The world and premise belongs to Suzanne Collins. I'm just playing in her sandbox!
Playing The Game
The healing wounds on my hands tell me it's been at least three days since the accident. The stiffness of my joints tell me I haven't moved in two days. I gingerly stretch my arms above my head, my fists clenched, still ready for combat. The action hurts. I try to stretch my legs. I can barely restrain a groan escaping my lips. I'm lying on my side, debating whether I should turn over onto my back to check out my surroundings, or retreat to my stomach and shield my already injured limbs.
I choose the latter, but not before quickly sneaking a peek at the arena. Unsurprisingly, my environment hasn't changed. The trees stand as stubbornly strong as ever, the masses of them broken up here and there by clumps of rock. The stillness of the air, the piercing brightness of the blue sky with its yellow lamp beating down, the peace, nothing suggests the bloody brawl that brought me here a few days ago. Aside from my interuptions (an orange back pack and my pool of blood) this spot seems undisturbed, perfect for a nap maybe.
But this is no time to be thinking about naps. I need to do more than light stretching of my body. I need to move. Fast. Its unsafe to be out in the open for too long. And in any case, I've been out cold for two days; I don't know any of the other tributes whereabouts. My eyes train in on a concealed area, a shelter of rocks and moss. I quickly scurry to it. I breathe through the aches, the pain. I allow myself three sips of water, a handful of berries. I use moss to remove the blood stains from my knives, the only evidence that my bloodbath was not a dream. Visions of blood splatters on rocks, knives in the air and screams of torture come back to me. The boy from 1, a gaping hole in his neck as he bleeds to death. The girl from 4, her blonde hair turning scarlet from her head wound. The blinding pain of a knife slicing into the skin of my upper thigh. A clap of thunder that announced the arrival of a feared tribute. The scrambling of the other tributes to escape her wrath. Blackness.
I catch the glint of a knife from my old spot in the open space. The dried blood thats splattered over the blade, the handle. I drag my body just far enough to the mouth of my covered area so that my arm can reach the knife. I notice something besides the dried blood thats on the knife as I pull it close. A plush green leaf. Scribbled on the leaf, in someones blood, are two words. Two words that would evoke fear in even the bravest of men. But I find myself grinning, and I let the cameras catch sight of this; my fearless smile and the threat. Two words that excite me, enthrill me. You're next.