It was raining, it was pouring, and the Old Man was not snoring.
The Old Man was pressing buttons on a fancy switchboard and emptying Heaven's tears onto her empty husks of children.
The field grasses were being tossed about by the frigid air and the wildflowers were being pelted with incessant rain. Water poured in rivulets, streams, coursing over sodden ground towards dips and pockmarks that riddled the meadow.
Birds weren't singing, but the black raven Death was perched precariously upon the Arena's pinnacle. It was silent, not derisive. It uttered no sharp warning cries or ominous promises. It waited and watched, along with the whole of Panem, to see a tribute's final drama played out.
"Your turn!" he chuckles. My drenched form had just ducked away from a crippling punch-if that blow had landed, it would have ruptured something vital in my gut. Cato's face is twisted in a determined sneer, a ferocious snarl. Much like that Clove girl's snarl. But her lips were full and rosy. His are pale and thin, his smirk at my exhaustion triumphant.
I roll to my side and kick his feet out from under him. My turn. He goes sprawling and grasps at tree roots to steady himself as I jump to my feet. My one weapon, a fist-sized rock that fits snugly in my large hand, has long since been hurled away by a confident and smug Cato.
Indeed, we're too well-matched for this fight to end soon, neatly, or cleanly. Maybe I'll wing it and throttle him-if I can get past his sword which he's recovered surprisingly quickly. Blast it. He's fast.
He grabs at my throat and raises his arm, aiming for something like a throat, perhaps, or my throbbing head. Or my heart. However, I'm fast too, and I bring up two calloused hands and grab his dirty locks and pull, pull, pull. I pull as if I was in one of those dirty, all-out catfights. Success: Cato howls and spits out a few curse words as he struggles to free himself.
Ha. We're both hanging onto each other for "dear" life, though it's only precious because neither of us wants to die. It's not as if we ever had much of a life anyway. My knee flies up and hits his groin, and he curls over and vomits, his hands leaving my bruised throat. Good.
And I run far away, as fleetly as a sore, aching tribute can scamper. He's after me though, in a minute, yelling profanities that would have made a sailor blubber. Revenge is sweet, so they say, although I'd rather escape with my sorry hide intact. Forget that he's a Career, one of the ruthless machines that don't feel remorse about killing little girls like Rue.
For Rue, I've got to stay alive at least long enough to kill Cato. That other girl, the redhead, won't get mercy from him. It's a wonder that that fire girl, Kat? got away. I was so ready to kill her.
"ELEVEN!"Nice to know that someone wants me. He's cornered me in a minute-we're panting in a circlet of brambles-I'm not familiar with this side of the Arena. His sword is dripping with rain and blood-apparently I opened up a cut on his right forearm when we were scuffling.
His sword chops the air around me into ribbons. I can feel the swoosh within my bones, and each time that the weapon narrowly misses an arm, my leg, my head, I grow more terrified and yet more sure that he'll tire eventually and switch to hand-to-hand dogfighting. Which isn't difficult for me.
Cato's fists are almost as big as mine; we spend at least five minutes punching away at each other, wincing as our heavy blows land upon each other's limbs. He lands a few, I land a few. But he's tiring, his fury not sufficient to sustain him beyond a semi-ruthless barrage of determined jabs and uppercuts. My lip's bleeding. His nose got broken a while ago.
I doubt he notices, though, since his left leg has cramped up and he's backing away frantically, cringing in pain and bellowing more curses to the wind. I've already lunged towards him-now or never, since my knuckles are torn and I can taste my sweat and blood from a gash on my cheek.
We tumble over each other, rolling and banging ourselves against rocks and brambles. His fingers grab at my eyeballs, digging and clenching. I'm roaring now, in pain and fury of my own. He's screaming, because I've elbowed him again really close to a sensitive place, and he's biting my fingers, but at least he hasn't gouged out an eye.
My knee gives out from my half-crouch where we're locked around each other, and I land heavily on my left side. He slams a fist into my eye and something pops in his hand: a couple of knuckles.
I can't see anything in my right eye since it's stinging and there's black and green and gold dots bobbing in front of me. Cato's eyes aren't much happier than mine-they're red and crazed, and there are dark circles under them from all those nights we spent stalking each other.
My fingers are bleeding. I suck on them gently while we back off, circling each other warily. I'm limping, he's dragging his twisted ankle and foot in the dirt. He's lost his sword-I kicked it out of his hand. Two fingers appear to be broken-thank Heaven for sturdy leather boots.
I sit down. He sits down. We survey our prospects: battered, torn, battle-worn giants stomping on soaking Earth with blood-and-mud-caked shoes.
"You killed Clove," he snarls. He doesn't speak much unless he's snarling, I notice. I nod in return. Yes, yes I did. And she almost killed the girl who almost saved my Rue. It all goes 'round and 'round here.
He's ready to fight, our brief respite from flying elbows a clear benefit. We stand-and I take two sprinting steps to my left, away from the dead-end.
He's after me in those two steps and I immediately drop to a crouch-my bluff. His momentum carries him on and I spring back up and bring a heavy forearm down on the back of his neck. He falls, grunting, and I trip on my leaden legs, coming to a halt next to him.
I'm on all-fours now, trying to stand up. He coughs and chuckles. "That was pretty impressive, boy. Too bad you didn't hit harder. That couldhave stunned me." The nerve. I'm angry now, not merely self-defensive.
We'll fight, Cato my friend. We'll dance around each other 'til the stars rise overhead, and one way or another, one of is is leaving this earth for good.
The next minutes are spent in a furious fight for life, for death, for air, for rest, for victory. One of my eyes, the one that was failing earlier, is winking out again. It's swollen and I can't see around the red and all of those shiny dots.
Cato's smirking again. He's in better shape than I even though his wrist looks turned at an odd bent.
How do I describe our fight from then on? We're desperate, raving, raging, maddened, angry, lost, empty, hollow tributes. Not people. We don't have names, or families, or girlfriends, or friends-we're two entities locked in combat with no hope of any ceasefire. Cato's going to die. I'm going to die. When, is the question.
His boots slip and he's down in a miniature mudpit. I'm sitting on his stomach, pounding at his head with a small rock, the only one I could find.
His thick skull won't dent-he's screaming and flailing and his hands are pushing at my neck and I'm frustrated and tired and trembling and just when I get tired of hitting him with that stupid rock, my world turns grey.
Silver, to be precise. A piece of soaking silver cloth has obscured my vision completely. I frantically rip it off of my face in time to see Cato's bloodied face and hear him laugh as he howls his satisfaction.
Why is he laughing so hard? He pushes me off effortlessly, some strange hope having been planted in his cruel soul. No need to defend himself now-I'm weaponless and confused, almost disoriented. He's completely relaxed, smirking now through the blood and the filth.
He gestures at my heart. I look down. There's nothing to see. Then he reaches forward and pulls out a tiny dart the length of my fingernail. The end drips with red-my blood, and black-poison. The parachute.
I lie there utterly drained, finished. Alright. I'm going to die. I can deal with that. He's not taunting me anymore; he's looking at my battered face knowingly. The realization sinks into us both that the Games are now at a climax: he'll have to face off with three others. Three more obstacles to overcome before victory, he's thinking.
He's not smirking anymore, not treating me like dung the way he treated the other tributes. Now that I'm headed off for certain death, it's the least he can do to acknowledge my existence as a person.
But still. Blast you, Cato. I'm still a thingto you. I can see it in your eyes.
My legs still work, I find. I can walk. I can skip or leap or dance, it seems. I feel weightless.
I shoot Cato a glance instilled with my harshest loathing. I hate him for beating me. I hate him for having luck on his side.
He laughs quietly as I walk away from him. "Stings, doesn't it, Thresh?" Thresh. He knows I'm a person. Your time will come, boy, I think dazedly.
My poison-laced legs carry me to a lovely bush. I sit in the pouring rain clutching a spray of silver-green leaves. The lavender-hued flowers remind me of home.
Too late for me.