The bandage served no purpose. She can't be saved. After all this time, after getting so close, his efforts were for nothing. He could not save this little girl. Try and try again, he could attempt to protect her, but alas, the result was always the same.
Death.
At just twelve years old. Murtaugh tried to remember what life was like when he was twelve. He did not remember much, just that it had been a good year of his existence. He'd done well in school and learned how to properly handle a bow. That was four years ago. Over those years he had learned to kill, to survive, to show no weakness. He'd learned to shoot anything and everything that moved. He'd volunteered for the Hunger Games after his little sister was chosen, intending to save her and in the end, when they were the final two, sacrifice himself so that Ella could live. But intentions never are final. Death is.
Now Murtaugh sits with his sister's dented, bloody head in his lap. She clutches his hand tightly, not wanting to slip away. Out of the corner of his eye, Murtaugh sees. The brutish boy from 2, running with long knife in hand. Only the three of them left. Soon there would be only two. Then one.
"Murtaugh," Ella croaks, blood spilling from the corners of her jaw as she opens her mouth to speak. Murtaugh can't stand seeing his sister in this much pain.
"What is it?" He asks quietly, glancing over his shoulder. The boy is getting closer.
"Go home" Ella tells him.
"I can't," Murtaugh begins to panic.
"You can. Don't miss, Murtaugh. Promise me you won't miss, Murtaugh"
Then Ella lets go. The boy is approaching. Murtaugh wallows in pain for one second, two. Then he turns and readies his bow. He strings it and sets his arrow in place.
Murtaugh takes aim.