Andora.
My name is Andora, Not Foxface.
I am 13 years old. Surprised? Yeah, I'm smart. I know. Everybody screams it in my ears all the time. I'm 2 grades ahead in school, and surprise surprise, I have very few friends. Friends are a weakness. I don't do well with vulnerability. It kills me inside.
I have two brothers, you know. My older one's name is Alastair. He's 17. And then there's Wemble, who's all of 11 years old. Both of them are vulnerable to the Reaping next year, regardless of me winning or not. They are in danger, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.
The Game has twisted me into someone I don't even recognize, though probably not in the way you'd expect.
The Games made me merciful.
I squinted through the night , trying to make sense of the lump in the high prairie grass maybe 70 yards away. Unmoving, the green mound let out a deep, pain-filled moan. Something deep inside my stomach churned violently and I almost fell over with the force of the nausea. I know what that lump is.
It's another tribute.
An obviously wounded and weak tribute at that, but a tribute nonetheless. And then, like it always does, my brain starts racing. Dozens of options pop into my head; walk away, kill the tribute, pretend like I heard nothing. And yet, out of the many reasonable options my efficient mind has produced, my stupid conscience has to go and take control of my limbs and move me to the pathetic heap of a person.
"Who's there?"
That voice. The syllables are full of pain and hopelessness and despair. It sounds like a voice trapped in a hellish world few people will ever know, with the exception of the other tributes of the Hunger Games. That freakishly sad voice ripples with the deaths of hundreds of children before us, their lives stolen from them while their sadistic end is broadcast to a nation of evil.
This strikes me as so sick, so horribly wrong, that I have no option but to collapse to my knees in despair. These devilish games are the definition of hell. Capitol people are sadists if they enjoy watching girls and boys being hunted in the wilderness, their lives almost guaranteed to end in a way that will have them begging for their own demise.
Certain death. For most of us, this is our future. We will end here in this ungodly place. We will die in the closest place to hell that earth has to offer. Is this really how we must leave? With pain and fear and sick, perverse things locked away in our heads? Alone?
"I'm not going to hurt you" I murmur cautiously. It's then that I catch a glimpse of this boy's stomach. His intestines are falling out here and there, the spiky grass beneath him painted with a sickening rainbow of blood. There are all kinds of different colors of the life force spilled here.
This boy has been cut up like this for at least a day, if not more.
"You're lying" He moans, and then gives a sharp cry of pain as he tries to look at me. What appears to be his liver topples down next to his green jacket and lands with a nauseating "Thwack". I do a quick check over the rest of his body; he's in decent condition except….except for his foot. It's twisted awkwardly and gnarled in random places…No…He's the crippled boy from District 10
"Who did this to you?" My voice catches: I have a feeling I know the answer. I don't think that Katniss girl had anything to do with it, nor that baker boy of hers or the hulking beast from District 11. There are several more options, but I doubt most of them. For some reason, one name sticks in my soul and holds on for dear life…
"It was Cato" The boy rasps.
It takes me a minute to wrap my mind around this depravity. I never quiet understood why tributes chose to play along with the Capitol and give them long, painful deaths. How are the Games ever going to end if no one stands up to the horrible people who force this upon us? Does no one understand that there could be a place with no sadistic deaths on TV, where children could be safe? But more importantly, how could one teenage boy give such punishment to someone with not a blemish to his reputation in the Games? Why this poor boy?
"Do...Do you h-have water?" The boy mumbles. Quickly, I unscrew the lid of my small brown canteen and dump the entire contents into the dry mouth below. He swallows greedily and gives a small sigh of relief. The air is silent for a few moments before the boy continues on.
"My name is Alkandros. In a c-civilization thousands of years before Panem, my n-name was their word for strength. My mother's a scholar, you kno-ow. She named me this as soon as she saw my foot" Alkandros pauses to catch his breath, his strange golden eyes wincing in pain
"What is your name?" He murmurs softly, gently. Tears well as I stare down at this truly good person. Some part of me knows he would've been an excellent father to his children had he had them. Kind and trustworthy, strong and true.
"Andora" I almost whimper.
He smiles, comforted by his wealth of knowledge "Andora, short for Pandora. According to myth, she let lose a jar of horrible things into the world. Despair and sickness and pain" There's a light smile on his face as he peers expectantly at me "You know what else she let loose? Elpida." I raise my brows at him, caught up by his story telling
"Hope." Alkandros sighs "She let into life. And again, Pandora has given the world this gift. You're my only hope, Andora. Please" Alkandros begs as he stares at the blood dripping to the ground "Please kill me"
I fall backwards and lose my breath. No. No I can't…no…
"If you leave me here, I am doomed to at least another day and night of suffering, of un-earthly pain. Please, Andora. Please be my hope"
The tears are falling openly now as I consider this option. He's right, and I can't deny it. Immediately, my mind considers the painless ways to bring about death, if this is truly his wish. But I couldn't bear… Another despair-laden moan drops past Alkandros' lips as something pink and shiny falls to the ground below. I swallow the bile that rises immediately at the sight of this injury.
"Are you sure about this, Alkandros?" Immediately, he nods. A piece of too-long black hair tumbles into his eyes, bringing about a look of innocence that should've sent Cato straight to the most pain-filled depths of hell.
"Then here" I set a purple mound of berries onto his tongue, choking back a wave of fresh tears. They're Sweet Susans, a deceptively beautiful berry that will give you about a minute to live if you swallow them. Alkandros gives me a look filled with thanks as he swallows that lump of merciful death.
"Andora" Alkandros whispers, eyes fluttering. My mind starts to recede into madness as his breathing slows down. In…out…in…out…in…out… Birds from all around the forest start to belt out a high, sweet melody, a gentle death song for this unlucky boy. A pair of joyous golden eyes catches my gaze and hypnotizes me for just a moment.
"Thank you" He murmurs.
A canon fires in the distance.
Cracks form in my heart.
My brain descends into insanity.
But somehow, my lips find his still warm cheek. "Goodbye, Alkandros. Good luck." I pick myself up, dust off my pants, wipe away the tears, and continue on past the boy. Half-way across the field, in the flooding sunlight of dawn, I see a boy wave from the trees. He has no injuries, no disabilities, only a crop of inky hair. The boy smiles gently and turns back into the trees with a spring in his step.
Goodbye, Alkandros. Good luck.
And that's it.
I killed the crippled boy from District 10.
Alkandros changed my life.
He was my friend for those few minutes.
My name is Andora, Not FoxFace.
I am 13 years old.
And for a moment, just a moment,
The Games twisted me into someone I didn't even recognize.
The Games made me human again