Author's Note: It's been a year. But here I am to finish this drabble set off. This time with good writing.
I don't clench my fists; they taught me that a long time ago. It increases your aerodynamics. Or so they say.
Maybe it was just me that was slow, because it didn't help. Picture it- there I am, feet pressing against the matted stale grass, heading towards the cornucopia.
Reaching for a sword, hand latching onto the smooth metal hilt. Looking up, and as in slow motion, seeing the hand reaching for my throat.
The sword falling from my hand, the hands on my throat tightening. Reaching to my throat, but not reaching far enough before the last breath presses itself out of my windpipe.
Not being able to take another breath is crippling. Literally. Everything shattered, glass flying everywhere.
Then nothing.
