Madness,
Is like gravity.
All it takes,
Is a little push.
Schlick. A wet gurgle and a sickening crack. Twine is no longer in two pieces. His body slumps to the ground in front of her, his neck leaking blood that soaks into her shoes and the front of her pants, his head rolling a meter away before stopping.
His lifeless blue eyes bore into hers, accusing in death.
She's screaming, and the Tribute doesn't care. She has a sadistic light in her eyes, and she's stabbing into his body, over and over again, with abandon. Twine killed her District partner, and though he's already dead, Krystal is far from done.
She's mutilating his body, cutting his clothes to rags as all the body's District partner can do is scream. She cuts off his fingers, and yet more blood spurts from the stumps. She's starting on the toes when the voice comes.
Stop screaming. Run away. Hide yourself. Don't get caught. You'll be okay, little mouse.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm…hiding."
"Why?"
"They…they were mean to me."
"Aw. What did they do?"
"They—they stole my lunch and kicked me. I fell over and b-banged my knee, and then…then…they told me that mom dying was m-m-my f-f-fault."
"…Where are they now?"
"I d-don't know…I ran away, and—and found this place. It's safe in here. And small. no one can get me and be mean."
"Like a little mouse. It's okay, sis. I'll have words with them…"
She forces herself to turn, and Krystal is giggling as the squelching thumps continue. It's horrific, and she forces herself not to regurgitate her small lunch, before she's running, stumbling over the uneven ground, scraping her knees and scratching her legs as she dives into the undergrowth.
Bang!
She's off.
They're running a race, part of the sports program offered by her school. She's fast, one of the fastest in her age group, and she runs, breathing evenly, her legs moving in elegant rhythm. There are two boys on either side of her; they're close but they can't hold a candle to her as she outstrips them all and leaves them in the dust.
She wins the race, crossing the line and bending over, hands on knees, sucking in great lungfuls of air. After this race, it's official: she's the fastest girl of her age in District 4.
Her dad watches proudly as the medal, made from cheap aluminium painted gold, is placed around her neck by the principal. She just wishes her mom was around to see it.
She can still hear Krystal's terrifying laughter from behind her as she dives through the undergrowth as quickly as possible, away from the Tribute and the mutilated corpse of her partner...
She turns her head to the side, still in motion, and throws up the meagre lunch of bread and cheese they ate an hour ago. The bile is acidic in her mouth and she spits, crashing to the ground as her foot catches on a tree root.
Winded, she lies there, unable to find the strength to move. She hears the sound of Twine's body as it splits into two, hears Krystal's laugh as she cuts off his head. Then she realises something; the laughing has stopped, and the canon has boomed. Krystal's moved away from the body.
She waits for Krystal to find her, to feel the knife tearing blazing lines in her flesh. But, she must be too well hidden; before she knows it, the sun is setting and the stars are out. She shivers; it's cold.
She doesn't know how long she's lying there for. All she does know is that the stars are gone and the back of her neck is burning. She must have fallen asleep at some point, because she can't remember what happened that night. Thankfully, it was dreamless.
She forces herself to her feet, staggering for a few paces until her legs get used to movement again. She's running up a hill, because her calves are starting to burn. Her limbs were made for swimming, not running, and there's nowhere to swim in this barren and dusty arena, the light smatterings of rain that fall every evening the only source of water. There's a number of caves dotting the edge of the mountains that make up the terminus of the arena. They're dark looking, and small, and she can't think of anything better at the moment. She heads for them.
"Hey," he says nervously. He's running his hand through his hair, and he looks anxious, his brow creased.
"Hey," she replies, smiling. She's a year younger, but still taller than him at this age, but she has a feeling this won't last; all of his brothers are well over six feet tall. She likes that she's taller than him. It's something she's better at than him. He's good-looking and incredibly charming, even at thirteen years of age, and most of the girls in the District, and even some of the women, harbour a small crush on him. She's just pleased that she's finally found a friend.
"So, um. Are you...doing anything on Friday night?" he's sweating, and she wants to burst out laughing at his expression. She contents herself with a small smile, though, and instead says,
"No."
"Oh." He visibly relaxes, before tensing up again. "Um, would you liketogotothepierwithme?" The last part of the sentence comes out in a stuttering rush.
"I'm sorry?" she understood him perfectly, but she's enjoying this, seeing him, usually so confident, stumble over his words.
He inhales deeply. "Would you like to go to the pier with me?"
She's smiling again, and she suddenly sees that yes, he is rather handsome.
"I would love to."
Her knees and calves are ripped to shreds, the blood hardened brown and scaly, the scabs cracking as she moves. Fresh blood scatters to leave droplets in such a conspicuous pattern that even a child could follow it. She falls again and drags herself the last metre to the mouth of the cave, praying that there wasn't an animal of an even more horrific mutt in there. She's in luck; it's empty. She drops to her side and curls herself into a ball, staring with unseeing eyes out into the Arena. It's an excellent vantage point, and she can see the glimmer of the golden horn in the late afternoon sun. Tiny black dots occasionally walk around it. She shivers in the cold.
It's her second Reaping. She's standing in the square with the other girls her age, low murmuring all around her, their voices muted and thick with sleep. District 4's Reapings are always held early in the morning, and she's having trouble not drifting back into dreamland.
Thankfully, at that moment, the District Mayor and this year's Escort mount the stage. The sun is just beginning rise and the only splash of colour is the deep crimson hair of the escort, which match the enormous rubies hanging from her ears. The Mayor, by contrast, is faded and grey. The two juxtapose oddly, and she smiles in spite of the cold and heavy air. The previous Victors, now Mentors, sit behind the couple, some alert and unblinking, others snoring gently on the shoulders of their neighbours. She's heard that some Districts have only one or two Victors. Not here. There's twelve, some ancient, and one, the winner of the Games before last, is only seventeen.
The Mayor steps up to the microphone, and after much throat clearing, begins the precursor to the Draw. She fades in and out; not really listening to the Mayor's droning voice, waking up fully when the Escort's voice, too chipper for this time of the morning, booms out of the microphone. Half the people in the square jump, including one of the sleeping Mentors.
She delves her hand into the glass bowl and pulls out a small slip of paper, on it the name of person who will either live or die. Being Reaped isn't a death sentence where she lives, not really, not like it is in other Districts. They're a Career District, and a good one. These Tributes, they can fight. They can win. But they all come back different.
The escort calls out the name of the female Tribute, and her shoulders slump in relief because it's not her or her immediate family. It's a small girl of sixteen who she doesn't really know.
The girl makes her way up to the stage, and after posing for the cameras, the Escort fishes in the male bowl.
The Escort calls out the name.
And it's him.
She doesn't know how long it's been since she collapsed into the cave, only that the trail she made with her blood has been washed away by the rain. There hasn't been a single cannon shot ring out today, she thinks; her waking hours have been nebulous, and she's not sure what parts of the day were real and what parts were dreams. no one knows she's here, and she's grateful. All she wants to do is turn her eyes away from the world and sleep, sleep until there's nothing left except the sun, the sea, and him.. She's drifting in and out of consciousness. Dimly she recognises that the Games are probably getting boring, and the Gamemakers won't like that...
It's dark inside the house. It's far more opulent than anything she's ever seen before, and just the entryway is bigger than half the house she shares with her father, her two sisters and her older brother. It's totally silent and looks uninhabited, but she knows it's not. He's here. He's always here; he never leaves. She's the only contact he has with the outside world, and she relishes it. It makes her feel special.
She climbs the stairs, sweeping her hand across the cool wood of the banister. The hallway above has six doors leading off of it; four bedrooms, a bathroom and a small study. The right side of the hallway is covered in a thick layer of dust. She moves to the left, walking down the hallway to the door at the far end. With a deep breath, she goes through the door.
The first thing she notices is that he's opened the curtain; light spills into the room. He's crouched next to the bed, unmoving, and he doesn't register as she closes the door behind her.
"Hey," she says, moving over to him. "Are you okay?"
"Killed them all." The voice is barely a mutter. "Slaughtered them from below. Their blood dripped on my face, in my mouth. I tasted it."
"Hey, hey, hey," she says, putting her arms around his shoulders. "You did what you had to do. You didn't have a choice."
He doesn't respond.
"Come on, stand up," she says, gently easing him to his feet. She realises that his hands are bleeding and there's blood on the floor.
"What happened?" she asks.
"I knocked over the vase. Cut myself. Bleeding like they did..." he's still muttering, and she can see his palms are all sliced up, rivulets of his body's essence oozing from them and down his wrist in almost-pretty patterns.
"We have to clean this up so you don't get an infection," she says as she shepherds him towards the small bathroom next to the bed. His blood stains the carpet behind them.
She can hear their savage cries as they go another day without finding any Tributes. The Careers are getting nervous, because no action means outside intervention from the Gamemakers. And no one wants that. She doesn't want to die. She just wants to go away, go back to District 4, go back to the beach, go back to him. She wants to go home.
They're ravenous beasts, all the evil monsters she's ever heard of, learned from the stories by her grandmother's knee, and she knows she should probably go give herself up, but the thought of those monsters, roaming around in the dark, terrifies her. She falls asleep again, curled in her little ball, as the golden horn shines in the moonlight and the monsters patrol the night.
The surf is roaring in front of her. It's a beautiful day, the sun high in the sky, and the sea the same colour as his eyes.
He's much better. It's been a year since he came back, and the scars where he cut himself are all but healed. He still doesn't sleep well most nights, but other than that, he's back to his same cocky self. She's glad.
He races up behind her and catches her off guard. She jumps and he laughs, hugging her before stripping his shirt off and diving into the water, the sun reflecting off of his tanned back. She laughs as well and joins him in the sea.
They play, fight, and splash each other as the cool, salty water contrasts with the burning sunlight, both freezing and warming at the same time. They're both in their element, and suddenly, he pulls her to him and whispers in her ear, his mouth still curved up in a smile. She can't hear what he's saying, though, and suddenly the sun turns black and it's cold. The sea's getting stronger, the sandy bottom shaking beneath her.
He's still with her, still whispering in her ear, but she can't hear him.
-a liquid rumbling-
-waves in the ocean-
-brown-
-blue-
-rock-
-water-
-rock-
-rock-
-rumbling-
...
She's blasted outwards with incredible force, and suddenly everything is water. Startled, she's spun out of the cave and down the mountainside. She does what she does best. She swims.
Carried along by the current, she keeps her head above the water, the trees breaking and crashing around her, the dry and dusty arena becoming an inland ocean. She just floats along, like a stone in the current, and suddenly it's gone. She drifts along calmly, her feet bouncing gently against the rim of the Cornucopia, just an inch above the water line.
The entire Arena is silent before a squawk of static fills the air, and a chagrined male voice announces,
"And the winner of the 70th Annual Hunger Games is... Annie Cresta!"
She can't hear the voice, though, over the sound of crashing waves. She's back at District 4, and he's standing there, framed against the ocean, and he's smiling and beckoning her to come home.
Thanks once again goes to BookHunter for beta-ing, without whom this fic wouldn't be a tenth of what it could be.
For Starvation's October prompt 'mutilate'.
[Fanfiction's saying it was posted on the first of November, but it's lying.]
When thinking of mutilation, people automatically go to gory, physical injuries. However, the correct definition of 'mutilate', as defined by Webster's English dictionary, is to 'cut up or alter radically so as to make imperfect.'
And really? What's more radically altered or imperfect than Annie's mind?