THG belong to Suzanne Collins

We were dead.

Right from the beginning, I knew we were going to die. We had no chance of winning. What could a poor district like us do against the all-mighty Capitol? That's how I knew.

I cursed my parents, the mayor, and every single person from District Thirteen, and from all the others, who had thought of this rebellion and carried it out. District Thirteen, tired of being hungry, ignored, and overlooked, had rallied all the others and started it all. And now we are going to pay.

Hovercrafts drop explosives from high above us, various unknown machines tear at the fence surrounding my district and run over the desperate people running in the streets. Armed soldiers shoot randomly around them, and constant screams fill previously peaceful District Thirteen. The Capitol have decided to go to the root of the trouble. And they aren't searching to subdue us. No. We encouraged the rebellion. We are going to die, murdered at the hands of the Capitol.

I don't know how it happened, exactly. I was too young to care when the rebellion began, more than eight years ago now. All I know is, we went from being content and satisfied that our demands were being heard and that the Capitol had been tamed, to shrieking and fleeing, terrified, before the hundreds of soldiers invading us.

My fists clench. Why us? The mayor, the influencial adults who decided to rebel, I might have understood their deaths. But why me, too? I'm just sixteen, and I have a family. Well, I used to, anyway. My parents were killed only yesterday, so close to the end, after having survived for three years of steady attacks. The Capitol could have obliterated us in three days if they'd wanted to, but I feel fairly sure a big fraction of their troups is busy with the other twelve districts. And we were fighting back with the weapons we had stolen, manufactured or 'borrowed'. As a result, 'only' three-quarters of my district's seven thousand inhabitants have been killed for now. I know it won't be long until we die, too. My mother and father died a honorable death, I suppose, trying to rescue bodies to allow their families to give them a proper burial. It was also a stupid death, an unnecessary one. Because now, Iris and I...We are alone. And dying.

I glance to my left, where Iris is cowering in a corner, her eyes closed, her face tired and smudged with dirt, her breathing laborious. I think she's asleep...

She's just thirteen. Old enough to understand, old enough to hate and, according to her, old enough to fight. But still much too young to die. Her left leg is burnt and bloody; she can barely walk. One of the countless bombs was launched right next to her because, fool that she was, she'd been out, fighting alongside me. Thankfully it was only a small explosive, destined to scare rather than kill, but it was enough to incapicate her. I had come out unscathed, and if it hadn't been for her, I would already have fled. I might have been somewhere safe now. But she was hurt, she was helpless, and I couldn't bring myself to abandon her.

So I dragged her to this basement. The one underneath the school. It had hundreds of tunnels and we switched from one to another every day. I hoped the school would be among the last buildings to be targeted, because everyone knows how the Capitol is one for education...Although, if you believe Mr. Burman, who was my History teacher and one of the first to vote for the rebellion – and among the first to die -, that's a complete lie. According to him, they want us to live as ignorants. Mr Burman didn't really care, and he taught us about what Panem once was – the United States of America. I wasn't sure I believed it. It sounded like something out of a fairy tale – everyone was equal, we were 'united', the president had the nation's best interests at heart, and we were not separated into districts, but into States with equal rights and duties. He used to tell us, wistfully, that we – the children of Panem – ought to do something about it. He was an optimist.

But that didn't keep him from dying.

In fact, it was probably what had caused his early death.

Speaking against the Capitol is just as bad as rebelling.

"Maia," a faint, barely audible voice utters my name, drawing me from my thoughts.

Instantly I'm kneeling next to Iris, forcing some water between her died, cracked lips, relieved that she's awake. Because, every time she falls asleep, I'm terrified that it's the last time, that she'll never wake up. But she always does. She said she always would. She promised.

For more than two months I stood, fearless, by my father's side, as he fought for what he believed in. We were basically helpless against the soldiers wearing full, impenetrable body armor, but one of the useful things we had learned from Mr Burman was that there was a vulnerable point in this seemingly indestructable suit: their feet. He had made a joke once about it, referring to it as their 'Achille's heel'. Of course, their feet were covered in thick boots, so we – the fighters – broke up into teams of two: one to distract, the other to pull the boots off. As soon as their feet were bare, we crushed them and sliced them off, leaving them to bleed to death. It was a disgusting and slow but necessary job.

Of course, Iris was not allowed to join us, but she always was headstrong and had – still has, actually – a mind of her own. One day, I was searching for survivors among a new pile of corpses. I heard a moan, and felt a jolt of excitement. Alive, I thought. Someone had survived. And then she stood up, slightly swaying, leaning on her sword to steady herself. Her long black hair flying in the wind, her eyes burning with the flame of survival, a still-bleeding cut gracing her jaw, she looked like a heroine from one of the books my mother loved to read to me. There were three dead soldiers at her feet, undoubtedly slayed by her weapon. She grinned.

"Hello, sis'," she said casually.

I was indignant, no, furious that she had put herself in such danger. Was she a complete idiot? Didn't she know what she was risking? She did, and that only irritated me more. But, for some reason, I smiled back at her. Call me stupid. But she looked so confident. So happy. So free. She knew what she was doing, she wanted to do it. She wanted to fight for her freedom, like me, like our father, like our district. So I smiled.

And that was when the bomb hit.

And now I'm here, cradling Iris's head in my hands, forcing myself to examine her mangled leg attentively. But it's hopeless, and I know it. Iris is dying. And when she does, I'll be all alone.

Should I be glad? I know I shouldn't. I want her to live as long as she can. It's a selfish desire, to want to keep her suffering for as long as possible. A small part of me wants her to hurry up and die, but this is, again, for selfish reasons of my own, and not for her to rest in peace. When she's gone, I'll be able to run away. Perhaps I'll survive. She and I...We're the last survivors in our family. We swore to each other that if we were in a situation where one of us could escape, we would. Not because we don't love each other enough to die together. But because we love each other too much to let the other die because of us. But that promise, now...I can't keep it.

I hear the bombs outside. I hear the screams of those trampled by the soldier's running boots. I see, inside my head, my friends' deaths, over and over again, each more gruesome than the last. I can't allow Iris to go like that. Iris...I remember her triumphant expression before the bomb landed. She was fierce yet full of peaceful joy. She has to die free.

I stand up. Iris lets out a moan as her head hits the floor sharply, but I ignore it. I grab her hand and drag her in an upright position, wincing as she lets out an ear-splitting scream of pain.

"Shhh..." I say soothingly, and she suddenly remembers where we are, and how vulnerable we are. "Shhh..."

She immediately clamps her mouth shut, but a moan escapes her lips as I stumble forward, pulling her with me. Despite her plaintif cries, I refuse to let her lie down again. We have to get away. Leave District Thirteen. Be free...even if it's just for a few minutes. She deserves it.

I begin the painful process of half-walking, half-carrying my sister across a good dozen tunnels. I turn left, then right, then right again. I'm frustrated and desperate, Iris's breathing is so faint I can barely hear it anymore, and she has to repeatedly pinch herself to avoid slipping into unconsciousness, which would be fatal. I'm pinching her, too, almost unconsciously. She is forcing herself to breathe, actually has to think about doing the action necessary for human life. And if she faints, she will stop breathing. And choke to death.

I can't let that happen.

"Hey, Iris," I say softly. Then, louder, "Iris!"

She jumps, and her head, which was up till now lolling to the side, lifts slightly. Her bleak, gray eyes stare up at me lifelessly. The spunk and joy is gone, only to be replaced by acceptance at her fate and heartless resignment. I grab her shoulders and shake her, suddenly mad again.

"Iris! Listen to me! Do you want to die, hidden in this tunnel, like a coward? Like a scaredy-cat who didn't have the guts to fight for her life, who hid herself away and hoped for the best?" I see hurt flash in her eyes and feel guilty at the harshness of my words. Nevertheless, I go on. "No! You don't! Because that isn't what you are, Iris. You're a fighter. You didn't just fight for your life, but for others', too, and for everyone's freedom. You're brave, courageous, fearless. So why aren't you fighting it? Why? Why are you letting yourself die? Why are you leaving me, Iris?" My voice is choked and I feel a single tear escape my eye and slide down my right cheek. I can't live without my sister. She's everything to me.

Iris is looking at her feet. Or maybe her eyes are fixed on her wound, the bloody flesh just barely covered by a once-white sheet of cloth meant to be a bandage. At any rate, she isn't looking at me. When she speaks, her voice is heavy and painful; her words likewise.

"I'm tired of fighting." I reel back in shock, both mentally and physically. No. If my sister has lost hope, then... I loosen my grip on her shoulders and she crumples to the ground, making no effort to stand up again. Instead, she hugs her knees and lowers her head. "It's brought nothing but hate, fear, and pain into our lives. I'm sick of it, Maia. You want to know why I'm letting myself die?" I nod, even though I don't. I really, really don't. Not anymore. Not if the reason is as defeatist as her words..."I'm dying because I want to, Maia. I don't want to live. Not if living means hiding like a coward, as you put it. You think I'm brave. But I'm not. I'm not brave or fierce or loyal. The truth is, I am a coward. I can't face this. I don't want to die suffering. But I'd rather die twenty deaths than live in this endless terror." Her voice is faint, breathy, hesitant. I've never heard it like this. Usually it is vibrant and powerful. I have never seen this side of Iris. This is not the sister I know. "You see, Maia...I'm scared."

And this simple statement shocks me to the core. I have never seen Iris scared. She's always been my optimistic, smiling, cheerful, brave, restless and supportive sister. And even though I'm supposed to be the eldest, it feels like she's always looking out for me, and not the other way around. I hate it this way; I hate feeling weak. But I love the protection she offers. Used to offer, because now, I'm as terrified as she is. How can she be scared? That's just not possible.

"Don't say that," I say fiercely. "You're not leaving me."

Iris smiles sadly up at me.

"I'm afraid you have no choice in the matter," she says softly.

Fear paralyzes me. It always has. Instead of doing the natural thing and running away or helping, any sign of danger makes me freeze. I thought I had overcome this when I saw bombs exploding around me and didn't feel the slightest need to stop whatever I was doing – usually, fighting. But it seems I was wrong, because when Iris draws her hunting knife from her belt, I can't do anything. I watch, helplessly, as she holds it out in front of her, the steel blade hauntingly close to her bare throat.

"You know, Maia, you shouldn't feel sad," she says, sounding much older than she really is. "You have a chance to live, now. Escape. Run. Do it. For me, okay? Just...survive. Promise me."

How can she ask me that when she's about to kill herself? I find I'm speechless as wel as paralyzed. I manage a quick, short nod.

The ironic thing is, I'm the one who gave her that knife. It's a wonderful weapon, with a silver hilt and little drawings of leaves carved into the blade. It even has a sheath, which she hasn't bothered to take and which is probably lying in the ruins of our house. I bought the knife from the blacksmith, who is officially there to make shoes for our horses, the ones that work in the mines, but who ever since talk of the rebellion began has been making arrowheads, swords and knives as well. He's a nice soul – or was, I don't know if he's dead or not. He practically gave it to me, refusing to charge anything more than a few coins of silver which would normally buy about half a chicken and no more.

And now the priceless dagger is about to take my sister's life and there's nothing I can do about it because I am literally paralyzed. I honestly can't move and am forced to watch as she drags the blade across her throat, slowly, too slowly. She's making herself suffer, for a reason I can't possibly figure out. But I don't care why, all I care is that she's doing it, and I am watching her die. The razor-sharp edge of the knife cuts into her skin, drawing blood, a lot of it. I close my eyes to avoid watching my sister's gruesome death, and suddenly, I realize I can move again.

I don't wait to ponder over this. Who cares about the why? The only important W is the What, although my teacher would add Who, When, Where, Why and How. Not that How is a W. More of an H.

I throw myself forward, landing on Iris, knocking the breath out of her, and wrench the weapon out of her grasp. Blood is still flowing from her neck and I try to stop it by applying pressure with my hands, but the end is coming too rapidly and I'm no healer anyway. I've never learned what to do when faced with gaping wounds. I can barely cure a fever! Iris' eyes close against my incompetence and I can practically feel her heartbeat getting slower and more irregular, until, suddenly, it's not there anymore.

Iris is dead.

Iris.

No.

"NO!" I scream, not caring about who hears me. Nothing matters anymore. My sister is dead. The only person I have left. She's dead. She killed herself. She did it...for me? But I didn't want her to die...I wanted her to die as a free human. I was going to let her die outside of the district. Couldn't she have waited a little while longer?

I look up and realize something which only adds to my despair. From here I can see light at the end of the tunnel. Freedom. If I can see it from here, it means Iris could, too. Why, why did she kill herself? She could have waited just five minutes and died behind the fence surrounding District Thirteen. She could have died peacefully.

Tears stream down my face and I make no attempt to hide them. Let them fall, I think. Let them fall. Why should I not mourn the death of a sister I loved more than anyone else? Why should I fight back the tears and be strong when no-one is here to watch?

Because Iris told you to live.

What authority does she have over me, anyway? I'm the older one. She's the coward. The one who was too weak to live. And she was wrong. She told be to run. I will be like her. I will be the Iris I used to know, the Iris who killed three soldiers by herself, who joked when she was hurt, who laughed away the massacre around us. And I will fight.

The light at the end of the tunnel...I can see dark shapes shadowing it. Human, by the looks of it, but I can immediately tell they're not from my district. Their steps are too loud, too confident, too brutal. No. These are soldiers from the Capitol. My chance to fight seems to have come earlier than expected. I am ready.

I grab the knife which took my sister's life. My other hands holds the gun I nicked from a soldier I killed. It's got plenty of ammo – well, enough for these three soldiers, at least. I'm not sure I will survive the encounter. Who knows? Who cares, anyway? Nothing matters anymore except going down with a fight.

I lift the weapon, take aim, and shoot.

The first soldier goes down with a thud. I wasn't expecting that one. The fool must have forgotten to put on the helmet of his indestructable armor. Let's hope the others did as much.

I shoot again, but the dead one's companions either have more brains or more luck than him, because none of my bullets hit them. They've had the time to get closer, now, and both are pointing their guns at me. In fact, I'm not sure why they haven't killed me yet. But I'm going to take advantage of it.

I launch myself at one, using Iris' knife to rip his boots, and then his feet, off. He's already dead from loss of blood when the last one regains his senses and points the gun at me.

My death is slow, but not painful. I see him pull the trigger, see the bullet shooting out of the barrel. I don't feel it as it pierces my chest, but when I look down, I see a small rose of blood forming on my shirt, spreading until the cloth is soaked and red. It's actually a pretty sight. Who would have thought death was this peaceful? Now I understand Iris. Dying sure is better than living...

My last conscious thought before I let the darkness envelop me is that I've broken my promise to my sister.