Garnet/Foxface
Disclaimer: The Hunger Games, Catching Fire, Mockingjay, all plots, themes, characters, and quotes listed therein legally and rightfully belong to their legal owner, Suzanne Collins. I do not own any titles, ideas, characters, or plots listed herein, nor do I claim to.
I left my hiding spot for the final time. I looked behind me, savoring the beautiful look of the canopy of trees, the way they concealed the haphazardous, misshapen planks of timber that I had half-heartedly stretched between them at the beginning of the Games. I was hardly proud of this hiding place, but it had been my only home for almost a week so far, and it was sad and painful to give it up.
It was sad and painful to give my life up, also. My pregnant mother waiting at home, praying that I would come back alive to help take care of the new baby, my father waiting with open arms for his baby girl, my brother who would probably pretend not to care, even though deep down, he probably would, and my friends, waiting for me to come back. For, how could they steal food and possessions without their fastest, sneakiest runner.
But I knew that although I was smarter than the rest of the remaining competitors, and definetely faster, my time was up. District Two had a great chance of winning, as did District Twelve. Cato, the boy from Two, was at least a foot taller than me, and probably weighed twice as much, although I knew for sure that it was all muscle.
So, I gave up. I left nothing behind at my hiding spot, my backpack I had destroyed last night in a small fire, my food along with it. The only hint that I was ever here were the few planks of wood stretched between the trees. Even if I had reconsidered, wanting to continue in the Games, I couldn't possibly seeing as I had boiled my food source in a fire.
I was running, trying to rid myself of all traces of nostalgic memory. I felt my hair flap out behind me, and it reminded me of my caring mother, the source of my flaming locks. What was she doing now? Was she worrying about me, or her new baby? Was she wondering why I burnt my food source? What about my brother, my father, my friends? Did they think I had some sort of genius plan, some way to defeat the Capitol and win?
No. I was usually the strategist, the planner, and the genius. Everybody probably thought I had something planned, but I didn't. I was a coward, a chicken, too scared to die by wicked Cato's hand. Instead, I would rather die by my own. I was always a fast runner, but today, unlike any other day, I was running away from my fears instead of meeting them eye to eye on an uneven playing field.
I finally reached the rock, atop which were small, glistening berries, the ones that I had watched Katniss and Peeta, Twelve's tributes, almost eat earlier on. They were mine now, beckoning to me, calling to me. I decided, then and there, to give it no thought. But I looked up at the cameras, and I winked. I didn't want people thinking I was dense. I knew these berries were Nightlock. I wanted the world to know that I knew, I wanted to go down in history as the girl who was killed by herself, not the poor fool who knew nothing about berries.
I sprinted towards the rock, and cradled a few berries in my hand. I looked at them, crimson red like drops of blood. At least it would be completely painless, unlike a cruel, unusual slaughter by Cato's wicked hand.
I tilted my head back, closed my eyes, and held the berries in my jaw. Taking one, final, painless breath, I swallowed. I knew I had done myself a favour. I knew that there was no winning the Hunger Games.
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