Author Games: Vengeance (The Punished, #2)

Male Sweet Dream Entries

DISTRICT 1 MALE - DANELIUX LEON

   The blood is still on his hands. Allium's blood lingers on them, refusing to completely disappear. The stains may not be physically seen, but all Danelieux sees are shades of crimson, tainting his fingers. He tries to calm himself, telling himself that he has killed before. But those kills were from a distance. He had swung at her neck, beheading her instantly as the blood sprayed his face and covered his blade. The blood is still on his hands.

"I can't stand it," Corradhin finally snaps, "I'm going to take a walk, try to distract myself a bit. I'd understand if you guys aren't here when I return." And with that, he just stands up and walks away. Danelieux isn't leaving, at least not yet, but a goodbye may have been nice; just in case Corra doesn't return.

His eyebrows furrow inwards when the other boy leaves, but they almost sink down when the girl stands up. "I'll be back," Amani states. "I just need to make sure nothing happens to him. You know? He didn't even take his machete. We'll be back, I promise."

"Yeah, I understand," the crack in his voice surprises him. He tries to regain his usual tone, "Go after him. I'll go hunting or something, try to distract myself too."

A single lie escapes his lips. He doesn't understand at all. No, not that Corra wants a break and that Amani is to follow. No, not that. He doesn't comprehend their situation, his situation. There are only a few people left – eight possibly, maybe nine. In all honesty, from the deepest curve of his heart, Danelieux doesn't want to leave Amani and Corradhin, not the pair from Four that have helped him so much.

He doesn't care for the others, he views them as obstacles only. And like challenges, they vary. Some have been distinct threats from the start, the highest hurdles to jump. Others are just plain good competition, knots on rope to be untied.

But he does care for them. Not in the sense that he'll cry if they perish, reminiscing over distant memories. He cares for them in a low level of platonic cherishing. They are competition, but people. They are people, but they are his competition.

"I'm going bloody crazy," he mutters to himself. "I'm still talking to myself. So not stable."

But he does stick to his promise; he tries to distract himself. He ties his tomahawks to his belt, swinging one in his left hand when he finishes. Taking Corradhin's machete, he drags his arm in the soft mud, tracing uneven lines like snake trails.

"What do draw, what to draw?" At times, he has to clean the point of the machete. He enjoys the sound of the swipe of the blade on his shirt. It sounds crisp, it even echoes off the trunks of trees.

Reality slaps him in the face as he realizes that he hasn't exercised his voice in such a long time. He hasn't sung any melody, he hasn't voiced a harmony. He hasn't had the chance to do so; he's been attacked constantly by plants and people, he's been surrounded by a boy with a loud mouth and girl withquick remarks. He's been surrounded by the loud crash of waves against the cove, of insects buzzing in his ears. He's heard all the annoying sounds that compose nature, but he hasn't heard a single tune that gets composed because of the arena., because of nature.

And he breaks another promise, one he made before coming in, but after his interview. He promised he wouldn't sing, but only to honor his mother's unrepayable death. But that defeats the purpose of singing. Vocalizing is made for those with rich voices, voices full of passion, and love, and benevolence. That's everything that he had; now he has corruption.