#vulpine_spectacle

Ceres looks at her hand pressed against the bloodied stone. There is so much blood under her, a puddle forming at her feet that is wet and slippery. Her eyes follow the trail, until she finds her wounded arm. All Ceres can see is a bloodied stump. She blinks, yet nothing changes. She is staring at nothing. Well, not nothing. There is a stump where her arm used to be, with chunks of flesh hanging treacherously off of her shoulder, like old rags. Blood pools out of her like a waterfall, hot and gooey. It seeps through the fabric of her shirt.  Ceres tries blinking again. When this does nothing, she raises her hand to brush through the empty space where her arm should have been. It is as if she expects it to be there, but simply translucent like the mutt. But she is only met with dead air. It’s gone. Her arm is gone.

The Ocean has its silent caves, Deep, quiet, and alone; Though there be fury on the waves, Beneath them there is none. The awful spirits of the deep Hold their communion there; And there are those for whom we weep, The young, the bright, the fair. Calmly the wearied seamen rest Beneath their own blue sea. The ocean solitudes are blest, For there is purity. The earth has guilt, the earth has care, Unquiet are its graves; But peaceful sleep is ever there, Beneath the dark blue waves. - Nathaniel Hawthorne, the funeral song of District 4.

REAP WHAT WE SOW - Chapter 23, "When Ends Meet" Not a victor, but a monster. This is what I wanted. “The sea gives as much as it takes,” Ceres says. A voice is shouting for her to stop, wild and rapid, and the shadow of a hovercraft looms above her head. She hears metal doors slide open, more voices calling from above, but ignores them. She tips the vial back. It hits her tongue sharply. “You don’t get to take me.” This will be her poster. The Hunger Games won’t have a victor this year.