Clove. Thresh. Clove. Thresh. Rock. Skull. Death. Triumph. Mercy. Me scrambling away with a limp and a bleeding gash on my forehead.
Cato roaring. Thresh retreating. The backpacks. What did Thresh need so badly? What did Cato need? So big and strong; what could a champion desire besides victory?
Maybe Cato needed food-I don't remember him even trying out the knots station. He had food in the Cornucopia up until a few days ago. His growling stomach must be his motivation then.
And Thresh? Surely he will survive against Cato's wrath-he looks sturdier than he did even in the Training Center. But if Cato catches up with him, if they duel, one will die for sure, and Peeta and I will still have a burly, powerful opponent to face.
Ugh. I'd rather face Cato. Thresh is too much like a friend, though friendship is temporary in the Arena. I sigh now, for my thoughts are running away. Is it the blood loss?
I can see faint shimmering swirls of light in my peripheral vision. I can see the grasses swaying in front of me, but each stalk is bending and rippling...
My head feels light and woozy.
The cave! Where's the backpack? Did I drop it? No, it's dangling on my arm. Is that more blood on my arm? The red and the bright orange are hurting my eyes. Two bright colors, too brightly colored.
Where's my bow? Oh-it's clenched in my right fist. My arrows are rattling gently in my quiver. I can feel my knees buckling. I'm sinking down on both knees. My head's on the ground.
My world is spinning. Mother? Is that your voice? Take me home; I'm tired of playing this game. Take me home and hold me, Mama. I'm starving and wounded and helpless and I feel so weak...
When I wake up, Peeta is stroking my hair comfortingly and murmuring my name. Dear Peeta. Did I just think that? The medicine! Is it still in the backpack? Did I drop the pack when I lost consciousness? Is he alright? I struggle to sit up but my throbbing head is seeing comets, not merely stars. Peeta holds my hand again and gently presses me back down.
He explains that I had come back while he was asleep still and when he had woken up from his stupor, I was lying facedown in my blood. My own blood from the gash on my forehead.
Then I must have injected him with the antidote sometime before I passed out, or he wouldn't be calmly staring at my face which, unsurprisingly, must look like a ghost's face. Pale and unearthly, that is.
Peeta? Will you stay with me? You know that Cato's still out there. Where is Foxface? Is she alright? I can see the hope in his eyes, along with a steadiness and an assurance to tough this out. Maybe we'll get through this. If Foxface died, if we somehow outlasted Cato...
Forget it. Hoping for Cato to magically lose his way and get offed by tracker jackers is ridiculous, though it'd be rather convenient. If anything, those are exactly what he's looking out for. It's stupid to hope that he'll die because of anything but us or a Gamemaker-related incident.
Let's start with Foxface. Is she watching our cave from a distance? I haven't seen her since the Cornucopia. Is she fed or starving? She never did have many supplies; she was a loner from the beginning if I remember accurately. I hope that she's alive, if only for her sake.
We could track her down. She's fast and stealthy though, and I can't leave Peeta. Maybe we need to leave the safety of the cave and show ourselves out in the open. Cato doesn't have a bow; he'll have to take us out in the open. Foxface would be wise though, and she'd wait for us to destroy each other and then claim the winner's position herself.
Can Peeta fight? He's looking a bit stronger. Can he even stand up? Never mind. I'll leave now and forage-wait: rain. Looks like we're not going anywhere. Forget all of that planning.
Fine by me. Peeta's a friend. I feel secure and protected next to him, drifting in and out of dreams, crammed into our sleeping bag together. Waiting it out in a drafty cave couldn't be nearly as miserable as slogging through the grasses waiting to collide with deadly Thresh.
Or violent Cato who, by the way, hates me personally and would sell his right hand to get a one-on-one round against me.
Or slender Foxface, who has proved herself the smartest of us all by avoiding bloody conflicts and patiently waiting.
We're all waiting; all of us are tense with anticipation, with hoping and praying and worrying and fearing the end...
Foxface will win. I'm sure of it. The rest of us are too likely to meet up in direct combat. She evades; we confront.
But if we wait a bit, like her, maybe we could outlast everyone else? Right now I'm content to lie with my fingers crossed-we only have a couple of days left to live before the Gamemakers intervene, so we might as well enjoy the brief rest.
We'll be here then, Cato. Let's see how the chips fall, Thresh. You all know where to find me: I'm in the safest place I could be.
In my Peeta's arms.