She was fifteen years old when she became a murderer.
She remembered it at least on a weekly basis; it had reached the point now where the only time it bothered her to recall was in the midst of a dream, when she could not actively choose what to do or how to feel. She remembered the frozen look of shock, more than anything, on the older boy's face, how he had stared at her with such unbelief as the blood spurted in a hot, thick spray from his throat. She remembered the harsh, guttural noises escaping him as he tried to speak, the knife's blade partially severing his vocal cords and thus rendering his efforts ineffective. She remembered the sticky warmth of his blood splattering her skin, how she had not flinched, how she had in fact almost welcomed its sensation, for it was the marker of her victory over him. The boy was taller and older, no doubt every bit as physically strong if not more so than she, but in the end it had not mattered. In the end, she had nevertheless managed to outlast him, to literally bring him to his knees and then to his end before her, just as she had every other child in the arena.
The boy had died expressing his astonishment more so than his physical anguish, without enough time to even begin to process that his expected outcome of events was not to be. But she had known as she stood her ground before him, watching the life fade out of his eyes, that he was not the only one to be amazed by this turn of circumstances. She knew then without a doubt that every person watching her on their screens, every possible sponsor and infuriatingly, every single person in her family were no doubt watching her with their eyes bulging and their jaws dropped, half convinced that they were somehow mistaken in what they saw. She alone had known what she was capable of, what she must do and be to be able to succeed in the games, and she alone had calculated her timing of when to show herself in her own true image.
The Capital and all the Districts might have had no faith in her; they might have mocked and sneered and expected her death to be swift and sufficiently gory to satisfy their own lustful cravings. But she would never let them have their will, not if she could help it. And although this was to be her first killing, it was hardly her last. Johanna Mason was, if never to be set free, allowing herself to be unleased, and if she could not strike back at those she truly despised, she would nevertheless show them exactly what it was she could do.
Johanna had never wanted to be in the Games. She was not that stupid, despite her significant amount of pride, even as a teenager or child. She knew, even before her own name was called, that the players of the games were nothing more than pawns in the greater scheme of things, that they were examples and scapegoats rather than people, rather than children or those justly punished for a crime. She had no love of pain and no desire for glory, not if it had to come to her in that manner. But from the moment her name was called, and the crowd at large assumed her fate to be set, she made up her mind to make them eat their expectations.
She might be a girl; she might be small and in the middle range of ages, and it might be true that no female from her district had ever won before. But as Johanna stood on the stage, her chin lifted, her ears burning with a mixing of emotions that even she could not fully name, she made up her mind then and there that she would make sure she was not just one of the many losers, another face in the parade of death. She would not only win, she would make sure that she was not to be forgotten.
District seven, Johanna's home district, was neither a "loser" district nor one considered ripe for success, as in the first three, the Careers. Growing up, Johanna had not consciously trained for the games, though as far back as she could recall, there had always been that nagging concern, in the back of her mind, that she or others who mattered to her would be selected, their name ringing out through the crowd with no escape from the fate that would await them. But she had been the youngest of two brothers, scrappy and tomboyish in her efforts to keep up, and she had become strong at an early age, used to handling axes, saws, and other equipment needed to work with the lumber of her district. Johanna had never been one to back down from a fight or a challenge, and each time she lay down for the night with a newly blackened eyes or scraped up arms and ribs, she had always made sure that her opponent received equal, if not worse, marks of their skirmish. It had always been her struggle and her effort to make herself known and heard, not only in her family but in her community at large, and it was this communal understanding of her that had forced Johanna to reevaluate who she must become in the course of the games.
She had stood woodenly, still grimly disbelieving, as she was allowed to bid her family goodbye, still trying to comprehend what had just occurred. As her parents embraced her, their touch was already distant, even stiff, and her brothers' hands clapping her on the back had been less rough than they normally would be. Johanna had looked into her mother's eyes as she said goodbye and she knew that the woman had already accepted as a fact that she would never see her daughter again, that Johanna didn't have a chance of being victor at all. She had watched her father's cheek twitch, his jaw tense as he avoided her gaze, and she had heard the roughness of his voice as he said to her, "Just do your best, Johanna."
She had heard every unspoken word from all of them, and each hit her straight in the chest as though she had been punched. Because what they did not say, she could have easily recited back to them.
Don't embarrass us, Johanna. You will die, but don't be the first to go. This is the last time I'll ever see you, Johanna. Better you than us…better our daughter than our sons.
She heard it, every unvoiced word, could feel the reluctant relief mixed in with their pain, and the anger and fierce sense of injustice she had felt all her life began to burn stronger and more fiercely than ever before. Still Johanna shoved it down, suppressing it until the time would come for it to serve her well. She began instead to plot her strategy of battle- no, her strategy of war.
She was not, she knew, someone who would win by brute strength and skill; although her skills might be impressive for a female in district seven, she could not win out by running out with her most forceful effort from the start and taking the others on immediately. Not when they were all eager and adrenalized, at their peak of strength, endurance, and health. It would do her well instead to bide her time, to concentrate on preserving her own energy and making sure she rested and ate when she could. If she could simply wait long enough, when the numbers were down and the others had been injured and weakened, when they had gone without water and food and had already worn themselves down, and then swoop in still at her own maximum level, then her chances of winning- of conquering- would be that much greater.
Johanna would make this game her own, with no allies, no one she trusted outside herself. When she became victor- and she did not let herself think for a moment that she might not- then she would have no one she would have to share credit with. It would all be on her own shoulders, due to her own cunning and skill.
But it would require acting on her part as well, playing a part that would irritate her to no end for others to believe to be genuine- and yet, it was required, the only way she could possibly get the results she needed. So it was with grudging irritation that she could never let show that Johanna soon slated herself in a role that would again cause her to stand out from the others, yet would, at least at first, allow her to be forgotten. The crier, the weakling, the one who surely could not endure. She made herself small and defenseless, weak and insecure, crying during her interview, withdrawing from the other children to sob and refuse to take part in training. Even during her scoring Johanna demurred from showing any skills she possessed, choosing instead to pretend to struggle with weights and knife throwing and then to break into tears, as though overwhelmed by her own uselessness.
She received a score of 2; she knew she would have no sponsors, and she had heard the booing and jeering of the crowd during her interview. She knew, though she could not see, how disgusted her family must be, how her father must be shaking his head, her mother covering her eyes, her brothers too ashamed to hold their head up around their peers. But it was the only way, and when they saw the truth, she knew it would be that much more satisfying to prove them wrong.
And she had. When the Games started, she had stayed on the outskirts, scampering off rather than staying to fight at the Cornucopia or seeking out any individuals to kill. She had remained as far apart from them as possible, frequently climbing the trees she was so familiar with. She had collected due from leaves and was knowledgeable enough of trees to identify which of those she could eat the bark and leaves of, and for the first few days, Johanna had conserved all energy, moving as little as possible and eating as much as she could manage to scrape together without venturing from her chosen location area.
By the time she had heard the canon shots and watched the faces flash across the sky enough to know that only six others remained, Johanna was ready and felt strong and confident of her own ability. She had calculated which of the others were left for her to fight, what they could be expected to try against her, based off their skills shown in training, and how she herself could combat them. She had formed a makeshift weapon of her own, breaking off branches and using the smallest, thinnest, most supple branches to tie them into bundles she could use to drop on someone or hit them with. Hardly the most effective weapon, but then, Johanna was not going for an instant death. She needed only to take someone by surprise, just as had been her plan from the start.
It was not difficult to call someone to her. She had spent the day moving among the trees, remaining silent, and when she found a lone child, clearly worn down and exhausted, she had shimmied up, setting her trap. From her perch above she had begun to loudly make the sobbing noises of someone exhausted and frightened long past endurance, seeking out his attention. She had smirked to herself as he turned wildly in circles, trying to seek her out, and inadvertently walked right into her path of fire. Johanna had then began to rain down the bundles of branches onto him, noting with vicious satisfaction his bewilderment as his arms went up, trying to protect himself from the falling objects- and leaving himself with no mode of defense from attack, with no weapon in his hand.
And that was when she had leapt down from the tree, directly on top of him, knocking him to the ground. Winded, already weary, the boy had tried to buck her off him, to get hold of the knife at his belt loop to use against her, but Johanna had the advantage, the element of surprise, and she reached it easily enough. She had savored the moment, holding the knife to his throat and looking deep into his eyes, and she had felt in that moment no horror, no reluctance, no guilt or shame, but rather a lingering satisfaction.
She had taken his knife then and what other supplies he had, and she had made her way throughout the game, conquering the next two in a near identical fashion. When it was down to just three others, Johanna had collected enough weaponry to be able to straight out attack in a more indiscriminately brutal fashion, and by then she had worked up enough adrenaline and let out enough of her rage that she almost thoroughly enjoyed it.
By the time it was down to just her and one other, a district 3 male who had already nearly been torn to pieces by the district 2 male he had just managed to kill, she was still barely injured, having received only minor scrapes, scratches, and bruises from those trying, with her on top, to fight back. The final male had put up more of a fight- Johanna had emerged in victory with broken ribs and jaw, a broken nose and a deep stab wound to the side of her ribs. But she had emerged all the same, soaked in blood of herself and six others, barely conscious, her eyes rolling backwards in her head so she could see nothing but flashes of dark and red. And yet she was grinning, exhilarated and defiant every bit as much as triumphant. For she had survived. She had survived, her rage as much as her determination carrying her through.
She had thought it over, afterwards, that she had won out, that she was now untouchable. She was a victor, after all, she had proven herself to be the best, and they could not come after her any longer. She had survived, she had outsmarted everyone in the arena, and so with the foolish cockiness of a fifteen-year-old high on her own success, Johanna had thought herself to be beyond even the Capital's grasp. Her tongue, hand in hand with her anger, had always been a source of trouble for her before, and now, with the eyes of all on her, it became her downfall.
A few ill chosen words against the Capital in her interview, one incident of an upraised middle finger on the screens, and one sneered comment about her own now legendary status in her district, and Johanna could not escape without sharp consequences for her transgressions. One by one, she was made to understand in grim certainty exactly what she was now to the Capital- a commodity, a bit player and puppet in their larger performance. And if she were to somehow forget her lines or her role, then they would make certain to help her to remember, one person at a time.
Her childhood friend went first, dragged out into the public square to be beaten to death for a transgression unproven to have ever occurred at all. Next were Johanna's grandparents, whose home mysteriously burned down, leaving nothing but rubble and ashes behind. Her father was next, with a supposed accidental incident with an ax in the line of his work, though other employees went gray and silent whenever Johanna demanded, then begged for answers. Her brothers each died swift and equally mysterious diseases, coughing up blood and eventually choking on their own efforts to respirate, before Johanna's own eyes. By the time they got to her mother, they did not even bother to attempt to hide the true reason behind her death from Johanna; they simply killed her in front of her, while holding a gun to Johanna's own throat so she could not interfere. And by the time they got to her mother, Johanna had become so numbed, so utterly accustomed to murder, that any pain and grief she had felt before had been replaced with numbness.
She would have thought that her anger would be dulled too, muted along with all other possible emotions. But it alone continued to burn within her heart. She could not, would not tamper it down with alcohol or morphling, with suicidal gestures or seeking out of pleasure. Her ongoing rage was everything that kept her going, everything that made it worth it to stay alive, and for this, Johanna struggled on, ever watchful, every determined that one day, somehow, she would at last be able to put it fully to use. That one day, the anger she had nourished so strongly would set things to justice, and she would be the one to carry it out.
One day.