I had previously posted chapter 1, but went back and edited a bit. This is the new updated version, so I will be continuing on from here. My schedule has cleared up so I have a lot more time to write now, however I have horrible writing habits and don't write as often as I should. So, please give me motivation to continue by reviewing and liking
Chapter 1:
The cannon fires in the distance, its thunderous boom echoing through the arena. Ten days, twenty-three cannons. His eyes are still open, but the screams have subsided. As he sputtered his last few breaths, his lungs had collapsed, and he drowned from the fluids seeping inside of him. Just moments ago, I heard him flailing his limbs in a useless attempt to free himself from the net. But there was no point to it. Almost a week ago I had received high quality Capitol cloth, and, soon after, uncovered sturdy vines in the arena. Years of experience tying strong knots allowed me to weave together these materials into an inescapable net.
His eyes had filled with terror; he knew he was trapped. So secure in the web that I could have let him sit for hours; make him wait for his imminent death. Over the years, and throughout these Games, this has been a frequent occurrence–teasing the tributes, watching them squirm, beg for their death, and an eventual, merciless slaughter. Hardened hearts carry out these cruel acts. I've killed in these Games, but gain no pleasure prolonging the suffering.
Once I heard the splashes coming from the shallow water, I ran to the side of the marsh. Standing amongst narrow blades of grass that scratched against my skin, my trident soared through the air, landing perfectly on its target. He looked at the weapon, its prongs firmly embedded in his chest. A flash of pain ghosted across his face before his legs buckled beneath him. As he fell, I realized my aim had been a fraction off. Instead of penetrating his heart–killing him instantly–the trident had sunk into his lungs. The adrenaline surging through his body could not squash the pain as he cried out. At least three minutes passed before the tears in his eyes finally glazed over, draining their color, turning them to ashy voids. Finally, there is silence.
"Ladies and Gentleman, I am pleased to present the victor of The 65th Hunger Games. From District Four, Mr. Finnick Odair."
The voice rings loud in celebration for the entire nation of Panem to hear, but I am alone. I look down to find myself in the swampy water. Mechanically, I walk toward the floating body, slowly gliding through the thick water, crushing remnants of ice. It occurs to me that I don't even know his name. His curly hair is matted to his forehead that is quickly turning blue from the cold. District Ten, I remember, slightly surprised that an outlying District lasted this long.
I pull the trident from his chest. Blood flows freely from his flesh into the water. The rich scarlet swirls in the water, the gaping holes in his body spewing out liquid. I am knee deep in a pool of his blood.
A distant rumbling grows louder and louder and a hovercraft with the Panem seal appears, making its way across the gray sky. Its engine creates gusts of wind that send ripples through the marsh, breaking up the last sheets of frost into glassy shards that transform into fierce red swells, crashing against my body. I run to shore before I become fully engulfed by bloody waves. Once back on the muddy shore, I hunch over, hands on my knees, panting, gripping my trident firmly in my right hand. The hovercraft flies straight above my head. Again, I am almost knocked over by strong blasts of air. Hearing sounds of a door opening overhead, I look up to see a man in a white jumpsuit being lowered down on a ladder.
"Ready?" he asks. I simply nod. He steps off the ladder to collect me, grabbing me by the waist and draping my left arm over his shoulder. For the first time, I notice a blinding pain radiating through my entire left side. I wince but blink back the discomfort; I will not give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me weak. But my feeble attempts at keeping up with his pace are noted, and he slows down. He helps me onto the ladder, maintaining his hold on me until our bodies are frozen in place by an electric current.
Up, up we go, past the swamp and the knotted clump of trees, still capped in snow, whose deadly mutts contained deep within them begin to howl. Higher and higher, the whirring of the wind gets louder as we approach the open doors at the bottom of the hovercraft. It makes my head spin. I feel myself slipping into a trance-like state.
The body of the twenty-third tribute, District Ten, the last to fall, still remains in the water. He is probably still caught in the sturdy net I had fashioned, but all I can see now is a small glint of red.
"Congratulations." The man in the white jumpsuit grins eagerly. His tone is filled with excitement–satisfied that he gets to be the first person to say these words to me. It is the last thing I hear before I let go of everything, succumbing to the agony coursing through my veins, slowly fading into oblivion. I pray for a deep, dreamless slumber, but my mind has other plans. I slip from reality and drift through haze. Shadows dance. The harsh glare of the sun blinds me. I am back in the games.