this is your moment
they weren't children. she wasn't a child, not in the nation's eyes. / an unnamed bloodbath.
a/n i know, and i am super-duper sorry for disappearing off the face of the earth, after my most recent update (a few months ago) i just sort of lost the motive to write. i never really made time, especially in the haste of the closing of the school year, where papers flies and tears are shed freely. After school was done, i went on a trip around the {doomed} US, and i still didn't find time to write. and, don't get me wrong, i'Il still want to write, but since i'm back home, i have lots of time to write and I hope to update freely.
this is just writing practice to get back into the swing of things, but i'm posting it to get feedback from you guys. it has been quite a while since i've stepped into the Hunger Games fandom.
warning: blood, death, gore, sadistic people, cursing and poor grammar. read at your own risk!
– – – –
5… 4… 3… 2… 1…
"Let the Games begin!"
– –
Mica leaped off his plate, running faster and faster towards the Cornucopia, and the silver bow and iron tipped arrows proudly displayed inside it.
With long strides and a knowing smirk, he cleared the high grass surrounding the golden horn in a couple of seconds. Back home, he would always race his brother, Granite, down the canyon. They would fly down the sides, expertly placing feet and hands on sturdy rocks, until their chests heaved and their sides ached, for even they, warriors breed for blood, were human.
Grabbing the bow and arrows, and a few long knives, he scanned the battlefield with gleaming eyes. The boy from Five would be the first to die, of course, because he scored higher than him, an eleven. A fucking eleven.
[and he was jealous]
Mica's eyes landed on the stupid bastard, running into the endless plains of the savannah, and he quickly loaded an arrow. In a blink, the arrow flew through the air, a silver cord, and hit the target. Thump. The boy stumbled and fell into the golden grass that matched his hair, disappearing from view. But Mica heard his screams piercing the air, begging and pleading and crying all concealed into one animalistic cry.
And he loved it, it filled him with melodies of pain and a surge of joy.
This was what he was made for.
– - – – –
Emily just wanted this to end.
She didn't ask to be in the Games, she had done everything right. She had paid taxes and went to school and toiled in work and never complain out loud and never rebelled and did everything the Capitol said to do. She did every fucking thing, and she still ended up here, in the last place she wanted to be.
She didn't deserve this, the others did. They did some terrible thing to displease the Capitol, she was sure of it.
She wanted to live and take care of her parents and raise a family and fall in love and believe. Believe in that one day she would find the beauty in this broken world.
She stumbled over rocks and the grass stung her legs, but she kept moving. She kept running and running and running, even when her chest heaved and legs burned and head hurt and heart died.
She kept running because she didn't know what else to do. Run and run and run and hope they don't catch you. [but they will, it's only a matter of time.]
– - – - –
Ash was too young for this.
That's what her mentor always whispered when he didn't think Ash was listening, but she was always listening. She may have had no brawn or muscle or ability or agility but she had her brain, and, in Three, it was enough.
[she hoped it was enough for this]
And she knew that she was too young for this as well. Thirteen-year-olds never win the Games, unless they have some other bigger force protecting them. She knew that she might as well just lay down, close her eyes, and go to sleep, at least her death would be painless.
But when she saw the Arena, she couldn't think of the odds or chances or death or injustice or age. It was beautiful, like something taken out of a stolen Capitol magazine. The sky was the deepest blue of blue, something found only on computers, with cumulus clouds like cotton balls, puffy and pure. The grass was gold and tawny and brass and bronze, the colors meddling together until they became one.
And even the tributes were beautiful, in a horrifying way. The blacks and fitly brown tainted the perfectness of the Arena, reminding them, her, that they were not children. No, they were just unnamed faces to be shipped away to mourning District and mourning family pleading for the what ifs and be buried in flimsy casket next to the unlucky soul who was picked last year.
They weren't children. She wasn't a child, not in the nation's eyes.
But while she was soaking up the beauty of the Arena, the gong had sounded and the filthy, temporary tributes ran, fight or flight. And she was so caught up in her thoughts, a cold-blood murder [not a helpless child caught in the same game] flung a knife at her.
The silver weapon turned over and over and over again, flipping and spinning and dancing, until it hit its mark.
Ash looked down at her stomach, shocked to see a knife imbedded in it. Even though her mind was quick, it couldn't process, understand, why it was there. Why it filled her with agony and pain, the feeling of being burned alive but worse.
She couldn't think or understand or process what was going on.
[but she didn't need to because a dark void engulfed her quick mind, shutting off the pain and bringing– nothing]
– – – – –
Birch knew better than to run for the Cornucopia.
Or that's what he thought and what his mentor told him. But it was so tempting, the silver ax gleaming in the sunlight, beckoning him, calling him. His mother would've called it a sign of the gods.
The ax was so close to him, a few seconds, and he needed it. No one won the Games without killing someone, and he wanted to win. He had to win, for his mother and father and grandma and brothers and sisters and District.
He had to come home for them.
Of course when the gong rang, Birch ignored everything he was told and ran for the Cornucopia and ax. He cleared the distance in a few seconds, he was the best runner at his school, and snatched up the ax, already pivoting for the woods.
That was until a silver blur hit his leg. He let out a long line of curse words and tried to power through the pain, hobbling for the taller grasses away from the Cornucopia. Away from the Bloodbath.
He kept running until another knife flew through the air and planted it in his calf. Birch let out a scream of pain, and fell to the ground. His ax skidded a few feet to the right.
A shadow loomed over him, he glanced up to find red lips and glittering silver eyes. "Are you ready to have some fun?" The girl from One let out a sharp laugh. "I am, and I'm sure you are."
She knelt down besides him and pinned him down when he tried to crawl away. "It's okay, I promise you won't feel anything." She stooped down low, so low that Birch could smell her, lilacs and roses, an odd smell for a killer. His eyes widen as she picked up her very, very sharp knife.
Pain exploded on his left cheek, and he bit back a scream. He would not give this fucking Career the satisfaction of screaming. But it so fucking hurt, as if someone rubbed burning coal against his skin, over and over and over again. Pink tinged his vision, and he bit hi lip until blood bled, holding back that scream.
"You're no fun." The girl exaggerated a pout. Birch would've laughed, if not in the situation. The girl was obviously pretending to be dumb, she wasn't the greatest of actors.
Pain seared his whole body, as if someone had thrown him into an oven. Birch couldn't hold back the scream any longer, it escaped. The shrill scream echoed around him, fading into the horizon. He kept screaming and screaming and screaming, screaming for his mother and father and grandma and brothers and sisters and District.
He didn't win, that's what he knew when the black void rushed towards him. Drawing him in and silenceing him forever.
[but at least the pain stopped]
- – –
don't look at me like that, i swear i'm really sweet. anyway, please review! It would mean so much to me.