Forgive the Children We Once Were
A/N: I wanted to get into the One-Shot Game and figured what better way to do it, than do a one shot based on each and every victor up until the Seventy-Third Games. Yeah, yeah, unoriginal, but who gives a crap. Enjoy the story.
I do not own The Hunger Games, but you already knew that. If I had, Cecelia would have won the Third Quarter Quell. To hell with continuity and logic! I also do not own the amazing song, "Forgive The Children We Once Were" by Delta Rae, which inspired me to write these, hence the title of this story.
The First Annual Hunger Games
Winner: Adella, District Eight
When we rose up in our twenty-four tubes, none of us knew what to do. Half of us died right then and there, refusing to wait for the clock to strike zero; the call of the Cornucopia was too much. At eighteen, the eldest of us all, I took charge, running for the golden horn once it was deemed safe to move and that's when I made my first kill, the little brat from Twelve that had been making fun of my empty left eye socket. As his partner watched, I slit his throat and bathed in the crimson liquid that came forth from it. From there on, it was easy to kill. After all, I had a family to go home to.
There were kinks in the arena; mutts that attacked each other, sponsors sent precious gems and coins instead of food, medicine, and water. Halfway through the games, which only lasted a week thanks to all the jumpers at the Bloodbath, I was sent a laverish fur coat, despite the fact that I was fighting for my life inside a makeshift Rainforest. Sure, it wasn't exactly practical, but I appreciated the sentiment. Later, I was told that I was the tribute the sponsors favored the most.
The cocky runt from Twelve, the aptly named Flint, might have been my first kill, but he surely was not my last. I was a Career before there was even a term for them, systematically ending the life of any and all tributes unfortune enough to cross my path. The girl from One, a plucky little minx name Glamour, felt my wrath when she attempted to steal the bounty sent to me by the Capitolites that loved me. I took my time with her, making sure any whom saw knew what would happen if you tried to take away the trinkets that I earned. The frail boy from Six, the only other tribute besides Flint whose name I bothered to learn, was my favorite kill. His ally, the older boy from Two, screamed his name over and over as I drove my knife into his stomach over and over. For years I could almost taste the pain in tone as he cried for Dexter to come back to him. He practically begged for me to end his life after what he witnessed.
The finale was almost set in the stars from the moment my blade created a crimson smile across Flint's neck; his District Partner met me where it all began, a pickax in hand. The battle seemed to last for hours, blows were traded, blood spilled, all along the chared remainds of twelve children blown to bits by the remote mines set around our entry into this hellhole. Somehow, during our fight, we both ended up weaponless, causing our fight to get just that much more interesting. The girl, all of fifteen, was a scrappy little fighter, clawing and scratching at my face and neck while berating me for taking Flint's life.
Just as I was gaining the upper hand and scrambled for my knife, she managed to kick dirt into my face, blinding me in my only remaining eye and left me a weezing mess. For the first time since Flint, it actually looked like I was going to lose it all, and then she pulled her tiny ice pick from her boot, mounting me and pinning my arms down with her knees as I trashed about like a child having a tantrum. And then, I saw it – the last image I would ever see. The sunlight made the point gleam brightly as she drove it down into my right eye, blinding me for life. However, in doing so, she made one fatal mistake.
She removed her knee from the arm that held my knife.
In one swift motion, I swung my knife and against all odds, plunged it into the side of her neck. The BOOM of the cannon signled the end of my games, but it did little to bring me joy. I promised my widowed father and seven younger siblings that I would return home to them no matter what, refusing to let my supposed 'handicap' hinder me in my pursuit of a better life for them outside of the dim, dank factories. Never again would I see a picture painted by my youngest brother, Levi, an artist if ever I saw one. Twelve's dark gray eyes, laughing over her faux victory, forever ingrained in my memory, as was the blade she took her time driving into my last portal to the world. There was nothing even the Capitol could do to give me back my slight; opting instead to allow my outcome serve as a reminder to those who aided the rebellion, a symbol of things to come.
It was I, Adella, that won the first Hunger Games. The first to move into the lonely section of Eight known to all as The Victor's Village. The first to spend even my waking hours plagued by deblitating nightmares.
The first victor to end her life, driving a blade across my wrist as I soaked in a bathtub.