The air was still, and silent. I could almost feel the suspense creeping up on me as I stalked through the thick undergrowth of the forest floor. Long branches reached their spindly fingers out towards me, raking through my hair and lashing out at my cheeks, leaving shallow red scratches that contrasted with the milky-white of my skin. I twirled my blowgun pipe in my hand; it was a nervous habit that I had developed here in the arena as I searched for safety. I reached a small clearing, where the brilliant midday sunlight pierced through the dense protective canopy of trees to bathe the forest floor in a halo of gold. In the small meadow, tiny green buds had opened to reveal the creamy iridescent white petals of their flowers that ringed a centre of bright yellow. I bent down to pick one up, plucking it from life. It was ironic, really. To pick a flower was to kill it, yet the appearance of those petals was so irresistible, that one could bear to sacrifice a flower for the sake of beauty. It was almost like the games; the Capitol felt that the meaning of sacrificing twenty-three, or in this case forty-seven, children was worth the overall message that it would bring to the people of Panem. I brought the soft petals to my lips, allowing for a moment of luxury as I closed my eyes against the bright sunlight. My lungs drew in an almighty breath, and the smells of the forest filled me with memories of home. There was a forest back in District 12, although it always remained behind the chain-link fence, just out of reach.
Suddenly, I heard a cry. My eyes opened and I whipped my head around towards the source of the sound. I held my breath as a rushed to the cover of the trees, cursing myself for being in such a vulnerable position; the arena was not the ideal place to reminisce about home. There it was again, closer now. The voices of two men, shouting. I could not make out the words they were saying, but the voices were filled with anger and violence. I pushed through the trees, loading my blowgun as I negotiated the thick undergrowth. All of a sudden, the two figures came into view not more than a few metres away. I darted behind the thickset trunk of a tree, its bark grating my hands as I pressed against the wood to hide myself from view. Allowing myself one peek, I looked to identify the two men. They were locked in a tight brawl, fighting each other hand-to-hand. I recognised the strong muscular build and short spiked hair of the first man, a career tribute from District 2. The other was caked in mud and blood, unrecognisable. The fight continued for some moments until the career reached into his belt and drew a knife from its sheath. The blade glinted brilliantly in the sunlight, still crusty with the dried blood of another unfortunate soul. He lashed out at the other tribute, slicing his shirt and cutting a gash into his side. The red colour of the blood blossomed across the cotton of the injured tribute, and dripped onto the scuffed leather tip of his boot. He tried to aim a punch at the career but missed, and following the momentum of his fist fell to the ground with a thud. My heart leapt in my throat, as I watched the career lean over the boy. I saw him leer unattractively as he brought the glistening blade, now dripping with the injured tribute's blood, to his throat. The tip of the blade pierced the skin, releasing a drop of blood that tricked downwards and pooled in the dip between his collarbones.
'Any last wishes?' asked career asked sarcastically. He pushed the blade in a fraction of an inch further, and the small cut turned into a long thin line of red.
The other boy clutched at the shirt of the career, trying to inflict damage with his short nails, raking them across his back, but it did not deter him. 'I have nothing to say to you,' he spat, sending a shower of saliva into the career's face.
'Alright then,' the career said, wiping the spittle from his face with a tattered sleeve. 'Have it your way.' I saw the muscles in his arm flex as he prepared to slice through the oesophagus, and impulse suddenly took over. I stepped out from behind the protection of the tree, bringing the blowgun to my lips. Without a moment's thought, I exhaled, and the poisonous dart sliced through the air, embedding itself in the tan skin of the upper arm of the career tribute. He cried out in pain as he turned his head towards me, eyes flashing with anger. He stood up from where he was straddling the other tribute's chest, and lunged towards me, knife in hand. I took a tentative step backwards, eyes wide with fear, but it was not necessary. Before the career could take another step, his knees gave way and he crumpled to the ground before me, his knife embedding itself blade-down into the soft soil by my toes.
I held my breath, lowering my blowgun just a fraction so it rested pressed against the soft flesh of my lower lip. In the distance, the echoing boom of a canon filled the sky, and I stepped around the dead career to face the injured boy.
'Wait!' he cried out. He made a feeble attempt to stand up, and I watched him struggle with amusement for a few moments before he righted himself. 'Maysilee, it's me,' he said breathlessly, raising is arms up beside his head. I stared at him for a few moments, unable to recognise him underneath all that mud and blood that caked his skin. Yet amongst all that dirt and grime, his pale blue eyes shined through.
'Haymitch?' I asked incredulously. 'Is that you?' I lowered my blowgun down to my side in the ultimate act of submission, and he brought his hands down to clasp his bleeding side.
'Yes. I'm sorry, you can't really recognise me very well, can you?' He gestured to the blowgun in my hand. 'Nice idea you've got there. Quite effective, it seems.' A casual smile played across his lips, and I felt my heart warm towards him.
'I'm not really into combat,' I retorted. 'I spent a lot of time learning the poisonous plants during training instead.' I was still on edge. 'Why are you here?'
'If I recall correctly, you were the one that found me,' he responded playfully, 'but that doesn't matter, anyhow. I think that we should become allies. Two people will live longer than one'.
I weighed his suggestion in my mind for a moment. I suppose he was right. I had barely slept in the last few days, as I could not risk committing myself to slumber in case another tribute took advantage of my weakness. 'Okay,' I said. 'For now. I don't want it to come down to just us two.'
'Deal?' he asked, stepping forward to shake my hand. I reached out, and he dwarfed my small dainty hand in his large one.
'Deal,' I responded. I looked him in the eye squarely, and as I got lost in his clear blue abyss, I couldn't help noticing that he held on for just a moment too long. I pulled away nervously, turning my head away from the blinding sunlight. As Haymitch turned around to pick up his backpack that was discarded a few feet away, I remembered. Amongst all the action and fear, I had dropped that single white flower in the meadow, the flower that for me meant hope.