The Hunger Games: First Quarter Quell

The rain pushes my wet hair against my forehead, curls it around my cheeks. It presses my blood stained shirt to my back, sticks my filthy jeans to my legs.  It leaves my worn shoes water clogged, laces dragging across the mud only to have its imprints washed away anew.

The only thing that seems like it wasn't clinging onto me was the knife I gripped tightly in one hand, occasionally flipping it to keep my fingers busy; a distraction. The knife gleams quietly in my restless fingers, patiently waiting for the moment I used it for my dirty work. 

I trudge to the rusty swings and sit, slightly propelling myself forward and back, the rain muting the creaks.

Raindrops hit the ground like bullets, pulling a thick curtain over everything I see. The Capitol did well, I admit. They reconstructed my old haven perfectly for the Quarter Quell, as they did for the others, so that the safest place they had known became a trial for psychological traps. The park we used to share together, the abandoned one nobody else ever used. Nobody but us. It was all enveloped in a blur. The seesaw we used. The slides we had fun on. Monkey bars, balance beams, climbing ropes... All just a messy blob of dark colors, details completely erased. 

It was probably better that way.

Why did it have to be here? Memories continuously assault me, never ceasing their constant pain that come along with nostalgia that threatens to swallow my sanity. It was probably that very reason that this place was chosen. It was snide, cunning, spiteful. But above of everything, it was just cruel. 

Sitting here left alone with my thoughts was worse than I thought it would be. Guilt wracks my body, imaginary nails digs into my skin, pulling me down. My breathes come out ragged and uneven, my throat constricting. The unbreachable mask I used to hide my emotions shattered for the first time in so many years. It was pretty ironic to think that the one breaking it was also the one who helped me build it up in the first place.

"God. You cry way too much for a guy. Stop whining. It's only a damn bruise." 

The memory hits so hard and so fast I didn't have time to brace myself for it. I felt like someone had actually punched me in the stomach. 

Out of everyone in our district. Out of thousands of girls. Why did it have to be her? The one who held out her hand when no one else would; I was too dirty. The one who protected me when I couldn't do it myself; I was too broken. The one who urged me to grow when when the world pushed me down; I was too weak. 

And now I'd lose her.

 

It seemed as if she had been timing the perfect moment for me to lose my grip on the final strings of self control I had... Before she appeared before me. 

She didn't come into view immediately, but came as an ominous lumbering shape in the distance. It took me a couple minutes to trace her figure through the heavy rain, but as seconds ticked by I could make out more and more of her.

Her long, black hair was tied back from her face. She was dressed similarly to me. Plain T shirt, except hers was black. Plain jeans. Plain shoes. Everything plastered against her slim figure. The only difference was that her and I was that she looked completely clean, deprived of the scum and wear I that had accumulated on my clothes the past couple of weeks. I could easily imagine why. Her confident, laid back attitude and barbed words that had previously chased people away had most likely drawn in admirers -and sponsors- from the Capitol. It probably helped that she was an excellent fighter in hand to hand combat, as well.

As she slowly approached, I used the extra time to pull the misses pieces of myself together, so at least I could have a moment of self respect when we met.  

Before I knew it, she was standing right in front of me. My heart stopped the moment our eyes met. Was that really what I saw? I blinked a couple of times to get rid of any excess rainwater just in case it was messing up my vision. Why...?

She meets my gaze straight on. "Hey, loser." 

"...Been a while, huh." She c***s her head.

"Y...Yeah," I manage to mutter, still in disbelief.

But how could she...?

Again, she pauses, letting the sound of falling raindrops fill the empty silence. Her dark eyes probe my body, but I'm still too puzzled to object or feel self conscious. I feel her stare linger on my face, which had grown more masculine over the year or so we were apart. Then it travels down to my shoulders which had become broader as well. Lastly, I feel her eyes rest somewhere around my hands so I briefly look down and note that she was observing the knife I was holding. 

"Well, it looks like you finally went through puberty, though I have to say bringing that thing kinda makes you look like a little b***h," she remarks with an amused look on her face.  

How could she be smiling? 

I have no reply for her. Maybe I would have felt embarrassed that I brought a weapon while she came unarmed, but I was too thrown off by her casual attitude on the situation. 

I swallow hard. After all, hadn't we been through so much together? Haven't we watched each other grow since we were kids? That was all going to disappear today. By the time tomorrow comes, one of us won't be here anymore. Didn't that mean anything to her? Didn't this situation make a crevasse in the very core of her heart? Didn't she even care?

She cracks her neck, grinning sadistically as if enjoying the anguish I've failed to conceal. "Hell. We don't have forever. Let's get started." 

I don't even see it coming. But somehow I'm on the ground, my sight blinded by rain, the left side of my face caked in mud. The wet murkiness of the mud is absorbed by my clothes, and I shiver, even colder than I was before. The moist sensation is disgusting, and I attempt to push myself back up, but then she slams her heel against my chest, nearly snapping my collarbone.

The pain almost makes me black out, but I struggle to keep conscious. She's bending over, sneering at me, water from her hair dripping onto my face. This was the same face she used to spit on the people who looked at  us like garbage for who we were. This was not the face she was suppose to be looking at me with. Never. The hellish pain that came from realizing it was me that she was mocking brought more agony than the pain in my chest that had me gasping for air.

Satisfied, she backs up. "That, my friend, was a warning. Be prepared next time."

In a flash she's gone, hiding somewhere in the mounds of dead playground toys and large chunks of litter, ready to pop up like one of those hideous jack in the box toys I had encountered in the remake of someone else's memories. 

I finally find the strength to lift myself up, panting and scared. I'm clutching the knife so hard that I've managed to cut myself, blood running freely from my palm. No wonder I haven't received a single gift from any sponsor, not even from my district. Physically I was bigger, stronger than her. But all anyone could see through the cameras was a weak, pathetically damaged boy. Not a man. She was the one they were all pinning their hopes on. The girl who was playing a steady game of cat and mouse, in her hands all the winning cards.

But I will prove them wrong. I will not go down without a a fight.

I briskly rub my face, staining my cheeks with watery creases of red. With that action, I rub out all the pain, hurt, and suffering my feelings had been tormenting me with. When my hands return to my side, my face is a clean, empty slate. Unreadable.

I knew the safest plan was to get out of the mess, this maze of broken childhood toys, and out to the open field where I would have a higher advantage. But I knew that they, the audience, wanted a show. Here we could stretch out the suspense, the grand finale. Fine. I would give them what they wanted.

She was probably hiding where she could see me, but I couldn't find her. Behind the old abandoned truck we had explored as kids? Between the messy tangled mops of the rope bridge we weaved together? Under the piles of debris, other people's trash, that we had held as our secret treasures? The possibilities were endless.

I tread cautiously, the ground absorbing my footsteps. Every time I bring my foot up, a strange sucking noise accompanies it, hindering my steps. These shoes when dry protect my feet. Wet, they're a nuisance. 

I look around before squatting under the monkey bars to pull off my shoes, and after a moment of hesitation, peel off my socks as well. The gooey soil oozes between my toes and paints my heels brown. The coolness soothes the sores I've collected during the hours I've spent running from the endless little quirks the Capitol showered on me during the weeks I've spent here. Honestly, I think they were picking on me on purpose because they saw me as a useless side character, someone who'd always flee when presented a fight or flight moment. I don't blame them, though. I bet the audience had a great time watching me struggle and slip through the grasp of the most murderous challenges the Gamemakers could offer, almost unscathed. That was a miracle itself, if I ever heard one.

But now I'm suspicious. It's been too long. She's impatient by nature, so I'm sure she would make her move pretty soon.

 I stand up, when suddenly her face inches away from mine. She's dangling from the monkey bars upside down, grinning like she's having the time of her life. 

I stumble back and trip over a metal bar that was conveniently hovering near my ankle. The impact of the surprise sends me falling backwards, my butt planted into the mud a second time. I hiss at my stupidity. Of course I should have looked up. 

"The look on your face..." she cackles, still not bothering to make a move. I could almost hear the guys cracking up back in district eleven. Even there I always had the short end of the stick. Too big and clumsy to climb trees and harvest fruit, but too small and weak to be any real help doing physical work. 

I'm furious at her betrayal, at the luxurious life of those in the Capitol who can safely watch mine shrivel away behind the safety of their TV screens. Furious at the unfairness of life.

I lunge at her with agility neither of us expected. She dodges, but not before the knife embeds itself deep into the side of her face and reappears, stained in blood.

A flash of disbelief crosses her face, but it's gone so fast the cameras probably didn't get it. With a swing of her legs she's perched on top of a rusty iron pole, looking down at me like a hawk. I watch warily, muscles tensed.

Ever since she was a kid, she'd always try to hide her pain from others. And through years and years of pulling curtains of deceit over herself, she became the best liar I ever knew. She could spin the most unbelievable tales to almost anyone and get away with it. But the person who put the 'almost' there was me.

The feral grin was still carved into her face, but I could see that it was forced. I almost want to tell her to stop; she's just making more blood gush out that way. Then I remember with a pang of remorse that I'm the one who put the mark on her in the first place. I wince at the thought and the sight of her teeth beginning to stain red. 

She smirks, her blood now dripping on my forehead. 

"That's how it's supposed to be." 

Then it really starts. 

She spits, aiming directly at my eyes. I curse and rub them, trying to use the rainwater to my advantage. I was doing exactly what she wanted me to do.

By the time I realized that, I was on the ground again this time my arms pinned against my back. The pain... God. Was she planning to rip my arms out of their sockets? The more I squirmed, the more prominent the pain was, and I knew this was probably like trying to untie a ball of terribly messy string. In the process of undoing a single knot, you make three more in the process. I quickly got the idea and stopped trying to worm my way from her grip.

"There we go. You're a fast learner, you know."

I grit my teeth, but I refuse to close my eyes. It's a sign of submission, or at least that's what she told me when we were wrestling as kids.

"Thanks," I try to reply nonchalantly, but my voice is strained.

"You know, you probably'd have done just fine without me. I think you still can." 

I turn around to look her in the eye, my muscles screaming in protest. "Well, I can tell that you really mean it. That really means a lot to me."

In a second her leg is tightly wrapped around my neck. She didn't have the strength to snap it, but she did have enough to stop the air flow to my lungs. I remember her using this move on me when she'd been angry about something, though I don't remember what. My thoughts are hazy due to the lack of oxygen, and I'm starting to see flashes in the corner of my eyes. Still, I can see her face clearly as she bends in closer and whispers.

"Don't tell me you forgot what I taught you."

Suddenly it all comes back to me. We were messing around when I'd said something insensitive to get her mad, then it was an all out brawl. Much like this one, really, except it was a breezy autumn day and we weren't trying to murder each other. I had been beaten senseless then, the next several days I was so covered in sores and bruises that I couldn't help with the harvesting at all. During that time she had showered me in headlocks and paralyzing pressure points... much like she was doing now.

I let my arms go limp and then tense the muscle in my legs, throwing her slightly off balance. I could literally feel the tissue in my arms rip as I kicked back and thrashed while rolling to get her off me. Each movement brought a new wave of pain, increasing in intensity as I continued my fit. 

Here was the trick. In most cases, moves that pin you down usually depend on the pain that signals from your nervous system to make sure you don't make an escape. But if you can ignore the pain, getting through an obstacle like being held to the ground was as easy as breaking your arm.

Which was to say, really hard. 

But it works. She's light, slender. Somewhat like a bird poised, ready to take flight. That sort of physique ran in her family, making them useful around district eleven. I always used to wonder if she'd pass on the genes for generations to come. It was a handy one, after all.

But here and now it's a disadvantage. Although I'm not towering over her, I knew that I must have outweighed her by at least thirty pounds or so. If she had been heavier, I knew that she could have kept me under her and just ended it by strangling me to death. The thought still puts a chill in my spine. 

I take a couple steps backwards, and she does the same, mimicking my steps. My right arm hangs useless from my arm socket. It feels pretty numb and I'm grateful for that. It'd be harder to concentrate if I was in pain. On the other hand, though, I'm not sure if numbness is a good thing, especially if I want the use of that arm again. My left arm is sore, but well enough. I readjust the knife in my hand, getting ready to use it if I have to.

The rain is still steadily pouring down, which makes it harder for me to make out any detailed movements of hers, but on the bright side I knew it was the same for her as well. After a few minutes, though, I could tell that she wasn't going to make the first move. 

The cold ground had had me shivering at first, but the feeling died down bit by bit. My feet were now almost dragging against the mud every other step, leaving murky tracks. The senses in my feet started to go as numb as my shoulder almost as soon as I took my shoes off. I didn't know how long it took for hypothermia to set in, but I didn't want to take a chance. We had to get this over with.

As if the Capitol read my mind, a huge gust of wind whistles past, making the raindrops as sharp as needles and small debris fly past us. I knew this was their way of telling us to hurry up; we were starting to bore the audience. 

The minutes following after were just a blur of movements. I decided to just hurry up and give it my all. The pure hellish emotions I'd been experiencing earlier had died out. I felt empty. There really was nothing else I could use to describe it. Just an empty shell. I didn't care what happened. Whether I lived or died... I just didn't care.

The knife swung with such force I could hear a distinct whistle as it slit through the wind. She dodged in time, though if I had made direct contact I'm sure she would have been decapitated by now.

I continued to go after her, bringing the knife down in erratic but precisely aimed movements. The weapon was simple, but finely crafted; Who would expect less from something the game makers donated to the Cornucopia? They had so much money at their fingertips, watching with amusement as the rest of us scramble to grab the scrapes they toss out. Our misery was their entertainment. Our death was their sport.

The knife slices a stray wisp of hair that had separated from the clamp that was holding her hair, but she ignores it, completely focused on dodging my attacks. I knew that this couldn't continue for long, though. We were both freezing, tired, on edge, and the fact that the ground was as slippery -and cold- as ice did little to help. One of us would make a wrong move. It was only a matter of time. 

Her movements seemed almost effortless, but I could tell she was starting to get sloppy. A slight slip here, a small cut there. If this continued her clothes would be slashed to ribbons. 

Finally, her back hit the truck I was slowly pushing her towards. I could see her hands clench by the side of the truck, steadying herself for the last blow. 

I look at her, hesitating. Could I really live after this, knowing that I was living at the expense of her life? I knew she was a big part of me, who I am today. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if there was more of her than me in the inside. Me winning, pushing on ahead with a world without her condescending presence, or me losing, my blood stained on her gleeful hands. Either way I knew I'd be dead. It would only be a matter if it was emotional of physical.

It turns out my hesitation, though it only lasted for a second, was enough for her to retaliate. She yanked the handle of the truck and kicked it for more force. The motion sent me stumbling backwards, and she used that momentum to slam the door against me a second time. The truck was old and rotting away, not surprisingly because it was something built before the Dark Days along with the rest of the park. Still, I hadn't expected for the hinges to break and for the door to crush my foot. 

Both of our feet, to be exact. While I let out a shout and cradle my injury, she lets out a low hiss and skips backwards. Another compare and contrast moment for the audience to note our difference in strength when dealing with pain. 

Luckily, the door falls on its side but to where she had been standing moments ago, not on me.

"Still a wimp, huh?" she asks while holding the side of the truck for balance. 

I take a good look at myself. Whatever griminess the rain had washed off me was quickly replaced by a good amount of other brownish slime from falling down so much. She was as clean as when she came.

I stumble to my feet, avoiding putting any pressure on my left foot. "Yep. I'm afraid that's something I'm still working on." Great. Useless right arm, useless left leg.

"You wanna know who I know's gonna win?" she grins, ignoring the throbbing ache she was probably feeling.

"No thanks. I have a pretty good idea," I manage to shrug, feigning casual boredom. I remember this is how we used to talk when we'd watch the Hunger Games, betting on who'd win and who'd lose. With a pang of guilt, I suddenly realize that we weren't so different from the Capitol after all.

"All right. But I'll just say this: the outcome will probably hurt me a lot more than it'll hurt you." 

I feel myself growing colder than I thought possible. Was that her form of an apology? "I know I'll end up killing you, and that makes me feel really bad". So was that what she was thinking this whole time? I didn't think her opinion of me was so low.

My blood boils. "Yeah. It definitely will," I snap as I impulsively hurl my knife at her.

It was unexpected. A short distance, too.

So I'm surprised as anyone when it doesn't puncture her stomach. Instead, with a flick of her wrist, she caught it. I could just about hear everyone at home clapping at her little feat. I feel humiliated. The only spark of satisfaction I get is that she caught it on its blade, not the handle, so blood continuously spurts from her hand as she watches me impassively.

Twiddling the knife in her hand much like I was earlier, she studies it with interest. Any second she could end this, now that I've foolishly given up my weapon.

"Thanks, but no thanks." I don't close my eyes, but I do flinch when I see her arm thrust the knife forwards in a whip like motion. It's literally a bullet as it smashes through raindrops and embeds itself into my flesh like butter.

But a second surprise. She didn't aim for my vitals, which she easily could have. My heart, my lungs, stomach... any of those and I would have died in minutes, if not seconds. Instead, the knife's handle sticks out of my arm. The useless one. She didn't hit any of the main bloodstreams, so I just yank it out, snapping a few more threads of muscle tissue along the way. It didn't matter to me. I could hardly feel a thing.

I hold it even tighter before. I won't make the same mistake again.

"You're much too generous," I smirk, hauling myself up. 

"It's a nasty little fault of mine," she replies nonchalantly. "Something that'll  definitely lead to my undoing," she adds before hurling herself at me. Regardless of how fast she was, this time I was ready. 

Arm entangled with arm, leg constricted around leg, we thrash on one another, painting fresh streaks of red across our faces and limbs. The blood becomes watery as it runs down our body alongside the rain. Dirt clings onto us as we roll across the dead park, neither of us caring as it creases into our eyes. 

Regardless of how much stronger I was, she still had the upper hand because while she had two functional arms, I only had one. 

"Fun, isn't it?" she asks as she pins my good arm down with one of hers. "Just like old times, huh?" Her dark eyes probe me again, this time searching for some sort of weakness, a flash of insecurity. I refuse to give her the satisfaction.

"Yeah, it sure is." 

For a second we're both at a standstill. Time seems to stop as I take my turn to look at her. To really see her. This whole time it's just been quick glimpses, nothing more. 

It's hard to ignore the huge gash on her cheek from the cut I gave her earlier, but I ignore it and observe her natural facial characteristics.  First I notice her dark skin. It's a feature just about everyone in district eleven has, but she'd tanned since the last time we'd met. Also, she has two pitch black glass eyes that would turn brown if you saw them in the right angle. Nose was arched, but small and angular. Lips were thin and slightly chapped. Another feature that wasn't uncommon among those in our district. 

Her face was actually quite feminine, but almost no one noticed because more often than not, it was knit into a scowl of some sort. The only time it came off is when she was sleeping, or she if was alone with me. That realization digs into my gut with a nauseous feeling that I've never had until today.

Then we were faced with reality again. Her grip on me was a bit more loose, as if she had forgotten that we were in a death brawl.  

What happened next... I didn't expect it. Neither did she.

I wasn't exactly sure what had happened until the knife returned stained a dark crimson, my hand slick with a thick, warm substance.

Then came the screaming. 

She fell backwards, clawing madly at her eyes which were no longer there. Like a wild animal caught in a trap, her body wracked in spasms and inhuman howls of pure pain that would make any man shiver in disgust. 

I'm frozen,  watching her in slack horror. With my own hands I had gouged out her eyes and slit her stomach. 

She would no longer be able to see the world after today... No. I brace myself and think, She won't be alive after today, anyways. What will it matter? But I knew this wasn't about winning or losing. This was about having a conscience. Being the better person. Just because she wanted to hurt me, to make me feel pain, didn't mean that I should have done the same. I shouldn't have done this. At least I should have left her eyes alone. She would have died either way, but at least she would have went with more dignity than this. She would have been able to stare me down, a small, silent victory in her own way, as she slowly bleed to death. Now I've stripped her of the privilege of even that.

Her shrill screams soon died out to heavy gasps as she struggled to find her way back to me. Even in her condition she was still groping with one hand, mud squelching between her fingers, her other hand holding her stomach to keep her guts from falling out. 

I haven't moved, still paralyzed from the shock of having seen her so broken. I hated the thought that millions of people, strangers that she didn't even know, would also have seen her in such a pitiful state.

After long, empty minutes, her wandering hand finds my foot which burned at her touch that was dampened with chilled blood.

She's no threat. All the viewers knew that the king of the hill had fallen, that the ace in the deck had only been a jack in all trades. Only minutes would pass until her heart ceased to beat, her breath no longer passing from her lips.

Still, fear courses through my body as she looks up at me with two completely empty holes where her raven black eyes had used to be. I knew that the sight would forever be burned into my mind, a permanent nightmare for as long as I live. I watch, powerless, as her mouth opens to curse me with her last bitter lash that I knew would haunt me forever. I let her. I had taken away her chance at leaving the world with pride. It was only fair that she leave her last legacy that would have me fighting to keep my sanity. Her voice was shaking badly, a dying whisper that was barely audible.

 

"...Congratulations, idiot. You... won." 

I stare at her, dumbstruck, as a small smile dances on her face, this time with no malignant intent sugar coating it.

"What?" I ask. 

"...You deaf? I said congrats..." Her body retracts as she lets out a hacking cough, more blood dribbling from her mouth. For the first time I realize how fragile she truly was. I reach out to bring her in closer, to shield her from the pounding rain in her last moments.

She turns away when she feels my touch, trying ignore the excruciating pain that came from the effort. 

"No...Get back... You killed me me... remember?" 

In those few words I understood her warning. We fought. I won. She lost. The Capitol would look down on someone who sympathized with a fellow tribute, no matter how crucial the moment was. And whatever the Capitol didn't like, you didn't do. She was still trying to protect me, even now. 

The gears in my head began to turn.

"You... you let me win?"

A flash of emotion crossed her face. "...No."

I had felt empty. Up to this point, I had felt nothing. But when I finally saw that she had been trying to fool the Capitol, the ultimate form of self sacrifice for my sake, there were no words to describe how I felt.

"Y-you're lying," I chocked out.

"Stop it," she commanded weakly. Blood streaked down from her sightless eye sockets, and I then realized that she had been crying, only I hadn't seen it earlier when her tears had mingled with the rain that poured down on us. It was then that I found out that I had been crying the whole time, too.

The rain had slightly let up. There was no way the viewers could hear our almost silent conversation in such heavy rain, and they were probably curious as to what we were saying. Suddenly I felt furious. Who were they to intrude on our last moments together? Why couldn't they just let us be? Just leave us alone... Please.

God, it wasn't suppose to be like this. It wasn't suppose to end this way.

I don't care what the Capitol thinks, or if they find out that she had let me win. Because after she's gone, they won't be able to lay a finger on her. I'm the only one they have to punish. 

I wrap my arm around her shoulder against her protests, which were becoming weaker by the moment. I can't help but notice how small her frame was. Suffering from constant malnutrition... of course she never had the chance to fill out, to grow.

"Too damned... clingy," she snaps without much conviction as blood continues to seep from her wounds. The ones I made. 

Guilt claws its way through my body, burning away what little energy I have. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. The burning sensation is accompanied by sharp needles that dig their way into my body. Her last moments will be lived in darkness. Complete isolation. The last thing she would have ever seen was my hand holding the knife that dug into her eyes...

A sob escapes from my lips. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"God. You cry... way too much... for a guy..." Her eyelids flutter closed, and for a moment I'm petrified that she... went. Sorrow, anger, injustice, remorse, and anxiety all clouded my thoughts, so I had completely forgotten about the cannon that rings when a tribute dies.

"You know I can't do this. Don't go." My voice falters inconceivably. She finds my hand and holds it as tight as she can with her remaining strength, trying to comfort me. Even while she was dying, she was the one lending her strength. Shame fills me to my very core. Still, I can't find it in myself to object. I need it, her protection. And as if she can read my mind, she takes in a deep breath.  

And she sings.

  

"Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Where they strung up a man they say murdered three.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree..."

Her voice strains near the end, her face trying to mask the pain that came from the effort. Still, she steadies herself and pushes on. 

"Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Where the dead man called out for his love to flee.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree..."

Bloody tears well beneath her delicate eyelids and drop onto my shirt, saturating it to a rusty red.

"Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Where I told you to run so we’d both be free.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree..."

I watch her, captivated, like a child listening wide eyed to a storyteller spinning tales passed down from generation to generation.

"Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree..."

With those last words, the her grip on my hand goes slack. I sit, still waiting for her to continue, not registering that it was finally the end.

A single cannon fires in the sky.

Then I know. It is over. But...

I will not let the Capitol have the last laugh. They constructed the Games, built them, expanded them, and reveled in them. They think they will always have the upper hand. They think that they have control over everything. 

But I will show them that they don't. I will fight back by stealing away the only thing that the Capitol can use as a reminder to everyone that they are the highest, that no one dares to cross them. I will not give them the satisfaction of them knowing that are constantly putting us in checkmate. With my next move, I will end the game by sacrificing my queen. 

I will strip them of their Victor in their first Quarter Quell. 

I grin at the camera as I slit my throat.

__________________________________________________________________

EPILOGUE 

Paramedics rushed to the scene, but by the time they reached Hemlock Marks, the Victor of the Quarter Quell, he had lost far too much blood to be revived. 

Fulfilling his goal in humiliating the Capitol, he passed away soon after.

Seneca Crane, not wanting to repeat his predecessor's mistakes, had for that reason allowed Katniss and Peeta to live after seeing the threat of a Hunger Games without a victor.  

The Capitol had banned any reruns of the first Quarter Quell for reasons still unknown, at least to those who saw the suicide as a final act of hysteria and desperation, not a taunt against the Capitol.

         

Rue, Trish's district partner was never spoken about aloud ever again. Still, Rue's abusive but prideful family kept her name generation after generation so that her bravery would never be forgotten. The name was given to the firstborn daughter of each new family branching out from her blood linage for the hope that their daughter would be just as brave, sacrificial, and strong willed as the original.   

 

  

  

 

   

Reviews

[StillShorterThanYou]

that was really entertaining (not lying, or saying that just to be nice!)!!
the explanation at the end made sense with everything else, and the description with the fight scene etc was amazing!
I was holding my breath the hold time, wondering who would win. GOOD JOB!! :D * thumbs up*