He had fallen asleep somehow after the fallen
tribute sequence, but it had been a light sleep, his rational fear keeping his
senses heightened and his nightmares alive.
It was early morning when he woke, hardly any light breaking through the
canopy of evergreens, and the nighttime chill still freezing enough to warrant
the jacket he had been provided. The
jacket though, meant that while his torso was warm his legs were still cold,
the shivers managing to keep a firm hold on his body. Regardless of how he felt, there was only
silence as he laid against the tree, seeing if he would fall back asleep or
stay awake. His panic from yesterday had
left him with little energy, and his heavy eyelids made sleep sound like a
brilliant idea, even if it wasn’t.
Sleep
was just beginning to take over when he heard it, a quiet ‘snap’ that jerked
his head out of its lolling nod. At
most, the sound had been a few meters off, quiet enough to have been an animal,
or at worst: another tribute that was passing somewhere nearby, but then it
sounded again, closer this time. Kaede
glanced around his encampment, scanning what was available to him, but he was
weaponless. All he had at his disposal
was the sample of branches, some way too small to take any person out, and the
others much too heavy for him to even lift.
None were his first pick for a fight.
When the snap echoed
only a few trees away, he grabbed one of the heavier branches, keeping most of
its weight on the forest floor. He sank
down in the brush, gripping the large branch with his right hand, saving his
left for the possible fight. Finally,
the sound had come close enough that he was able to pin it to a body; another
tribute. He was coming in Kaede’s
direction, a weapon in hand. From where
he sat, he couldn’t tell what the weapon was, only that the boy approaching his
spot was from district nine. The branch
leaning on his leg was more than large enough to take out the small boy as
massive as it was. He was only four to
five feet tall, still a child, which would make the fight short. The trouble came in hefting the long piece of
tree, which had already begun to tax his leg and energy.
His leg tensed under
the branch; he knew he would feel the soreness of this decision tomorrow, he
already was beginning to. A twig snapped
a couple feet off, and Kaede prepared himself.
He counted in his head, marking the footfalls of the small boy. One. Two.
Three. Closer the boy came,
and with him came the noise of his footsteps; he was obviously not accustomed
to masking his presence given the sounds he made in simply walking.
The boy stopped in
front of Kaede’s bush, Kaede tensing at the sudden pause. He had been silent; too silent for the
younger boy to have heard him. His
unsaid questions though, were answered quickly as the cannon sounded in the
distance, marking a new death. Neither
of them moved, waiting for another cannon shot, another death that seemed to
always follow that first boom. Kaede breathed
in deeply, picking a plan of attack, and catapulted himself out of the bush,
his branch swinging in the air, gaining a heavy momentum. The District nine boy didn’t even move,
didn’t turn from his staring in the direction of the cannon. He just stood there, oblivious to the threat.
There was a slight
delay in his senses as his body continued to move. A delay that gave him the clearest, almost
unmistakable view of the other boy’s confusion, and then terror as he
registered what was happening, and what it meant. Down.
His body only continued in its path downward on the other boy, swift,
and gradual at the same time. Then there
was a ‘thunk’, as it connected, a sound that wasn’t as smooth as the machete he
had seen the District Two boy wield. The
blow itself was merciful enough, clipping him brutally in the head with the
force to give a near instantaneous death.
The force threw the boy off his feet, but there would be no catching
himself from the blow, his body immediately crumpling to the ground with an
even louder ‘thunk’.
Kaede could only stare
as the breath left the young boy’s body, the cannon marking his fatal
success. The branch dropped from his
hands, his left finally losing its strength once again. Blood coated him from the strike -all not his
own- some dripping and drying on his face, the rest remaining as droplets on
his clothing, spattered across his jacket and pants. He should have cared, should have felt sick,
but instead there was only a hollowness; a sense of detachment, the blood
becoming a second skin. It didn’t help
that he hadn’t a drop of water to spare for cleaning himself.
For so long he had
dreaded the games and what they meant for someone like him. No one at the Reaping thought he would make
it, and yet he was still alive. That had
to count for something. Or at least that
was what he hoped for himself. It was
the only thing that he could believe if he was going to make it anywhere near
the end of the games.
He stooped next to the
fallen body, his gaze skirting over the marks he had inflicted himself. From the amount of blood that coated the forest
floor at his feet, he knew staring at what he had done would only hinder his
own chance of survival, of winning. Shuddering,
he pushed his hand into the area under the boy’s arm, pulling out the weapon
that had fallen under him. There was a
brief moment of relief as he grasped the weapon the other boy had been
clutching; an axe, nearly identical to the one he had worked with back
home. Its steel tip glinted in the
afternoon light, sharp and clean. The
handle under his hand was soft, not the rough wooden kind he had grown up
with. He pulled it up with his bad hand,
wincing as it let out a deep ache, drained already from the attack. For now, he would have to rest and recuperate
in order to be ready for the next encounter.
He could make plans tomorrow for all the good they would do him at this
point. With a sigh, he switched hands,
and held onto the axe, unable to place it anywhere else. He would need it in the coming time anyway.
On the boy’s back was
one of the bags from the Cornucopia, but inside of it was only a canteen that
was half full, and matches that he would never use. He sighed for a long moment, uncapping the
canteen, and gulping down a fraction of the water. Frustration kicking in, his hand tightened
around the matchbox, crumpling it a little on the edges before he tossed it
back in the bag, and slung the pack on his own back. He would still need to find water.
There
had been mostly silence for what seemed like forever, the sound of cannon
absent in the arena. His killing of the
boy ended that long silence, but only for that short span of time. From Berkeley’s words, he had remembered to
keep count of the tally, which had now crept up to seven, only two days
in. He didn’t know which tributes
remained, merely that he was sure the careers were still alive, and hunting
everyone else down. If he was to face
them, he would need more than just his strength to survive.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
That night, he laid
himself in the thick leaves of a low tree, tucking his body out of sight. There was still light peeking over the canopy
of the trees, but it was pitch dark where he rested on the ground. None of the other tributes dared start a fire
in the endless darkness, terrified of what the others could do to them in their
sleep. A lone light flashed briefly as
the music began, and the fallen tribute’s faces showed in the sky. Remorse had its second go at him when the
small boy from nine appeared at the end of the sequence, a pang in his chest
reminding him that he had done the unthinkable.
He had killed someone who should never have been in this hell hole. He had killed a boy; an armed one, but still
a boy.
The music ended, and
the light faded from the clouds, nighttime enveloping him, and his growing despair. The torture he realized, didn’t end as soon
as the tribute sequence disappeared, it only looped itself day after day. He would either win, die, or go insane. He was sure he preferred winning as opposed
to the latter two, but he had a feeling disaster was coming for him.
No comments:
Post a Comment