Disclaimer: The storyline and plot etc. do not belong to me, but the characters do. This story still belongs to Suzanne Collins and I am not her. I am Cait, Queen of the Nerds and the first Men
Are you, are you
Coming to the tree?
Where dead man called out
For his love to flee.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met at midnight
In the hanging tree.
"Run!" Robert's voice screamed, compelling me forward. "Run! Go! Get out of here!" His eyes scanned my figure as I ran, my feet stumbling. He had waited for the noose to be slipped over his head, the gnarled branches of the tree supporting the loose end of the rope.
Robert's black eyes burned sorrowfully into me the entire time that he was on the gallows, his body gaunt from the prison cell, his hair dreaded and matted, the original brown colour of his skin was replaced by a pasty, unhealthy orange tinge caused by stress. My heart was filled with sadness at the sight of him, but that was not enough to keep him- or me- alive.
I kept running, my legs burning, my lungs expanding painfully in my chest, but I didn't stop until I was through the un-electrified fence of our district. I ran through the meadow and into the forest, where I was safe. I dropped into a foetal position and sobbed into my knees, sobbing because I had lost the exotic looking man, whose family had moved into Panem from Spain in the years before the districts had divided.
I ran my hand through my short, dark hair and wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my winter coat, pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of my pants. But that did not postpone my sobbing. I was a mess and in the end, I fell asleep, nestled among the roots of an oak tree.
I awoke with a scream, my hands clawing at my neck. I had dreamt that they hanged me instead of my Robert. I awoke with blood beneath my nails from clawing, a stinging on my neck. I needed to get my neck cleaned, but I couldn't go back. Not quite yet. It was too early, and they'd want to take me in and most likely hang me too. And then his pain would be all for naught.
I knew what they would've done. They would've beaten him until he begged for mercy and then killed him, hanged him slowly, savouring the way that his face twisted in agony or turned the rich shade of purple characterised by asphyxiation, savouring the sound of a snapping neck.
I shuddered at the thought of the peace-keepers throwing his body down, maybe chopping the rope which could be taut due to the weight of the muscle straining on it, dragging his corpse to the front porch of his mother's house so she could bury him. I would help her, I would have to. I would be morally obliged to help her clean up the blood that stained his body from the beatings, pushing the separated vertebrae back into place. I would be morally obliged to console her as she wept over her ruined son and possibly be there to take the blame as she grieved.
I pressed my lips into the palms of my hand, savouring the feel of the last kiss that we shared, locking that thought deep inside my mind, where no-one could take the memory…
"He's gone…"