"Not me, not me, not me," she whispers as the woman with long purple hair, and glittery skin skims the name on the scrap of paper in front of her. "Maysilee Donner," the woman booms smiling brightly. It takes her a moment to process what this means, but as soon as she does she pushes her sister and her best friend off of her and walks with confidence to the front of the stage.
She can hear her mother's screams, and her sister's sobs from the stage. Don't look back, she thinks. And she doesn't-stares strait at the camera- eyes blank, emotionless. "Congratulations," she hears the woman with the purple hair say from behind her. For what? She wants to ask, but instead she just nods her head and continues staring at the camera.
/
He's not actually surprised when they call his name. In a way he's almost been expecting it. He walks up to the stage, eyes cold, dangerous, and looks at the three other tributes from his district. He turns towards the crowd, and flashes them a smile, hoping to make them believe he knows what he's doing.
"Congratulations," the announcer says batting her green eyelashes at him and holding out her hand. Fuck you, he wants to say, fuck you all. Instead he reaches his hand out to meet hers.
/
She lets herself cry on the way to the capitol when no one else is around. She watches the water run down her cheeks, and her arms, tries to picture it as blood. She tries to picture dying. "Shit," she whispers. "Shit, shit, shit."
/
He thinks of his mother-beautiful and strong. He hadn't seen her cry since his father's funeral. That is until today. "My son," she had wrapped him close in her arms and whispered in his ear. "My son," she repeated until the guards grabbed her by the shoulder and led her out kicking and screaming.
He thinks of his brother-young and innocent. "What's going on Haymitch?" he whimpered pulling his brother close. "Where are you going?" He hadn't said anything, couldn't say anything.
Last he thinks of his girlfriend-sweet, and pure. "You'll be back," she whispered confidently kissing his neck, his cheek, his hand, his anything. "You will come back, and we will be together," she whispered tears flowing down her rosy cheeks. "You promise me that."
He knows he has to win. Knows there are people who need him to come home.
/
It's not like she's never been taught how to defend herself. She knows how to fight, knows how to determine which plants are poisonous, knows how to make a clean fatal cut with a knife. Maysilee Donner is no am ateur.
She's also not a murderer.
/
He practices at every training station there is. Learns to tie knots correctly, throw a knife so accurately it never misses, shoot an arrow, a gun. He watches the other tributes, remembers their skills and talents, and uses it to his advantage. I'm going to win. I'm going to win, he tells himself every night.
He tries to block out the fact that the price of winning is forty-seven dead.
/
Sometimes at night when she can't sleep she wanders up to the rooftop and looks at the stars. She wonders what death will be like. Peaceful? Or painful? She wonders if there is a heaven. And if there is will she be able to go there after being in a game so violent and cruel, she herself might become a murderer. "I don't want to kill anyone," she whispers to the sky.
"No one does," the voice coming from behind her frightens her, as she thought she was alone. "Well except maybe the assholes from distract one, two, and four." Haymitch Abernathy says calmly, sitting down beside her.
"I didn't know you were here," she bites down on her lip trying not to cry in front of a stranger.
He shrugs at her and smiles slightly. "I don't want my own district to hate me," he says so quietly she might have missed it had she not been hanging on to his every word.
"W-why would they hate you?" she stutters.
"I don't want to be responsible for anyone else in our districts death? I can't be responsible."
She nods. "I understand."
"I know you do," he whispers placing his large cold hand over hers.
/
Let the games begin.
Day one: eighteen dead.
/
They become allies. It's not planned. But she saves his ass, and he thinks they might work better as a team anyway.
/
"Do you know how many?" she asks him one night over dinner. "How many you've killed?" He nods and swallows a bite of the bread his sponsors sent him.
"Six," he mutters under his breath. "There were six."
Tears begin to make their way down her cheeks. "Five," she whispers. "I never wanted this to happen."
"It's not your fault," he says roughly shaking his head. "There was nothing you could do."
"I could have died," she murmurs. "I know it's going to happen eventually. I know I can't be the one who ends up winning this thing."
"Why?" he asks softly taking her hand in his.
"Because," she sobs. "If I win I'll have to kill myself."
/
"I don't want it to come down to you and me," she says.
"Okay," he nods.
She walks away. A few minutes later and she's screaming. He knows he doesn't have to help her. Knows that the ties they had to each other ended the moment she walked away. He runs to her anyway. He knows the moment he sees her that she's going to die. She didn't even have a chance.
"Hey," he mutters leaning down next to her. She stares up at him eyes wide with terror. He thinks about telling her she'll be okay, one of those simple lies that always manage to make people feel better, but he knows she's too smart for that bullshit. "I'm here," he whispers twining his fingers through hers. "I'm here. I'm here. I'm here."
She dies- terrified, young, and a murderer.
/
He wins the games except he doesn't really feel like a winner.
/
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