D to the I to the S-claimer: I do not, will not, and have not (Owned, will own, own) the Hunger Games trilogy, which this FF DOES happen to contain spoilers for!

This is what you've all been waiting for (I know I have!), I'm starting to throw in a bit of action! Do you like analogies? Action : Stories :: Spices : Food

I needed to overcome this chronic fear of going places without my knife.

Not a fear, more like a fetish. Kind of. I was obsessed with taking my knife every time I set foot outside, or even when I was inside. I might as well just attach it to my hand – walk around with it, sleep with it, eat with it.

I was standing by the crack in the door, watching my dad shuffle around in the kitchen, his fatigue evident in his posture and expression. I didn't want to go back out there – not really, not after what had happened in the kitchen. A light shudder passed through me, and I had to take a deep breath to keep my cheeks from turning hot pink.

But along with my father, outside of my room was my knife. Just a little token that made me feel safe and would help me coin some prey if I did end up finding any.

The animals! Where had I put them? I laughed, seeing their carcasses – the blood dry, eyes staring into the distance – just sitting on the couch. My mom might kill me, but it was dirty anyway. My dad thought I was in here having – girl troubles – which was good and bad.

Good, because he would cover with me on the whole leaving-dead-things-on-the-couch part.

Bad, because I couldn't go out for a walk with my knife because he would get suspicious of me walking while I had cramps.

I sighed, staring at my forlorn knife. Staring at it wouldn't bring it towards me – although that would be pretty darn cool.

I left the door, leaving also hopes of snagging my knife. I began to lay my fingers on the murky surface of the window, to pop it out of its little socket so I could escape, but then I got another thought. I ought to leave a note or something, on the off chance that they come in here or maybe I get lost and they start to wonder (twenty hours later, of course) where their daughter could possibly be.

I was a teenager, but that wouldn't matter to them. I might as well be Jib, my little brother. He was only eight. Almost nine, but still eight. They would wait the same amount of time to check up on him – totally wrong – and they still check up on me, like I'm not responsible to hold my life in my own hands for any longer than it takes to, say, make breakfast.

That was mostly my father. Mom was willing to give us a bit of free roam, go out and do things, but dad kept us on a short leash.

I reached down under my bed and found a scrap of paper. It was dusty, but it would work. With a pencil sitting on my night stand, I scribbled a short message in my big, blocky scrawl.

GONE FOR A WALK

IF I'M NOT BACK IN

What was a good time? I didn't want them, twenty minutes later, to be hunting me down? They probably wouldn't even look in my room, not until it was like sun-down, or maybe lunch. If I didn't come out for lunch, my parents would probably assume I had some sort of terminal disease or something.

I could just say a while. That was sort of… interpretive. It gave me a lot of wiggle room, like I could come back in ten minutes or four hours, or maybe even more. I was thinking about this too much.

A WHILE

What now? If I'm not back in a while, come out and call my name like a lost puppy? I shouldn't have put the "IF," it was giving me a tumor in my brain. No, just a headache. Or maybe it was a tumor, who knows.

THEN I WENT FOR A LONG WALK

There. It left no worry room. It was fool-proof. I nodded, satisfied with my work, and propped it up on the pillow of my old, ragged bed.

I laid my hands on the window lightly and shoved it forward. It flew out with surprising force, landing several feet away. I cursed loudly, then threw my hands over my mouth. I glanced back at the door.

"You sure everything's alright?" my father asked, and I could tell he was right by the door.

Crap! Dang! "Yeah, I'm – uh – changing," I answered, a pretty good response for being on the spot.

"You can just wear your nightgown, if you're having your – I mean, you're feeling unwell," he said.

Come on! He just had to make everything difficult by caring so darn much! "No, not – like changing – I mean, I'm –"

"Oh. I understand. Okay, hon, just if everything's okay. "

Understand what? What did he understand? Suddenly, I groaned. He thought I was changing my, er, feminine products, didn't he? Was he just obsessed with embarrassing me as much as he could today? My face felt hot, and I heard him walk away from the door.

I put a hand on the edge of the window – or, where it should have been – and kicked my feet through it, walking over and picking up the window so I could slide it back into place. It took a while, since it seemed determined to go in crooked, but I prevailed eventually. It slipped into its rightful spot, and I began my walk, hands in my pockets.

The rain was cleansing. It wasn't quite a pour, but it was closer to that than a drizzle. It washed away an oncoming headachy feeling, and a thick sort of mush that came with my uncalled-for doze in my room.

I didn't really want to think about anything, just go out and do something. Get my mind off things in a harmless way – that won't require a knife. I felt sort of empty or vulnerable knowing I didn't have it, but what could happen while I was just simply walking around the streets of harmless Town 12?

Harmless, I thought, snorting to myself. I'm sure you could find some pretty good 'harmlessness' if you looked in some pretty low places.

I caught a glimpse of the wet square in the middle of Town 12 between streets. It was scantily decorated for the mild, little-celebrated day for remembrance of when District 12 fell to ash. No one really made a big deal about it – maybe have walks in remembrance of the lives lost, but nothing more. What would you do, go and tell all your friends you're having a party because on this day so many years ago, the people in this town were burnt alive? Bring snacks and drinks? It just didn't work.

But it was pretty odd to think about. Even though it was an obscure holiday, some places closed down for it – possibly because they had relatives (Or would you call them ancestors?) who died on that day.

I turned around a corner and the square closed out of sight. I felt around in my pocket for a loose piece of change, and found a single coin and a large piece of lint.

The piece of lint would probably buy more than the coin.

I sighed, shoving it back in my pocket and leaving my hand there.

I was getting completely soaked, my hair wet and my clothes sagging with the moisture of the rain in them. I was shivering lightly; but otherwise, I lived in the phoenix, so I was used to it. The gloomy weather was just a part of the package when you lived here.

I suddenly heard footsteps, above the rain.

Who's out now? Anyone out now is completely insane.

Example one most likely being me.

I turned around, and caught a glimpse of a tall person in a black hooded jacket with dark denim jeans on. One of his hands was in his pocket, and the other was hanging by his side, curled into a fist. His head was tilted down, so shadows engulfed his face, and I couldn't make out his features.

He looked like a classic textbook creeper, to me. And best of all, he was following me.

I turned around a corner, and I would have run, but – it just seemed to paranoid and crazy, to be honest. So what? A walker whose favorite color was black was out walking. Maybe he was wearing black to mourn a loved one he lost a long time ago, in the revolution. On this day. Something about his gait made me think he was a young person, maybe older than me, but still.

I probably wouldn't have turned around that corner, I realized, if it weren't for this guy. He hadn't come around yet, though, so maybe I was just insane. I sort of let a breath out I hadn't realized I had been holding, but then I saw him. He was walking faster, now.

I started walking faster, too. Wouldn't you?

I went around another corner, and spotted my favorite dark and desolate alleyway. I took a quick look over my shoulder and then broke off, running for it.

I ducked into it, poking my head out to see what he did.

He came around the corner and stopped immediately, looking over at the direction I had gone in.

"See that guy? He's my friend. Don't run from him," a voice behind me whispered, and grabbed my throat.

I immediately jumped back, screaming, before he slapped a hand onto my mouth. I kicked and flailed, but air was barely trickling into my lungs. I bit his hand as hard as he could, and he swore and lifted his hand, balling it into a fist and punching me in the gut.

I had the bittersweet taste of blood in my mouth, and I felt some run out the corner of my lip. I bent over, and the boy holding me shoved me over, my head smacking into the brick wall.

The other guy came running in and pulled off his hood.

It was Keenan Lot, a boy I knew. I had seen his face before, from school. He was two years older than me. He had a hard face, and he didn't talk much. He blinked, letting on a bit of sympathy in his expression, but not enough. I kicked up a foot and it landed right between his legs, and he grunted, his face crumpling with pain.

He revealed his hand, the one balled into a fist. Inside it was a knife, and he raised it up.

"Hey! We're not killing her," the one choking me said.

"Not yet," Keenan growled, and he slashed the knife across my face, making me feel an immediate hot, sharp pain in my cheek.

I sucked in a breath, but no air came, and I went limp, unconscious.