A bead of sweat rolls down her neck.
She can see his eyes, dark and angry, so angry, so filled with rage and pain and sorry, and she knows. She knows, but she cannot fight it. There's no use in fighting it.
Her fingers scramble, grip his wrist where he's holding her.
She knows he'll do it. He's huge, a brute. It's to be expected. He wants to win. He'll do anything to win. A long time ago, she would have done anything to win. She still could. She could fight a little harder, beg a little louder. She won't, though. She's a Career, and Careers don't beg.
She can see the rock descending towards her skull, and she squeezes her eyes shut.
Pain. So much pain, wrapping around her like a shroud. A death shroud. This is it. She won't win the Games. She was never destined to. She was supposed to die this way.
Dizzy.
The world above her is spinning. The clouds in the fake sky are floating in the wind, unbothered. The girl from District Two, the girl dying on the Arena floor, she doesn't matter. She never mattered. She was just a piece. Just a pawn that the Capitol played to their advantage. A bit of entertainment for the audience, who wanted nothing more than bloodshed. A skilled, trained piece, destined to die.
His face appears above her.
"Clove." He begs, his voice not so much breaking as already broken, and takes her hand. The pain is ebbing now, driven outward by everything else, and she struggles to focus on his face. Has he always had three eyes?
"Clove, stay with me."
Stay? Why stay? The world was a terrible, heartless place. She can already see where she's going. The wind is blowing, smelling sweetly of flowers, the birds sing sweet melodies, and her family is waiting for her. Her sister, dead in her own Games, and her brother, training for his own death. They're there. They stand, with their arms open, waiting for her.
"Clove, please."
She can't. She can't hold on anymore. Everything is spinning, dots are piercing her vision. He's crying, she can hear him. She would tease him for it, taunt his sorrow, but she can't seem to open her mouth, can't seem to make her lips move. The grass is soft beneath her, and a gust of wind blows, cool wind that sooths her sweaty skin.
This is not such a bad place to die.
Die. Clove squeezes her eyes shut. She is dying. She is dying. She's almost dead. She always was, wasn't she? She trained for this, devoted her whole life to it, and in the end, she was nothing more than a pawn controlled by the Capitol. Her whole life has been for this moment. To die. She smiles then, a tiny little smile, the only movement she can manage. She's going to die.
Maybe it's better this way.
I... I don't even know what this is. I should probably apologize for this...