The After

by Her-Imperial-Viciousness

Post-Mockingjay. The Capitol has wrestled the rule back after 40 years of submission, and immediately instigates the 76th games. 26 tributes, all with issues over their own varying from mental illness, pregnancy, and everything else, compete for a title that they so recently considered a bitter relic of a terrible past. Rated T for (lots of) morbidity and very subtle sexual themes.

Slam, slam, slam, slam, slam! I glower at the throwing knives, mentally daring them to be off, to be imperfect. I scrutinize them, sleek metal buried in the prosthetic dummy skulls. My eyes narrow at the last one last one; it hit the shoulder, the cloth-wrapped hilt off-kilter, leaning away as if in shame at it's impertinence. I rip the arm off the dummy and slam it to the floor, then the other arm, the legs, the head, smashing them on the ground, fake bones cracking and skidding across the floor.

80% does not win. Almost doesn't cut it. Only perfect, absolutely 100% perfect will make me a victor.

Luckily, I'm better at other things. Every other thing with a blade.

My fingers wrap around the still-buried knife, the heft awkward in my hand. Behind my eyelids, clove throws one, her arm moving sharply as she sends it hissing through the air.

I'm not as good as her, never has good as her, even now, when her expert hands lay motionless beside her still body, six feet under rock and dirt.

The image of Clove that throws knives in my head fades, replaced by her body in big hands that dent her skull.

Thresh.

He murdered my sister, murdered her.

Cracked her skull without even breaking the skin.

To have one of his offspring in my hunger games would be too good to hope for. But his eyes are lightless too, and with pleasure I can assume he has no such luxury and burial.

The dummy still lies about my feet in pieces, mocking me.

The knife kisses my left wrist softly, crying red tears that pool around my curled fingers.

Suddenly, an alarm blares. 10:00. Time for my reaping.

My reaping. The words swirl through my mind, blood-red and rich with anticipation.

My eyes flicker around the room, and, for half a moment, I wonder if I will come back. Doubt flashes and dissolves, and my hand flies to my cheek, connecting so hard I see stars.

Slap, slap, slap.

Clove is back in my head, this time her body is dead and decayed, cheekbones protruding through rotting flesh.

She is screaming so loud they can barely fit out of her mouth, her lips tearing at the corners.

Win. Win. Win. Win. Win. Win. WIN.