If victory had a literal taste, If only. If victory had a literal taste, It would taste of water. Satisfying, when earned, Nothing when not. If Victory would have a taste, It would taste of Tamarind. Sweet at first, Sour at last, for all of the morally wrong things that were done to get here. If victory had a literal taste, If only.

We jump in the van, the sky still dark except for the few stars that sprinkle light. Looking out my window, the street seems to blend in with the foliage. 5:00 AM. The world is asleep for the most part, apart from nurses and a select few little kids that can’t seem to sleep in till a decent hour. My eyes feel heavy but not in a way of drowsiness. I feel at rest. From the back row, I listen to the murmur of voices that are muffled by the sound of the engine. By now, the whole car is asleep except for the driver and passenger. I would go asleep but the warmth of the morning is too inviting to leave. It’s much different than a family road trip. All too familiar with each other’s company, my brother would put his headphones on and be lost in his own world for hours. My mom and dad would be in the front, my dad driving as my mother rested her head upon the window. Every now and then they would babble about the recent family drama or trivial things like where we would stop to eat later. Sometimes, we would play a game. Ben was told to take his headphones out and my mom would ask us a math question. The game was in reality unfair. My brother was a natural at numbers. He rarley studied and yet his mind worked quick to unfold the invisible puzzles. He got every one right as I sat there still pondering the first question. Anyhow, this feels different. This isn’t my family with me in this van but I couldn’t be truthful in saying they are merely friends.

If victory had a taste, it would taste like sweet, red wine. It would taste like ecstasy in liquid form, washing away every ounce of doubt, drowning my worries in a single, intoxicating gulp.

I haven’t won much in life.
But I’ll spare you the sob story. You've heard it all before, from others just like me. Right now, though, all I can feel is the rush—standing over the girl who met her end at my hands, savoring the triumph. I wave to the crowd, who cheers and throws coins and flowers at my feet, their admiration palpable in the air.

Six months.
 That’s how long it’s been since this competition began. Six months of pushing myself further than I ever thought possible. The things I’ve done, the things I’ve seen—I'm not sure the person I was then even exists anymore. But I guess that's the point of these games: to break you down and build you back up into something else entirely. Something stronger. Something more dangerous.

I scan the arena, eyes lingering on the bodies scattered across the floor. Most are from my hand, a few from others, but it doesn’t matter. There can only be one victor, and today, that victor is me.

A shadow falls over me, and I don’t need to look to know who it is.
The Arena Master stands behind me, a smirk playing at the edge of his lips as his eyes flicker to the girl lying at my feet. “A fine fighter,” he says, his voice low. “Don’t you think?”

I glance over at the crowd again, feeling the weight of their gaze. This feeling—this sweet, intoxicating rush—is all I’ve wanted for so long. But I know it’s fleeting. It always is. The Arena Master chuckles softly, his voice rising above the noise of the crowd. “This is only the beginning, child.” His words hang in the air, a reminder that this victory, like everything else, is just a small piece of a much larger game. And I'm only getting started.

If victory had a taste it would be similar to ecstasy. If I had to describe it I would say it’s like an orgasm, instant gratification. Maybe a bit like sweets melting in your mouth. A delicacy.

Thats what I could describe it as I couldn’t imagine victory could be as relishing as this. I have a hunger for this

I conquered him, a long time awaiting 10 years and I couldn’t win. Triumph? Oh it’s sweet

I passed him?! I couldn’t believe it! For years, I always had to stare at the back of Jess King, runner number 42, always coming in first place. I trained for so long to pass him, but I guess I never believed I could do it. But I did it…

Was this a dream?

The Ribbon that I had to run through was approximately four feet away—just a few more seconds. I was tired, but passing Jess gave me a burst of energy, and I put all of it into the last few steps. The swinging of my arms got faster and more powerful, and the motion of my legs felt hypersonic. I was just a few inches away now. I could see victory! I could feel it! I could almost taste it!

It tasted like…

Blood? Wait, why did it taste like blood? That’s unexpected.

Oh wait… Damn it… I fell.

I can only imagine victory would sit different on everyone’s tastebuds.

Some find victory a necessity, it fills their half empty cup of ice cold water with self-worth. They down it to keep living, only to realize there are other ways to drink water: room temp, with one ice cube, maybe just out of the tap, and it might even be better.

I am only able to speak on behalf of myself. Victory tastes like Belgian waffles with 100% real Canadian syrup for breakfast, an authentic Italian hoagie from the local bodega for lunch, and the most moist piece of salmon placed on top of white rice and edamame, seasoned to perfection with spicy mayo and siracha. Complete and utter satisfaction. Does it always make me feel good? No. But my tastebuds burst with satisfaction the immediate moment the food touches them.

Victory is temporary, making the deliciousness of the food even more worth it.

If victory had a literal taste, it would taste like cake, A sweet consumption in which many adore and yet most despise every inch.

If victory had a literal taste, it would taste like cake, It could be a simple paste, nothing more, nothing less However most wish it to be above all, outstanding beside all other pastries.

If victory had a literal taste, it would taste like cake, Ones goal was never the outcome, but rather it living up to its taste Although others saw these as a need for perfection, demanding all knew of their capabilities.

People always say victory tastes sweet.

Catarina would think otherwise.

It starts with blood, so, so much blood. Flooding the streets, flooding your mouth til the only thing you can taste and breathe and choke on is blood. The iron fills your lungs, returning you to your base state of red, raw blood.

As you choke for air and cough and wheeze, the blood returning to your veins and heart, the metallic taste vanishes, replaced with a cold, bitter sensation filling your tongue. The same cold feeling as you watch the blood drain from the faces of your enemies as you ready your final swing into their readied throats. The same cold feeling as you hear the screams of those too innocent to deserve such a fate but too guilty of the ignorance everyone wields as they turn a blind eye to the truth of the suffering that boils and festers under their very feet. The same cold feeling as you feel the life in the only person you ever called your friend fade from their eyes, the only person who saw you as human after all this time because you have and would continue to do the same, the only person who you haven't abandoned yet simply because they wouldn't let you.

Only then, victory tastes sweet. Sweet, because it's finally all over. You've commited more atrocities than those you've killed in the name of the law, and the only thing you feel is the sweet, sweet remnants of adrenaline. You find yourself laughing, the sound twisted and distorted by your own vice and greed for power. By now, is it really you, behind your mask and layers to hide the real you? Is it the sad, lonely child, the overconfident teen just barely an adult, or the scar ridden person who is indistinguishable from their own shadow? Or is it the power corrupting you, turning those cloudy white eyes into destructive black storms, twisting and swirling around your soul and taking it hostage in the depths of the dark, puppeteering your thoughts and emotions and will so tightly you wonder if you're even being manipulated in the first place.

Victory is sweet. Like dark chocolate. A bitter thing who you learn to love, because what else is there to feel other than the sharp ice cold in your heart?

Winning a war should taste like home. The sweetness of freshly cooked croissants and the warmth of hot chocolate should be brewed upon our victory. But I can taste something sour on my tongue as if our victory is a punishment, like blood on my hands - there is none.

Instead winning a war tastes like lemon, a sour tinge feeling that wants to rip my heart apart because I took lives. Killing people where blood stains, but here lemon stains my taste buds punishing me. This punishment isn’t enough. I should be dead for taking somebody’s life, like god says an eye for an eye. I got a life for a lemon, and what do I do with a lemon in my hands? Make juice?

It was over. And we had won. The victory was sweet on my tongue, a mix of sweat and blood. Blood. I stared at the carnage around me.

After a second absorbing my surroundings, the taste shifted, reminding me of the despicable things I had done to get here.

The honeyed flavor if victory faded into the sharp and spicy tang of shame.