Disclaimer: I own not the Hunger Games or Suzanne Collins's works but my writing. I don't even really own the plot itself.
A/N: Because I'm morbid XD Ask Sole. Anyway, this is basically a recording of all the deaths, each one has its own little one-shot. And, btw, sorry if someone did this already. And I won't exactly record all their thoughts, cuz I do know that some people have done certain deaths, for sure. Hopefully this won't disappoint you. Enjoy, review!
Thanks to: Anda, for your kind review.
.A rather short chapter, despite the fact that it's for the boy from D-9, the boy with the backpack.
. . .
.Never in Your Favor.
Death Ten: Boy, District Nine
. . .
I think I'll go down fighting. Well, hopefully not "go down," at all, but fight. Even though I'm from District Nine—not a Career, not someone important, really—I'll try. I have to at least attempt to win this. Dying…it's not something I've ever wanted to experience, not yet.
Once I know that I am going to attempt this, I feel settled, content. But not relaxed. Never relaxed.
Relaxation's not safe. If I become relaxed, my guard is down. I can't let my guard go down. I have to fight, have to try.
As soon as I hear a bell-like sound but louder, deeper, I streak away from my designated spot towards the glinting Cornucopia. There! An orange backpack! It could help me, keep me safe, hold what I need.
Because of this, I lunge for it.
A girl with a dark braid that's already begun to become unraveled—the girl from 12, the girl who was on fire—grabs at it at the same time I do. Angrily, I tug it towards myself. I deserve it, I need it more. She pulls on it desperately, and for a second, I feel my heart stop.
Complications. I don't want this girl going for this backpack. I need this backpack. More than she does. I have to win, I have to try!
With a burst of power, I pull it back at myself, and she stumbles. I give it another tug, but she counters. It goes on like this for many long moments, agonizingly long. Who knows how much time we've spent doing this?
Suddenly, there's a sharp pain in my back, and I cough involuntarily, letting go of the straps of the orange pack. The blood from my throat manifests itself on the girl's face, and I can't help but think how repulsive it looks there, my blood on her skin, her nose, her lips, her eyes.
Then I stagger downwards, and my blood drips onto the grass. All I've done is pull at a backpack. I didn't even get to go down fighting. I haven't even really tried.