Author's Note: This is an un-betaed one shot I've had written for forever. It's just an anonymous death of a boy. No timeline, but the girl is a lot like Clove. Enjoy!
Rating: T for violence and murder.
.:don't cry out:.
The little boy – little because he couldn't have been older than 14- was backed against the Cornucopia. He puts his hands out in front of him, in a feeble attempt to protect himself. The girl quickly cuts his palms open as he yells out in pain, trying his hardest not to retract them.
Before he even realizes it, she's got her left hand, knife clutched in the right, against his throat. His blue eyes widen in terror as she gives a menacing laugh. It's easy now to see him trembling in fear. It takes everything in him not to cower before her. He must attempt to maintain some dignity, even if it will soon be replaced by useless pleas for mercy.
She presses the blunt part of the blade against his trachea and puts her lips to his ears, whispering words that are horrifying – scarier than any ghost story from back home. And more frightening still was the fact that it was simply an endless list of ways that she could mutilate him and end his life.
The boy makes an attempt to escape this nightmare by biting her hand and pushing her away. The girl recoils, but is snickering and back in position before he can even blink. The spark in his eyes begins to dim as he resigns himself to his fate.
She quickly realizes that ease is preferable to theatrics and begins to draw the sharp, yet surprisingly dainty, knife across his neck. He whimpers as a thin line of blood appears. How he wishes she could make this quicker!
Oh, the cries and pleas he makes, though. It's almost as if he cannot help it. Empty threats and promises that could never be fulfilled, futile attempts to stop or distract her. She refuses to be deterred, his pathetic display just egging her on.
Then begins the hysterical begging and pleading. He would do anything to escape death at this sadist's hands. Sell anything, give everything for another chance at life. As the boy bargains, she traces her name on his neck in blood.
She quickly tires of the whole charade. It's gone on long enough; she knows it is time to end it. The girl brings her blade to his neck once again as his body quakes in fear. Tears stream down his face and desperate whispers escape his lips.
His voice becomes higher and the cries become louder. He is screaming at the top of his lungs, begging for her to have mercy, when his eyes lock with hers. It is then that he makes his last wish – make it quick.
She only blinks before granting it.
Quickly and carefully, with the skillful precision of someone who's done it before, she slits his throat. The boy's shining blue eyes roll back and his last breath hangs between them. She grabs a fistful of his hair, leaning against his chest to check for a pulse, before writing her name across his neck again and then his forehead.
She knows it will be washed away by the undertakers before he's sent home, but she does it anyway. She could die at any moment here in the Arena. And she wants to be remembered. Writing her name is a calling card. For she will be remembered for more than one final cry.