The 14th Hunger Games
It seemed like a lifetime ago: the days going by, hiding in fear if death would be around the corner; the slightest snap of a twig jerking you from a long-needed sleep; the pains and aches of hunger ripping your stomach to shreds; thirst driving you mad. I was nowhere near prepared for the struggles that just trying to live brought every which way. But of course, this way of survival is different than being off, alone, far from the 12 Districts that surround the Capital. This is the Hunger Games, where everything that you see happening is real and its soul purpose is to watch you kill or be killed.
Fourteen years ago District 13 started a riot on the Capital. When they lost and were demolished from existence, the Hunger Games began, stealing two kids between the ages of 12 and 18 from their families, from their Districts, and into the Capital's clutches. Oh, how those rich people must enjoy this, watching 24 teenagers die at their hands? Now, the same age as the Hunger Games, I'm sitting here in the Capital's clutches, forced to kill in a sick game with sick people who are actually trying to win.
I don't think I'd ever try to win the Hunger Games, not even for the fame and fortune the victor receives. In my District, District 12, the prize money could be enough to keep my family of four full and healthy for years! Is it worth it? Killing the children of other families and in return becoming extremely wealthy? It's a burden the other victors have either struggled with or didn't bother worrying about for thirteen years. I can't put myself through that, not even for the money. I'd be a name in eleven other Districts scorned upon and used as insults, my blood being called by the families whose children I helped slaughter. I shake my head. I can't live like that for the rest of my life. I'd regret it forever! But Nix, the boy from my District, said that I could make it, that I could win, and I promised I would try. There are only seven of us left now.
The thought of Nix takes me back in time not even a full day ago. He wasn't supposed to die, at least not right before my eyes, and the fight was gruesome.
Nix and I had been separated and were trying to find each other when he attacked me. The boy from 7, Skrete I think his name was, jumped out of a tree and the wind was knocked out of me instantly. He had at least 80 more pounds on me and I could barely get in a breath when his hands were at my throat. The panic of not being able to breathe is torturous. His hands were so large and so strong that I was merely flailing about like a fish out of water, unable to loosen his grip.
Darkness crept at the corners of my eyes and I felt death coming when his weight and hands were gone. I choked and gasped and it took a large amount of effort just to allow my eyes to focus again. What I saw next was hazed, but I knew it was Nix who had saved my life. He and the boy from 7 were in intense combat, Nix using a large stick and Skrete using a dagger. For a moment, Nix's greater size seemed to win the battle easily, shoving Skrete aside and blocking his clumsy attacks. But Skrete launched a lightning-quick jab that ended with Nix flat on his back, the dagger sticking out of his chest.
Skrete was dead before he could've even smirked. I regained my feet and stabbed my own small knife into the back of his head so swiftly I felt light-headed. The boy tribute from District 7 fell at my feet, his blood pooling out of his wound so fatal that his cannon fired almost immediately after. It took me a second to realize that I had made my first kill. I had watched so many tributes' faces shine in the sky at night, sad that they had to die, but thankful that it wasn't me who killed them. Now, one of those tribute's blood is on my hands and never to wash away from my mind. What will his family back home think of me? They will call for vengeance, no doubt, maybe even work up enough money to pay the Capital for some dramatic scene that will end my life with some sort of suffering.
But I didn't care about my end right then; I cared about Nix and that his end was coming so quickly. The dagger went straight into his heart, with nothing my healing power could do to help it, but I had to do something! I couldn't bring myself to just watch him die, but Nix was at death's door, hanging on to his last moments telling me over and over that I could win. All I could do was nod, tears streaming down my cheeks, and promise that I would try.
Then, out of the blue, Nix took my hand in his and looked me straight in the eye. The green depths of his were fading, his skin turning white from loss of blood; it was almost over. He took a deep breath, and whispered these words: "I think I love you, Mesty…these Games can't end everything." Then his eyes closed and his cannon fired.
Thinking to that time makes my heart ache. I wish and wish so often that I could've said something back to him. Maybe tell him I loved him too, but I knew I didn't. I had never loved Nix, not like that. When he died, I was only crying because I had lost the only person I could trust, the only friend in the sea of enemies seeking my death. Nix kept me safe and watched my back. We stuck together throughout these two or so weeks in the arena and I knew the Capital didn't like it. They once forced us to a dense jungle with a horde of ravenous creatures on our tails; they launched massive half bird, half lizard mutants to swoop down and carry us away. One had grabbed me and dumped me in an open plain that stretched in every direction for miles; it took me days to find Nix again, stranded by a large river with so little food.
I want so badly to show the Capital that I am not just a piece in their Games, that this television show those rich people call entertaining is not who I am. I'm a healer. I work with leaves and ointments, not spears and knives. But how can I?
