something little for you, che. happy holidays!
It happened so fast. She carved Fire Girl's face into a delicacy soon plastered on all the Capitol buildings, Cato impaled Thresh, ripping out his heart and crushing it into a million tiny pieces, Foxface swallowed deadly nightlock – purposefully, Clove knew she was too smart to make that mistake – and Peeta succumbed to infection, maggots feasting on his dead flesh. After, they stood bloodied and bruised – but smiling – in the clearing, waiting for the trumpets to blare. It's quiet. Then Claudius Templesmith's voice boomed that there'll only be one victor and the muscle memory kicked in – after all, she murdered an adult at ten – and suddenly a knife was in Cato's neck that she didn't remember planting and blood slowly trickled down, but this blood was redder, more vibrant, not like the other children's. Not like anyone's. Before he collapsed, his ice-blue eyes widen in betrayal and anger, and she knew the tears in his eyes weren't from the physical pain. Clutching his stomach, he whispered, "Clove."
She wanted to kneel beside him and cry, plant the dagger in her flesh as well, scream at the sky, do something, but she couldn't move. She was encased in mud, appendicular skeleton too heavy to lift. Her hazel eyes soaked in the scene, the fallen boy, the bright sun, the evil hands, and watched the life bleed from Cato's eyes, and she did nothing.
"I'm sorry," she choked out, but the dead couldn't hear.
The trumpets boomed and the crowds cheered and the story continued but she didn't notice them. It was all blurs of colors and muffled sound and a wasted girl going through the motions, thoughts forever pinned to the bleeding, broken boy who kissed her just hours before. She locked herself in her too big house, alone with the ghosts, the memories, and nightmares. He's in every one of them.
I'm sorry.
I'm not sorry ;)