i. Depression and a gale
The grass was matted against the ground in the wind, tear drops falling sparsely over a patch. The wind whistled with a weary melody over the plains, singing softly up to the skies.
At one end, a bold boy with a spear in hand. Dried blood lingers on the spearhead. At the other end, a weary girl with a snapped locket in hand. His picture dangles out of the locket. She wipes the tears to the side of her face and stares into the distance defiantly. They say the field is two leagues long and many leagues wide. The wind halts in its place and in turn the tears dry.
Her defiance stands tall against the winds. The gale drops off- and so does her smile. His shouts echo across the plain. "Clove!" But she doesn't scream his name back. His voice only comes as a determined whisper to her. And she doesn't believe that he's really there. It's like the way mirages fade away. His voice can only be a façade. And that's less than she needs.
Tears (of fear, are they?) well in her eyes. Her gaze drifts slowly through the mist, looking for anything other than grey and green. Nothing appears through the dark clouds. A terrified ache grows in her gut, a bite of fear that doesn't rest. "I can't do this any more," she whispers faintly. "I have to just go. He's not here. And I can't be here. Not alone," she tells herself, gazing into the mist one more time before she looks down at what she's going to do; what she has to do. (And she was only afraid of him missing her.)
ii. Realizations come in pangs (but more often pains)
He shouted only once. There was no answer, just a faint, repeating echo. She has to be down there, he tells himself. If not... But he can't think about that. Not right now. He glances down at the spear in his hand. He doesn't remember whose blood is painted on the spearhead; whose life had been aborted in a blink of an eye. The gale had broken once already before the loud gusts began to sweep across the plain again (she didn't stand tall against the wind again; she dropped off and she was no longer), but again they whipped around, throwing leaves around.
He takes a sharp breath inward, the pang of realization hitting him like a bullet. It's got to be Clove's blood. That's the only possibility. Cato, the boy who was never sick to his stomach (a cold-blooded killer never fears or sickens) was dizzy now, thinking about whose blood was drying like wet paint on his spear. He closes his eyes and throws his head back in guilt and anger. It can't be, it can't be.
"You can tell yourself it can't be, but yet it is," a voice echoes in Cato's head. "I can't say that that's Clove's blood. I don't know myself." That brought a wave of fear over Cato.
No one knows about Clove. They really don't. But someone has to know. She's everything. But out of Panem, she was only a speck of a girl in a field. She was only everything to him. Could anyone ever find her? "Not if no one tries," Cato whispers to himself.
And so he runs down to the edge of the field, spear in hand, searching for a dark-haired girl and a locket. The winds blew fiercely against his back and the mist shielded everything. All the while he realized that he was the only one looking and that she could be anywhere.
(She was no longer there in that field)
iii. A counselor
She wasn't anywhere. Clove wasn't in the field. Clove wasn't concealed in the tall, smooth rocks. And she certainly wasn't splattered in the bottom of the canyon. She was gone (and there was nothing he could do).
He remembered the time just before this hell of an arena had happened, on that night. A coincidental turn of heads. Their eyes had met and they put their hands together. And for a moment they touched. Then they separated. And all they were able to do was kill. (She forgot about that peaceful moment before the bloodlust began)
The counselor had listened to Cato now, his heartbreaking story and his frustration. "Last night we were right there together! Then the arena was over. I thought we'd both won. But she's not there! Clove is gone and it's not fair!"
The counselor nodded. "Yes, I see, but the arena's over. There's no way to know what happened. Not until they release the cut version of the Games. Cato, close your eyes for a moment." Cato slumped back and closed his eyes. "You see her, don't you?"
Cato turns. "Yes, I saw her..."
"Oh, Cato. You see her when you close your eyes..." Cato shut his eyes again and all he could think, all he could see, was Clove being a beautiful figure in her white interview dress, and all he could hear were her honest and beautiful words. I love you.
"I do see her when I close my eyes. Every second of every day."
The counselor murmured. "And you held hands last night?" Cato nods again, fighting the tears. (A warrior never cries). "Maybe someday, when you understand this game, you'll understand why."
"That's all it is! It's a game," Cato answers. (If only it could be that simple)
"No, it's more than a game. Nothing can be that simple. And what you don't realize, Cato, is that everything you touch only dies."
"So... that's just it? Clove's dead? They said we could both win!" Cato raises his voice in anger. In anger at the Capitol. In anger of the not-so-simple game that he had played along to. Even though he won, he lost.
"They did say that, Cato. But they lied." Lying isn't fair. Cheating isn't fair. The whole game isn't fair. (Life isn't fair)
iv. A girl, a knife, and a realization
Clove lay there in the empty field. The game wasn't over but Cato was gone. She was sure of it. Maybe she should be gone too. There was no point any more, was there? Without Cato she might as well die.
Clove had the knife. She knew there was nothing left of her (not without Cato by her side), she knew that she was sitting alone in a field where the wind was blowing, blowing, gone.
She realized that there was a simple way to end her life. (After all, she had a knife)
And she realized that no one would come to get her.
As soon as the next wind became a gale, roaring across the plain, she would be gone.
Well, she would be gone with the wind.
(All it takes is a knife)
Prompt: "You see her when you close your eyes. Maybe one day you'll understand why; everything you touch surely dies." -Let Her Go by Passenger
(Also for another challenge: a shattering realization)