Beating of My Heart
My heart pounded. I choose to focus in on that as I clenched my hands into fists, digging what remained of my bitten down fingernails into my soft flesh, at my sides. All the false confidence that I could muster was worn across my face in a mask of lies. This was all I had to hide behind, fake strength. There was no jacket with a hood to cover my head and make it possible to pretend that I was not there. Most of my once long brown hair was hacked off on my foolish whim to be able to see better in the arena. Once I got into the arena I realized, I don't wish to see anymore. Hiding is the only thing that sounds like it would bring me some comfort and that way I would have died without as much fear.
It's so plain to everyone, especially me, that I'm going to die here, in front of all of Panem and not even be able to go done fighting. No allies. No relevant skills. No sponsors. A bizarre costume that made me look somewhat like a tree, a training score of 1, and an interview of "um's" and "uh's" didn't bode very well. My escort had only said one thing to me this morning over breakfast. One word: Goodbye. She wasn't going to miss me, I knew it even then as I sat there in my oversized shirt and belted pants.
"Mom, Dad, Laurel, if you're watching this right now I just want to say goodbye," I remember myself but they seem hollow as my voice trembled. It's hard to look back on what happened that day. Too painful. Too much regret. Too much hatred.
Around me it was silent as we all waited for the gong to sound so we could try to get something from the Cornucopia to kill other tributes with or something to help us survive. I just wanted to escape and hide. Still, I had been told to grab whatever I could that would help me survive or defend myself. It would be easier if I ran for the Cornucopia, someone had said. Like the child I was, I believed them.
For comfort, I hummed the little tune that my mother used to sing to me and Laurel to lull us to sleep when we were children. It didn't help. It only made it harder to hold back the tears that were stinging at my eyes and blurring my vision. I wanted to start shaking or to run off the plate before the gong rings. Last year, one girl tried and learned that all it would get you is a painful, explosive death. At that time, I wanted to die with a little bit of dignity and not commit suicide. Looking back on it, suicide would have been the smarter choice and it would have saved me from a great of pain in the coming future. It would have made this an easier day to remember. But no, I was stupid.
Finally, the gong rings.
Just as I was told to do, I run forward as fast as my scrawny little legs will carry me. I've never done very many physical activities other than wash dishes at the little bar my father owns. Or, at least, I think he owns it. Underneath my shoe clad feet I felt that the ground was harsh, rocky, unforgiving. Along the open expanse of rock I ran as thunder boomed over my head, making the ground under my feet seem to tremble. Seconds later, lightning flashes and the air crackles with electricity. Then the most terrifying sound of all starts. The screams.
The first is high pitched. Feminine. When I looked I see, there was the small girl from District Twelve who was pinned to the hard rock surface of the ground as he held her messy black hair with one massive hand and her throat with the other. She continued to scream even when I heard him tell her to stop.
"Please, stop it!" I yelled at him. My voice is small and it shakes as I listened to myself call to him. He looks up at me briefly, his beady dark brown eyes look black making it impossible to tell where the pupil ends and the iris begins. He looked almost demonic. Then he looked back down at her.
"Shut up!" He snapped. Still, she screamed. It took him almost no time for him to tighten his grip and her scream to turn into a strangled cry of pain. Slowly—oh, so slowly—it became a gurgle that then dies down to nothing. I start to run again, this time I know that someone was after me. Him; the one who killed the little Twelve.
When I felt the crushing wait, the hands on my neck, I'm not surprised. Before I even hit the rocks my neck is turned at an odd angle.
It was easier to die than to live as I remember my heart beating before the world went back. The beating of my heart is the last thing I saw as I died. Now, it's silent as I turn away from the memories and towards the almost blinding light that awaits me. I'm not sure what the light means or where I'm going, but anything is better than back to The Hunger Games. The memories are fading now, the faces blurring until I can't recognize them, and though the names of my family are on the tip of my tongue I can't remember them. With nothing left to go back to, that I can remember, I walk into the light.
My heart beat is non-existent as the light envelopes me.
This was written for Amata le Fey's December 2011 Starvation Prompt: "The 2nd Annual Hunger Games." I hope you all liked it and I worked very hard on it.