong she was about him.

“I thought I would be understood without words. Vincent van Gogh.”

That was not the answer the woman wanted to hear, for as soon as Ronan turned his head to look away, to try to remain calm, to keep his anger in check, he found his head being slammed into the table. Fucking hell. Did nothing make her happy. His nose began bleeding again, coating his face in crimson. This was not what he needed right now. His body shook violently and he felt like he was going to lose his calm. Like he was going to snap right here and beat her to a pulp. The shirt was progressively ripping as well, meaning that she was losing her hold on him. She went to cause him further damage, but stopped when she saw his eyes, as if expecting him to say something more. So he did. Quite angrily, in fact.

“Anyone who gets in my way will be dead.”

It was then that his shirt completely ripped, freeing him from the woman’s fucking death grip and revealing all of his ink (that was on his chest that is). Taking a few steps, he grabbed on of the napkins from the table, and held his nose until the blood clotted once more. Once his face wasn’t leaking blood anymore, he turned his attention to his back, and started pulling out some of the glass shards. He was angry, and all of this blood was only fueling his fire. He was barely remaining calm, and kept the woman out of his vision. He couldn’t afford to snap. Not now. The silence in the room was both overwhelming and comforting all at once.

A piece of Ronan’s shirt was still clutched in Isle’s hand. It wasn’t like her to lose her temper like that, but sometimes hard love was what got the job done. Great, not only was he perpetually useless, he was bleeding all over floor, too. And could he be anymore cryptic with his small, stupid sentences?

Isle sighed, gesturing for an avox to grab a towel. When she received it, she threw it at the moving heap that was Ronan.

“Napkins aren’t going to do anything except irritate your wounds more.” She said.

She lifted him by his arm, ignoring his grunts of protest, and deposited him in a chair. When she was sure he wasn’t going to tip over and fall out of it, she sat in the chair adjacent to him, throwing her feet on the table.

“You don’t have to tell me your plans for the arena, it’s not like I can help you or anything.” She snarked. “But you are going to talk so I understand even a fraction of what you’re about. I won’t go about this not knowing anything about you. It’s not an option, so suck it up buttercup, and start talking. Complete sentences, this time. Tell me about your brother Ignacius.”

Ronan ignored the woman as she tried to pressure him into eating. He didn’t want to eat anything. Didn’t need to. Let alone the fancy food that was being served to them on this train that was leading them to a whole different version of hell itself. But then…she said statements about him that simply weren’t true.

He wasn’t pitying himself. Ronan knew full well what he would need to do to survive. This wouldn’t be sunshine and roses, because the world was a fucked up place. He had lasted until now without dying, and didn’t plan to take his last breath anytime soon. Not until he had shown the Capitol exactly what he thought of their shit. He wasn’t giving up. In fact, he was just starting to feel that side of him that was angry, that wanted to rebel and hurt and prove that he knew what was just in this world again. And as sure as he was going to hell, he knew this was no one’s fault but his own. He was the one that had shown up at the reaping instead of being smart and leaving. Destroying every trace of his existence.

And he had lived much longer than this woman, and wasn’t about to be chastised by her for his own choices.

Eyes snapped open. Rage filled his eyes, clouding their vision with a blazing anger that he would do his best not to unleash at the moment. He knew better than to harm anyone now. Not until he was in the arena, where he wouldn’t be punished for it. Getting to his feet, he steadied himself in a millisecond. Glared at the woman, hoping his faced expressed that everything she had just said was a lie. That she had misjudged him. Walked over to the bar. Grabbed a crystal glass. Analyzed his choices. Decided on the vodka. Filled the glass to its brim. Brought it to his eyes. Blocked the woman out of his vision. Downed the drink in one go. Placed the glass back down. Waited to see if she would say anything more. Hoped she wouldn’t.

Ronan reached for the bottle to fill up the glass again. The drink had made him feel better already. His body had been screaming at him for going so long without one. Withdrawal was a bitch he hadn’t had to deal with before.

Isle watched as Ronan lifted the full glass to his lips again, smacking it out of his hand and reveling in the sound of it shattering against the wall. She watched Ronan’s eyes follow the trails of vodka as they raced to the floor.

“A drink once in a while is fine,” she said. “In fact, getting black out drunk is sometimes really fun, but when you rely on it to survive, there’s a problem. I don’t care if you don’t see it, but I refuse to let you make it look like I can’t control my tributes.”

At the end of the day, Isle had a reputation to uphold. Had her tributes won in the past? No, but they were far from the first ones to die in the arenas. In fact, most of her tributes made it to the final eight. Ronan wasn’t going to ruin that.

“If you think I’m going to sponsor you doses of morphling or fifths of vodka, you’re so very wrong.” Isle said.

Ronan had yet to say anything, save for the small, almost unheard whimper he let out when the vodka was wasted to the floor. His body was trembling and his face contorted into something disgusting, something that looked like it wanted to kill Isle.

Good.

“I want you to really take in how you’re feeling,” she said. “I want you to feel every bit of the withdrawal as it burns under your skin, because it’s what’s going to both hurt you and help you in that place. You’ve spent years destroying yourself from the inside out, and for what? A couple of minutes of bliss? A few seconds to ignore what the real world is like? It’s fucking pathetic.” 

Ronan’s hand was in a fist to his side, trembling with his body. Was je really trembling because of his withdrawal, or was it anger? Isle hoped it was anger, merely because she liked pushing his buttons.

“You going to stick up for yourself anytime here, pal? Because if I can get you this worked up, what the hell are you going to do in an arena full of people who want you dead? Are you just going to take it and wait for them to kill you or are you actually going to do something?” Isle asked.

Ronan wouldn’t even look at her anymore which just pissed her off further.

“Answer me, damnit.” She sneered.

When he still wouldn’t budge, his mouth a thin line, Isle grabbed him by the front of his shirt and slammed him into a wall.

Well hey, there’s the twice she was looking for.

Navigating his way through the train, Ronan came upon a lavish bathroom. Locked himself inside it. Took delight in the fact that his nose was still bleeding and was staining the otherwise pristine white facade of the small room. Downed what remained in terms of alcoholic beverages in his bag. Opened the small window. Dropped all of the evidence outside. Heard the bottles break. Examined his nose. Realized that it was broken. But not out of position. Held it until the blood clotted. Shot up his last vial of morphling. Threw the evidence outside. Decided that he should probably use the bathroom for its actual purpose. Washed his hands. Decided to leave the dried blood on his face. Exited the small room and headed into the area Kiya and the woman occupied.

Heading to a lavish couch, Ronan moved all of the throw pillows out of the way. Took a seat. Hoped to hell that no one would try to converse with him. And they didn’t, which was the only fucking blessing he’d had bestowed upon him all day. Hours went by, and Ronan felt progressively shittier as time marched on. Unsure of whether it was because of what he had put in him already, or whether his body was beginning to go through withdrawal, he decided that the best option would be to ignore it for the moment. Sat as still as possible. Observed the conversation between the woman and Kiya. Lay on the couch and glared at the ceiling, upset that it wasn’t creating the canvas he was used to. Ignored the woman when she called him to dinner. Even if he wanted to eat (which he didn’t, because it would probably only make him feel worse), he wouldn’t be able to taste any of it. It might as well be oatmeal instead of salad that had fucking goat cheese of all things on it. Listened to the conversation between the woman and Kiya again. Glared at the ceiling more and began absentmindedly playing with a frayed edge of his jacket. Heard the conversation stop.

Ronan had been planning on finding the bar and drinking something (he had determined that the reason why he was feeling like shit was withdrawal), when his ears honed in on the sound of heels making their way across the tiled floor to the couch. Which meant…fuck. Someone wanted to talk with him.

Isle crossed her arms as she stood in front of the heap that was Ronan. She was sure under the torn and dirty clothes there was an equally fucked up frame of a person. Tattoos peeked out from under his color and sleeves, a contrast to the pale skin.

“I’m sure food is a foreign substance to you at this point, but you need to eat something.” She said.

No response came.

“If you plan on surviving at all in the arena, you need to get some kind of strength. Eating helps with that.” She tried

Still no response, which made Isle grind her teeth.

“So what’s your strategy, then? Just lay there and pity yourself while everyone else figures out how they’re going to survive? You’re just ready to lay down and accept your fate? It’s no one’s fault you’re in the position you’re in. Instead of lying there, why don’t you get up and actually try living for once? Because if you die on the first day I will bring you back just to kill you myself.” She snapped.

Finally, Ronan opened his eyes, an anger blazing behind his irises that made Isle smirk.

I remember papa saying that now. Lakota, I think that she acted with caution. She thought through what I neglected to consider. Whereas I acted on my emotions, wearing my heart on my sleeve. I suppose that I still do. I haven’t lost my expressive nature in all of this. I believe that I rely on my intuition rather than being as calculating as Lakota. She is-was-very observant. I remember running through the trees, while Lakota stopped every so often to examine a leaf, or anything that caught her attention, in detail.

Avoxes arrive, carrying silver plates heaped with food. I think that it would be very awful to not be able to speak. I smile warmly at the avoxes, hoping that it improves their day however much it can. I sip the tea, enjoying the flavor. I leave the salad untouched, noticing the walnuts. A few years ago, I found some in the forest. After eating them, Papa had to rush me to the apothecarian because I was having trouble breathing. But it wasn’t really a big deal.

I look at the man who I suppose is my district partner. He seems very gruff, though I smile at him nonetheless. I couldn’t expect him to be in a particularly good mood considering the circumstances.

Looking up, I meet Isle’s eyes. I had not thought much about the arena. In fact I really hadn’t thought much about this entire ordeal. I find myself thinking about other things at the moment. But I give Isle my attention. “I don’t really know what to expect. Just like mother nature, I assume that the arena will be very unpredictable. But I do have what my papa and mama call a photographic memory, I suppose that could help with preparing me for a wide range of environments,” I respond.

“I think that I’ll just be myself,” I say.

Oh great, Isle thinks. She’s a nature freak.

While heart is all fine and dandy, Kiya is going to need brains in order to survive longer than a few minutes in the arena, whatever it is. What is she going to do if Mother Nature doesn’t exist in the arena?

“Heart alone won’t get you to the end,” I tell her bluntly. “You have to be able to fight, too. That’s the nature of this hell, I’m afraid.”

I notice the untouched salad and wonder if she has an allergy to nuts. She’d have to keep that under the radar so the tributes couldn’t use it to their advantage. It would make her an easy kill if she was incapacitated because of her allergy.

“What kind of weapons are you good with, or are you more of a hand to hand fighter?” I ask.

For only a moment the image appears, and then it is gone. A blindingly white room, as white as the hair that cascades down my back. People in lab coats with syringes in their hands. I feel a sharp pinch in my arm, as though a needle is being plunged into my flesh. But I realize that it’s only the corner of the glass table.

It is the woman who sits across from me who pulls me from my daydream, just as papa and mama would. I meet her eyes and I smile. She is making an effort to be kind to me. To relieve me of what troubles I am plagued with. But I imagine they will only strengthen me. That is what papa says of Crow women.

“Yes, I remember her now. I find it coming in bits and pieces, like I’m gluing shattered pieces of glass together. I know that we were close. That she was more reserved than I was. I know that she was always warning me not to do things that could arouse trouble,” I respond.

I know that I have always been expressive of the way I feel. Holding things in does no good, it takes away freedom. I feel relieved now that I know everything about myself. I know that one thing that was trying to scream out to me for the past few years. But it is up to me whether I can understand the person I once was and come to terms with the person that I am, now that I know my secret.

“Yeah, your sister was definitely a thinker. That’s what helped her stay alive so long. She didn’t just rush into things like most other tributes. I really hope that’s hereditary.” Isle says.

Talking with Kiya really makes her realize how different in mannerisms she and Lakota are. Kiya truly is a free spirit who doesn’t seem like she could hurt a fly. Hopefully, though, it’s just looks, because there’s twenty three other people ready to take her out at any given moment.

More people begin to fill the train car, avoxes holding plates with silver covers. They set them down in front of Kiya and Isle, a third plate left off to the side. Another avox deposits a large plate of Danishes and pastries in the middle of the table for them to grab from. Lastly, a picture of orange juice is placed on the table as well as one full of water. Isle looks to where Ronan has tossed himself on a couch.

“Are you coming to eat real food or are you just going to lay there and ferment?” She asks him.

He gives her no response which really ticks her off but she waves him off for now, uncovering her plate and finding a steaming omelet. The idea of eating anything really just turns Isle off since she’s already battling the moving train. She reaches for a yogurt parfait next to the Danishes and settles on that for now.

“Tell me, Kiya,” she says. “What do you expect to find in the arena? Have you thought about what your first move should be? Having a plan is beneficial for you survival.”