When he is sure he is no longer being followed, he tucks himself away into a bush and opens his backpack. Slowly and quietly, he tells himself, listening for the sound of rustling leaves.
A moment later, he digs into the pack, laying his findings out across the dirt. His mouth waters as first he finds a plum. He clutches it in his hand, gazing upon the perfect purple shine, the smoothness of the skin, the flawless round shape. . .This will forever be his prized possession, he decides as he places it in a small leather pouch.
He digs blindly back into the largest pocket and comes up with a cut across his palm. "Ouch!" he exclaims, drawing his hand to his chest. He clasps his uninjured hand over his mouth as he realizes his mistake. His heart races. He stills, wide eyes darting around. There is nothing, and he breathes a sigh of relief.
Carefully, he reaches in and draws out a knife. The tip is curved and cruel, the handle ornate. He gently presses the point of it into his finger and one droplet of blood makes its way carefully down his hand.
He grits his teeth as he realizes that his left hand is covered entirely with blood. "Shit," he whispers, touching the long cut with a shaking hand. He was doing so well. He has a backpack with food and a bottle of water and weapons - and now he fears he may not be able to use his hand.
He remembers Atala's bitter words: "Infections can kill. Most of the time, in the Hunger Games, they do." She'd smiled (it was more of a smirk, really) as if it were all a fairy tale. Surely Capitolites make connections with the tributes. Surely they grieve them sometimes.
A single tear slides down his face. He's not going to be remembered. Cameras may have been glancing at him periodically before, but now that the bloodbath has ceased, everyone is going to see him cry. They're replaying his sheer stupidity right now, and Caesar Flickerman is laughing at his reaction of fear and surprise when his hand comes up bloody.
He reaches into the pack once more and finds one slice of bread with a small capsule of jam. Putting the food items in the pouch, he stands up. He swings the backpack over his shoulder.
Later that night, his hand starts to burn. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself not to cry any longer. He clenches his teeth and holds back a whimper. He has to be strong, like he always told Cambria he would.
He falls to his knees, remembering Cambria. Her bright blue eyes, her smiling face, her bright laugh. She is only ten. There must be horror flashing across her face as she realizes that her brother will die.
He produces a match from the front pocket of his backpack and draws it across a rough stone. In the dim light, he can see pus and dirt lining his wound, red streaks exploding from it.
"You see that?" he whispers, facing a knot in the tree. There are cameras everywhere. "That's an infection. I'm going to win for you, Cambria." He turns away. They don't broadcast everything, but who else could be doing something more exciting? It doesn't matter, anyway. He said it. He meant it. Cambria might see it. She might not.
The sky lights up with the Panem crest flashing across the sky, the anthem playing. It all sounds much louder on television. First in the sky is the boy from District three. He can remember the boy's name: Atticus. Atticus had screamed his name just hours ago in the blood bath. He'd kept moving forward. He could have saved his life.
Both tributes from five died, which wasn't unexpected. They almost always do.
He closes his eyes and leans against the tree trunk. The air is still sweltering, and his breaths are heavy.
He pours the capsule of jelly onto the bread and folds it, shoveling it into his face. Food feels so good. His stomach still aches, but as he spreads the jam over his mouth with his tongue, he breathes a sigh of satisfaction.
He holds the plum in front of his face, turning it in his hands. Meals in the arena are not like meals in District Eight, but his first meal is delicious. He pierces the skin of the plum with his teeth, grinning as the flavor explodes in his mouth.
Later, he throws the pit away from him and curls up by a tree. He cries for Atticus, although he isn't sure why. His stomach still feels empty. After the triumph of his first meal, he's certain that he will never last.
An Author's Note:
This was for the ''The Quest of a Hero'' challenge at Caesar's Palace. This is led by Zero and consists of ten levels (quests) where you're presented with options (which will then lead to your prompt), each of which has various advantages and disadvantages. There are classes and word count minimums and upgrades and it's very fun and complex. Check it out! The prompt was "First meal".