WARNING: This chapter contains content that may not be suitable for all readers. Viewer discretion is advised.
This is a chapter will be posted as a separate one shot as well. Enjoy!
I inhale the frosty air around me. I let my eyes flutter shut, the light snowflakes landing on my face. After several moments, I open up.
The snow is red.
I sit up. All about me is a crimson wonderland. Beads of blood hang from my parka, the color of the icicles that dangle from the overhang is, once again, red. I grin.
Glancing down to my clothes, I see that nearly every inch is drenched with memories of those kids. The wind howls just like they had. The ice is as cold as their lifeless bodies. Oh, how I would kill to watch the life drain from their eyes again, I think with a cackle.
I close my eyes again, and I envision my favorite victim: Willa Preston. Her blue eyes were full of fear and tears, her small frame quivering as she sobs. Oh, please don't hurt me! the little bitch had begged. Please, please! I'll do anything! She didn't shut up! Why don't they ever shut up? Had I known she was a loud one, I would've gotten an axe to really hack that bitch up. But I didn't have one, so I just accepted the opportunity to make my mark. I pinned her down, and I cut her wherever I could reach. My slices were shallow so she wouldn't die right away. What I did after was surely censored.
I tug my bag to my side, and I zip it open. Peering inside, I admire the glossy heart that sits on a pack of crackers. The blood has seeped into the packaging, therefore soaking the food. Some of it has been absorbed by the sack's fabric, the liquid freezing. Licking my chapped lips, I close the bag.
Pushing myself up from the cherry ground, I skim the horizon. I just know that I'm being broadcasted right now. Impossibly, my grin broadens. Everybody thought that I was weak, vulnerable, innocent. My family and neighbors were already preparing my inevitable funeral when I was reaped. My mentor refused to represent me. The other tributes laughed at me during training. Those Gamemakers gave me a four. The sponsors thought I was a joke.
I look to my feet, my beloved weapon at them. I feel my lips twist into a nefarious smirk as I grab its handle. The long knife almost slips from my fingers, the accumulated blood decreasing friction. I swipe the blade through the air, flecks of the fluid flying off.
"Now, would you look at that?" I giggle, my head tilting to the side as I appraise the knife. "The 'four' has a knife! Who would've thought? After all, he's just a blubbering idiot who can't even hurt an injured fly, begging to be put out of its misery."
I cut my dialogue short, the blood now dripping onto my knuckles.
"I guess that's the difference between him and I, Xander Johansen. See here, I would've killed that fly without a second thought."
Concluding with a wicked smile, I trudge to the overhang. I tuck my knife under my backpack, and I curl up against the stone wall. The sun disappearing, I doze off.
...
I'm pulled from my tranquil sleep by a rough shake. Swatting away whatever woke me up, I prepare for rest again. However, I am slapped across the face.
My eyes bolt open, and I sit up. I reach to my right for my knife, only to find nothing. I turn tomy surroundings. The night sky is devoid of stars; the only object in it is a full moon. Everywhere, the snow is crimson. The ice is red, and blood drips from any vegetation. It's like my little paradise has expanded. But how?
I search around for my attacker, a fist raised in defense. "Come on out. Come out, come out wherever you are," I sing. My response is silence.
Frowning, I touch my throbbing cheek. The wind couldn't have done this. Also, it couldn't have taken my stuff. Are the Gamemakers just fucking with me? If so, it's not very funny.
"Why?" a voice asks. I turn around to see my very first prey: Hercules Pfeiffer. He looms over me, his shady figure in the same state in which the hovercraft had picked him up in. The jacket that covers his chest is permeated with red; I know that there are stab wounds beneath. "Why'd you kill me?"
"Why?" another one says behind me. Victoria Vesualla stands before me, a shadow casting over half of her mutilated face. "Why'd you kill me?"
"Why?" Lucas Patton asks as he steps out from nowhere, an icicle protruding from his forehead. "Why'd you kill me?"
One by one, my victims appear, those same two sentences on their lips. Hadley del Mar. Grace Madden. Quentin Hinckley. Abriana Gilligan. Tristan Gallardo. Fiore Montgomery.
"Why?" a soft, angelic voice inquires. I don't have to turn anywhere; the newcomer is directly before me, the semicircle complete. Unlike the others, this person isn't concealed by any means whatsoever, the full moon right above her halo of stained blonde curls. Willa Preston is emotionless, her body sliced open from the chin down. Dirt and blood mars her skin and clothing. "Xander Johansen, why'd you kill us?"
My breath catches in my throat. They're dead, they're all dead. What the hell are they doing here? THIS IS NOT OKAY.
In uncanny unison, the zombies take a step forward. The circle is tightening. "Xander Johansen, why'd you kill us?" they say blankly, their eyes (though some are missing theirs) not leaving me.
I freeze in my place, my muscles refusing to function. A heavy weight slams into my gut, almost knocking me out. Dread spreads through me like a wildfire.
"Y-you're n-not s-s-s-supposed to b-be here," I stutter. "Y-y-you're a-all d-dead. I k-killed you!"
They take another step, sending chills through my spine. "Why'd you kill us, Xander? Why?"
My ears begin to ring, my heart begins to pound.
"Xander Johansen, why'd you kill us?" they chant in creepy tones. My vision goes blurry. "Why'd you kill us?"
"I don't know!" I scream at them. I suck in a breath before speaking again. "I DON'T KNOW, OKAY? LEAVE ME ALONE!"
From behind the line of my prey, the other tributes, alive or deceased, materialize.
"Why'd you kill them, Xander?" Lilac LeBeou asks, the frozen tears on her ice-blue cheeks reflecting moonlight. "Why'd you kill them?"
"Why'd you kill us, Xander?" says Caden Conrad from the first set of tributes, Fiore's rag doll in his bloody fist. "Why'd you kill us?"
"Why'd you kill, Xander?" they all shout. I watch them as they join hands together. "Why'd you kill?"
A wave of nausea and fear slaps me hard. Doubling over, I retch until I'm positive that I'll puke my guts out. Instantly, the vomit disappears.
"WHY'D YOU KILL, XANDER?" the tributes bellow. Blood pounds in my ears, my limbs feel heavy and bile rises in my throat. "WHY'D YOU KILL?"
"STOP IT!" I screech, and I clamp my palms over my ears as if I can block the onslaught. "JUST STOP IT!"
"WHY?" they scream at deafening volumes. "XANDER JOHANSEN, TELL US WHY!"
Almost as if someone has flicked a switch, all numbness is gone. With no strength or willpower left, I collapse into a sobbing mess. Hot tears stream down my face. I clutch my stomach as desperation eats away. I direct all my troubles into a feral yell.
"I'm sorry," I wail. "I'm so, so SORRY! I'M SORRY I KILLED YOU GUYS! PLEASE, I'M SORRY, I AM SORRY!"
Pain repeatedly batters me as I press my palms to my soaking eyes. My throat goes raw with my profuse apologies. I will myself to stop crying, but I just can't.
As my sobs turn quiet, I hear the soft crunch of snow. I look up to see that Willa has broken from the crowd. She returns the stare with a blank face. Wordlessly, she procures a knife, my knife. The thick layer of blood, both fresh and crusty, is the same. I've never wiped the blade clean; it even has Hercules', my very first one.
She offers it to me, and I happily accept.
I pull myself to my feet as Willa returns to her spot in the semicircle. They all train their eyes on me in silence, the moon glinting off their blood.
I avert my attention to the weapon. I look at the crimson tool, and I take a deep breath.
"Why?" I whisper, but I'm sure that they heard it, too. "Why'd I kill?"
And I plunge knife into my heart.
