empty cages / self para
That music was going to follow him forever. Carol wasnât sure how it began. It just did, and his ears immediately accommodated to it. After having spent the first couple of days ignoring it in the midst of his lifeâs most critical moments, it became white noise, if anything. In all fairness, he was enjoying what seemed to be the last bite of shadow in that whole arena, under one of their cardboard buildings. It was difficult to get lost in enjoyable nothings. The warmth was healing last nightâs effects. Those of it the sunlight could touch. He was still sniffing, and his throat felt sore, but at least he was no longer shuddering from all bones.
On the street, he found a couple of spare tokens. He took them without hesitation. It was strange how the two tokens in his pocket, the ones he got from Magnolia Doyle back when he didnât even know her name, stayed in his pocket throughout his dive into the pool, the entire glass shattering incident, two long strolls through the desert and, shortly put, hell itself.Â
Still, at some point, as if calling for him, the music got just one pitch wrong. Maybe he made it up in his mind, but one note was off from the way his ears knew it. That was when he realized it wasnât all in his head. That was when he realized it was playing, somewhere entirely different from that damned casino lobby. With eyes as big as saucers, he sensed the trap and knew what he had to do: walk right into it.Â
Following the music wasnât difficult. In fact, it was the best navigation heâd done ever since reaching the Vegas hell. Usually, regardless of time of the day, it took him ages to spin around and find that one hotel that opened its doors. It wasnât that he couldnât tell which one it was. It wasnât even that the streets were mazes -- because it was actually so simple. Still, he couldnât help but get lost, almost miraculously so. Not this time.
This time, the right door was already opened. He chose to investigate, instead of approaching his assigned elevator. It felt like too blatant of a trap to walk into blindly. Instead, he met with an old friend. The music was getting thicker and thicker, as if frustrated by his disobedience. There, bumping into Maize, it felt like perfect closure. He actually had enjoyed it. It had been their most pleasant interaction yet. When he left, there wasnât much left of her. The blood stain would never come out, damn it.Â
Then, he returned to his first problem, with slightly heavier shoulders. It wasnât guilt, it was never guilt. It was just difficult to keep avoiding that spot near the casino door, the one that had to still be all bloodied. Carolâs eyes kept skimming the lobby blankly, going over that one spot with a stubbornness that wanted to look, but didnât want to see. And, just so he wouldnât look, he got into his own elevator, the one with a prize marked Four. Whatever they had to give him, he couldnât tell. He had nothing to receive.Â
As expected, the elevator doors snapped closed. Carol couldnât even roll his eyes properly, because the elevator itself started moving at a vertiginous rate. If he had any food left in him, he would have definitely thrown up. This way, it just took him twenty seconds off that countdown to catch his breath, still holding onto his jacket. He dropped it, and looked around, trying not to get alarmed by the cold blue LED countdown, the only thing that gave off any light.Â
A minute passed by him and Carol wasnât anywhere near making a move. He was thinking. What was it that Rio said about him and thinking? A knowing smile hovered over his lips for a moment. This was not the place to think of Rio.Â
The realization that the walls were moving closer and closer to him was electrifying. Suddenly, the stakes became obvious. That alone excited Carol, even if it became concerning all the same. Still, where there was a trap, there was at least a way out. Especially in the Hunger Games, there was always a way out. Rolling the sleeves of his shirt, he studied the insides of the elevator.Â
It was clear to him that the doors couldnât have opened. If he was somewhere hanging, they would open into the sort of void he didnât want to see. After carefully examining the platform, he decided there was nothing about it either. His palms felt every inch of it, and for nothing, no button, no escape. The floor was getting smaller and smaller, now visibly. Still, he didnât allow himself to panic. Over three minutes had passed, without him trying anything to actually escape. This couldnât have been force. There was no way this opened with force.
Then, with a gesture he would never regret, in one single attempt to act in order to actually get out, Carol stood up, and his finger pushed against the Alarm button. The door opened. How anticlimactic. How convenient. He couldnât help but laugh, full on. It echoed over the music, but no one was there to hear it. In the meantime, theyâd taken Maizeâs body. Good. He took the Four inscripted bag and found medicine inside. For the upcoming cold. He took the pills, stuffed them into the jacketâs pocket, and carried on.
It appeared it was luck, not force, that cracked doors open and made room for him.
