A figure emerges from the treeline, and I squint against the blazing orange sun. It's one of the Tributes. A girl. And I can tell from the way she holds her body that it takes every last ounce of energy and resolve to make these final steps. She is hunched over, stumbling under the weight of her own body. I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees, glancing around furtively in hopes the Careers haven't noticed yet.

I shade my brow with one hand, and she shuffles closer, heading directly for the supplies. The booby-trapped supplies. I cringe and consider what to do. Warn her? Go after her myself? Just wait and see what happens? I don't know, and I feel despicable for not knowing.

But it's then—in the midst of my self-misery—that I recognize the dark hair, the braid, the olive-toned skin. It's Katniss. What is she doing? Why is she out in the open? Why is she here?

I risk everything and scream at her to back away, that it's not worth it. To run and hide—and win. But she cannot hear me. She approaches steadily—as steadily as she can. Like an alcoholic or morphling looking for a fix, she's unable to see or process anything else until that intense physical craving is satisfied. And I can tell by her gaunt face and hollow eyes exactly what it is that she needs so desperately. I've seen it before. She is starving.

I stand and scream, again and again. I begin walking toward her, adamant, but she continues on, equally determined. Hand already outstretched toward the sack of shiny red apples I thought to hang at the top of our pyramid, for protection, should the gamemakers decide to introduce any curious—and hungry—animals into the arena. She focuses on the sweet, mouth-watering fruit like she sees nothing else, like she can already taste them, and it carries her forward.

So I run. If she will not or cannot listen, I will make her stop.

But before I can reach her, she steps on one of the mines and the reaction is instantaneous. The force of the blast blows me back in a great cloud of dust and slams my body to the ground. The wind is knocked from deep inside me, and my ears are ringing, ringing. I roll onto my hands and knees, confused and dizzy. And in denial. I fall onto my face and push myself up again. The ground rolls beneath me, but I crawl over the hills without any thought of stopping.

there are no words for the rest. No color to describe what so much dark, blood red mixed with dirt brown looks like. No hand strong enough to wrench me from the depths of grief in which I drown. I am swallowed up. No wail loud enough, visceral enough to empty me of the pain that threatens to split me open. I am already broken.

I want to explode. I am waiting for it. Why not me? Why not me instead?

Kill me now, I beg.

x x x x

Kill me now, I murmur faintly as the boom of a cannon crashes through the chains tethering me to another nightmare. My eyes flutter at the sound. My head aches, and the light is too bright. But it marks the time in the sky and shows me I am well into the second half of the day already. It's as clear as the day around me, but I can't make any sense of it. I've never slept that long in my life. Ever. Of course, I've never been well on the way to dying a slow death, either.

Kill me now.

I wonder if the girl from District 8 thought that, in the deepest recesses of her mind, as she lay on the ground waiting, hoping, for the pain to end. Was it really a merciful death that I gave her? I will not be so lucky. I've hidden myself well, and the Careers are unlikely to find me. But then, I know they wouldn't be the least bit merciful. Just finishing what they started. Too bad they won't have the chance.

Rather than languish here, body and sanity wasting away, I could drag myself from the bank, wash myself clean of my earthen camouflage, and be completely exposed for the finding—and taking. I could ignore the final tin of food in my pocket and refuse to take another sip of water. I could. I could make the end come just a little faster.

But I won't.

My eyes close as a second cannon tears through the air. My ears ring from the sound, and the birds are silent. The only sound is the rushing water so close to me I could touch it. I am almost too weak to remove the water bottle from my side, but I bring it to my mouth and let the drops dribble onto my tongue.

I will not rush to embrace death yet. Not until I have a reason to do so. Right now, I still have one reason not to, one thing holding me back from those beckoning arms.

Katniss has to be out there, somewhere. And I have to know. I have to prove the nightmares false. For deep down, I feel like the worst sort of traitor for fearfully dreaming of her death. As though the existence of the images, even in my mind, are an utter betrayal of who she is—and who I am. As though they negate the confidence I have in her in my dwindling waking moments.

The cannons still ring in my ears, haunting me. Teasing me. Reminding me there are two more ghostly visages to see in the night. But not Katniss. Not her.

I pull the last tin from my pocket and rest it on my stomach. Then I struggle to pry it open. In my half-crazed, fumbling weakness, the act takes minutes. Maybe longer. I really don't know. But finally I manage to remove the lid enough to reach its contents with the tips of my fingers. Slowly, in and out of the blackness, I bring bits and morsels to my mouth. I don't know what it is, and I hardly chew it or taste it. I just allow it to slide down my throat so that I can know, for myself, that I didn't give up too soon. That I tried to the very end.

And then it is finished, and soon, I will remember what it feels like to really starve.

x x x x

The anthem tickles my ears. It sounds more muted than before, which is nice. It was always so very loud. Garishly so. You couldn't hide from it or ignore it. Covering your ears or hiding beneath layers of caked mud wouldn't do it. But it's softer tonight, and I am thankful. My head is pounding, and I don't think I could take the noise. It feels like one misplaced high note would cause it to shatter.

Even my eyelids ache as I force them open, waiting for the images painted onto the black canvas of sky above. I weakly drag my limp arm from my side and test my water bottles. I can still vaguely feel the liquid weight in one of them, and I bring it to my lips. Precious drops run down the side of my face, and I reposition it to avoid the waste, because I don't think I have the energy to unscrew the lid and fill it up. Maybe later.

A smirking face I know too well lights the night. It's Marvel. District 1 will mourn tonight. I just issue a deep exhale of relief.

Then another face. A girl. But not Katniss. Another sigh of relief. And then, sadness. She is young. Too young. The tiny face of the girl from District 11. I remember thinking she wouldn't survive long, but she proved me and many others wrong on that count. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough. But the inevitability of something makes it no less regrettable. And my body throbs from locations too numerous to pinpoint.

The fuzzy thought does occur to me that I'm not as cold as I would expect to be. The chilled air flowing over me should be seeping into me right now, working tenacious tendrils through my layers of muddy insulation. But it's not. In a moment of understanding, I realize something must be offsetting the effects of the cold. Probably a fever. My internal temperature is likely the only thing balancing out the external. Funny how the degenerating ailments ravaging me are actually prolonging my life.

But that seems to be my lot, always trying to make the best of conflicts, always trying to find a way to unify the incongruous. It's exhausting, and I fade into the weariness of it.

x x x x

There's an uncomfortable weight on my chest. It's hard to breathe, and my face feels tight. My eyelids are like heavy blankets that I shove off with great difficulty. Through the darkness I see a strange glint of light reflecting off two large, inhuman black eyes directly above me. The creature leans forward and hisses into my face.

"I finally found you, Lover Boy. I knew I would, if I hunted long enough." Clove. She digs her knee into my chest, and I hear her slide a knife from her belt.

"You were pretty good with that knife of mine. But," she pauses dramatically and lingers close to my ear before muttering menacingly, "I'm better."

She holds the knife in front of my face. It's so black I can't see the edges of the blade, but I don't have to. It's sharp, and it's deadly, and she won't hesitate. This is just the prelude to the show.

"I'm going to kill you. You know that, don't you?" she asks with a sneer, enjoying this. Not expecting an answer. "But I'm going to do it slowly. For all the ways you hurt us."

She drives the knife into my arm. Pain sears through me, and I groan in agony. "That's for all the supplies we lost."

She plunges the blade deep into my other arm, and I choke on the air that escapes me. "That's for Glimmer," she twists the knife sadistically, "and every tracker-jacker sting."

She wraps a hand around my neck and squeezes, pressing her fingers into the excruciating bulge there. "Oh, I'm sorry. You have one, too. They hurt, don't they?" Clove observes sarcastically, knowingly. And not sorry at all.

Clove slides the blade out of my flesh and sits back, considering. "Which leg is the good one?" she asks harshly. "Oh well, no matter."

She sinks the slicing metal into my right thigh. The good one. "That's for cutting Cato," she hisses wickedly, leaning forward, inches from my face. I can feel her fiery breath on me.

I feel everything slipping away, and she slaps me, hard. "Oh, no. Not yet, Lover Boy. We're not done."

The blade penetrates my chest just below the clavicle, and she leaves it there. My lungs are screaming, but nothing comes out. Every part of me is screaming. "That's for Marvel. If we'd caught your little girlfriend when we should have, he'd still be here." She leans into the knife and presses it down. I bite on my lip until I taste blood in my mouth. "Did you know she's the one who did it? Well, I've got news for you," Clove growls, "I got her."

"No," I moan in protest, the pain in my chest suddenly radiating intensely, hot and bright. "No."

"Oh, yes. I did," she corrects me, finally pulling the blade from my shoulder. "Do you want to hear how I did it before I finish you off?" She doesn't wait for an answer, as if I'd condescend to give her one. "Listen up, and I'll tell you," she breathes, fueled by her lust for vengeance.

Clove viciously plunges the knife deep into my stomach, and blackness and pain blur the edges of everything. She crawls along my prostrate body and leans into me, too close. Intimately close. And she hisses in my ear, "I did it like this."

x x x x

I wake to twisting pain in my abdomen and intense pressure in my chest. The only thing that lets me know the nightmare itself wasn't real is the too-bright sunlight burning my eyes—and Clove's absence.

It wasn't real, I tell myself, because I need the reminder.

I pull my water bottle to my mouth in an attempt at distraction. Washing away the lingering tang of blood I'm sure I can actually taste. I suck weakly until the bottle is empty. And then there is no more relief for my body or mind. It dissipates as soon as the last droplet rolls across my tongue.

Now I can't stop thinking of Katniss, especially because I know I must be nearing the end. Thinking of her songbird voice echoing through the school. Thinking of her in the Capitol, stunning and strong and not knowing it. Thinking of her, sinking into the ground in District 12, hungry and desperate. Thinking of how, even in my last moments here in the arena, I can somehow give her more of myself. Because I can't do anything else but that.

The Capitol, the sponsors, they all loved the star-crossed lovers routine. Of course, it helped that I actually had—have—genuine feelings to draw from. I don't have to act that part, faking it for the cameras like some of the other Tributes to conjure up audience empathy. It was and is clear, I think, to everyone watching, how much this situation pains me, how much this costs. And now, exactly how much I am willing to give.

In this temporary lucid wakefulness, I can give one last plea on her behalf, from my own lips. With my "good mouth." My way. They can't manipulate this. And it will be easy, really. The people were inclined to love her, because I love her. And they were inclined to bet on her, because she was the best anyway. She didn't need my help for that. But one last tragic profession, now—for them to hear—that might help one more time.

Then Clove or Cato or the gamemakers can kill me, and it won't matter. I have nothing else to give, except everything. And it's worth it. Absolutely worth it. I'm dying anyway. Whether I do it slowly or they kill me quickly, doesn't matter. I can feel it in my constricting throat, my heavy chest, my delirious head, and the disturbing, pervasive numbness in my body.

So I open my chapped lips, an involuntary moan escaping them, dry air flowing over my swollen tongue, and croak, "Haymitch?"

Louder. I have to be louder. For the cameras to hear me.

"Haymitch, I did everything I could for her. I kept them away as long as I was able. I stalled, like we decided I would. I gave her the chance to get deep into the woods, where she's at home, where she could disappear. And she has, and I'm so glad. I don't mind dying, if I know she's going to live because of it. So keep your end of the bargain. You help her, because I can't protect her anymore. Help her. I love her, and I know she can win. I know it."

I say these things slowly, deliberately, emphatically. Because it takes all my breath. And they will eat it up—the drama. They won't be able to pull their desensitized, glamorous eyes away. It will tug at their cold, callous hearts, so I've chosen my words carefully—as carefully as I can with my thoughts so jumbled and hazy.

And because I also want to remind Haymitch, in whatever fog he's in, that he has to stay in the game this time. One of us has to. Clearly that's not going to be me.

Every word of my appeal is completely true. So I don't have to think too hard. It just comes. And someday, when she wins, maybe she'll see this footage and know how much she was cared for. The most difficult thing to accept, now, is that I won't get to tell her all the things I wanted to in person. I'll never see her again. Not even one last time. I probably won't even last long enough to be assured of her victory, as I've desperately hoped. But that's how this game goes, and the odds, as I well know, were never in my favor.

I run my tongue over my lower lip and breathe hoarsely, "She's going to hunt them down, because that's what she does. And no one should ever underestimate her. Ever."

And then, for her alone, I whisper as darkness takes over, "Katniss, I tried—I tried to still be me."

x x x x

The anthem blares into my unconsciousness, reverberating in my skull. And I am disappointed, because I was honestly hoping I wouldn't have to hear it again. And so loud this time. So harsh. Finally the last grating strains play, though an echo seems to linger in my head, and I welcome the comparative silence, lulled and consoled by the peaceful trickling of the stream. My eyes close, and my body sinks into the bank—when the unexpected sound of trumpets blast through the night. I'm startled and confused. I vaguely remember from Hunger Games past that this means something, but I can't think what. Those memories elude me.

A voice booms through the arena, and I try to make sense of the announcement. There has been a change to the rules. Two Tributes may now win the Hunger Games—as long as they are from the same district.

The meaning blooms in my fragile mind, and the significance of the words pierces me. What tragic irony, I think wryly. Just when I'm about to die. I'd bet there's not a single dry eye in the Capitol right now. And the districts? They are reminded, in their drab, sparsely furnished homes, that the Capitol can do whatever it wants. Hope is just a carrot they dangle in front of us without ever intending to let us have a taste. What I can taste—is very bitter, indeed.

x x x x

I hear my name through the haze. It's faint. Distant.

I hear it again, a little louder.

I recognize the voice. Of course I do. It's her voice. It's intoxicating. And if this is a dream, I don't want to wake up. Real or not, her voice could never sound any different. I would know it anywhere, even in the deepest, darkest fog.

Then I hear her passing by me. Her footfall is light. If she weren't calling my name, I wouldn't even know she was here. She's that subtle, that stealthy. That means she wants me to hear her.

She's searching for me, I realize.

Hope—the hope the Capitol tries to suppress, tries to kill—rises light in my heavy chest. I grasp at it bravely with all the strength I can muster.

"You here to finish me off, sweetheart?" I croak softly, a weak smile breaking over my face beneath the mask. I'm still not sure she's real. Maybe she's just a vision—my beautiful vision—finally welcoming me into death.

The effort of speaking drains me, and I breathe shallowly, trying to catch up again. I want to taste the forbidden carrot.

"Peeta," she repeats in a whisper, nearby. "Where are you?"

Did she even hear me? Is this another dream? I don't trust my mind or my senses anymore, and it's cruel to drag on uncertainly for so long.

But then I hear her calling me again, closer. "Peeta?" She walks right next to me, and I have a chance. To speak. To know. It's what I've been waiting for.

I want to say, I've been dying to see you. That would be true and charming. Or, I love you, which would be true and, hopefully, endearing. Or any of the other things I've been building up the courage to express—and finally can. But all I can manage to say is, "Well, don't step on me."

My eyes open. The violent red which seems to constantly fill my sight, waking and sleeping, is replaced as she appears above me, the orange sun glowing radiant behind her. She's other-worldly. She is the "girl on fire." I don't feel my body anymore and don't need to. Just feeling utter relief and peace is enough. She's here and she's real. I know it. Without a doubt.

She's alive. That's all I wanted. To see her one more time and know that for sure. That makes it all worth it. Every horrific, nightmarish moment. Now everything falls into place. All my anxieties fade away, and if my next breath is my last, if I never say anything else—I'll be content.

Author's Note: I chose to end my story here, because the rest of the account can be found in The Hunger Games from Katniss' point of view. While it would have been interesting for fans—and for me!—to hear Peeta's inner dialogue during the events that are still to come, I felt it would require me to use an unreasonable portion of the original work in order to do that. I hope that you all enjoyed the part of the story I did retell—I certainly enjoyed writing it!