A/N – just a short oneshot I started writing about a week ago. I really wanted to get something uploaded today (it not coming for another 4 years and all), so I thought I'd finish this. Set before Katniss and Peeta's time, and sorta-but-not-really inspired by Macbeth. Please review! x
They scream as I lodge the axe into their back. They scream with terror and despair, knowing that they no longer have a chance. They scream because they were close, so close, and it's over. But their scream is muffled as they collapse onto the red stained grass, and they choke on the blood filling their mouth. Streams of scarlet start to emerge from the wound, spreading through their muddy t-shirt, creating an intricate pattern that can only be described as enthralling. I just marvel in the wonder of it, for a second. Sure, I've killed other people. 9 whole tributes. And a half. That must be some sort of record. This one, though, this kill, is special. It's the first time that after having that satisfying feeling as weapon slices through skin, I can just look at the beauty of my work, without having to worry about being a victim myself. Because they were the last one. And as I hear the cannon fire, and a silver helicopter appears above the trees, I am finally the victor.
I've heard other victors talk about nightmares. Nightmares of the games that occur daily in their heads. Nightmares of the sharp wind you feel across your left arm when a sword swings near with deadly intent, but misses, because you rolled out of the way just in time. Nightmares of the light draining out of a young boy's eyes as a spear that just left your hand pierces straight through his lung and blood soaks through his t-shirt as the cannon goes off. Nightmares of the moment that made them victor.
Me, I don't have nightmares like that. My nightmares are the ones that are all just dark. Nothing. I have the same dreams as the others though. As frequently; as vividly. But I likethose dreams. I never want to forget about the games. I'd enter again, if I could. I had great tactics, after all. That's how I won.
As I walk through the trees in search for water, I see a girl. She only looks about 14. Her big grey eyes stare at me, seemingly in disbelief, as I stab her in the heart. Those eyes would blink no more as I extract the dagger from her chest, staring at the thick layer of blood coating it like it's what I have been waiting for all along. I dart out my tongue, and let a drop of red land upon it. It tastes good. Kind of... Sweet. Momentarily, it quenches the dry pain in my throat. 'Water isn't a necessity any more,' I think, 'Not if I can find more tributes.'
But I didn't need to find more tributes, in the end. Because as I heard footsteps coming from my left, I sprinted in the opposite direction, and found a small stream where I could easily conceal myself. It was easier to drink the water that was right beside me. I didn't need to go looking for more.
I made my kills fast. As soon as the cannon went off, I ran. That way I stood little chance of being caught off guard. The dreams I have every night are short, in that sense. And I awake every morning to the distant sound of a cannon fire, and the vision of blood coated hands.
A river of blood is trickling down the gentle grass covered slope. I look down at the ground in front of me, and about a metre away lies a boy. Well, half of one. His entire lower body seems to have been crushed (by what, I don't know), his legs a crimson smear upon the floor. Writhing in pain, he doesn't seem to notice me as I throw a spear at his head. He doesn't even scream as his guts are oozing out onto the grass.
I didn't know how that boy managed. Killing other people, that's fine. But being in pain is something I've never really experienced (aside from a small gash on my lower arm). I don't intend to, either. I'll never have to; I'm a victor. To be honest, I don't even know why the other 23 tried to train. They were never going to beat me.
Only one person ever came remotely close.
The shining gold cornucopia is mere metres away from me, and I sprint across the flat terrain practically effortlessly. A girl who looks about 12 aims a kick at my forehead. It's unexpected, and I feel a small throbbing in my head. It's not bad, though. I like it. Almost simultaneously, she takes a knife and attempts to stab my chest. But I swerve out of the way and it only catches my arm. The silver blade of a sword catches my eye from nearby, and with one swift movement I pick it up and slice it through her thin neck. Three others approach me, one stumbling upon the head of the girl and I happily get rid of them, too. After that, I decide to collect a variety of weapons, and sprint off into the trees.
I've heard other victors talking about their first kills being the worst. And I kind of agree. Except not in the same way. It was great, of course. I finally understood the satisfying feeling of slicing through flesh, with something of power, a feeling I'd only dreamed about before I volunteered. But it was undramatic; uneventful. There was little excitement. It just happened. All my kills were like that, really. I thought it was the best way to survive, at the time. But I want something else. Something special. Something important. Something that will make me go down in history. I'll be the one true victor of Panem. Not just a part of the games.
I may be a victor. I may have riches and wealth and I may be almost as worthy as a Capitol citizen. But that's not to say I like it. Almost just isn't enough. Not for someone as special as me.
The Hunger Games. They're called that for a reason, I realise. They always leave you hungry for more.
So President Snow, prepare for fine dining. Because you're not going to be President for much longer.