The pain medicine I took seems to be working. I'm not asleep, exactly, but my mind is wandering. I drift in and out, always conscious of the pain in my side, and of the cold rock walls around me, but I'm not able to summon enough concentration to care very much. Once I think I see someone at the rim of the pit peering down at me, looking like a pale dot of a face with two anonymous dark eyes from so far above, but before I can focus, it is gone. Another time, I hear a reverberating crack, and I wonder if there has been another cave-in. But as the echo dies, I realize that it was a cannon shot.
I'm vaguely aware of being hungry and thirsty. I've only ever been either when we were deprived as part of our training at the Academy. Though I've heard rumors about starvation being common in other districts, I don't know of anyone in District 1 who has actually died that way. Though the hollow feeling isn't particularly bothersome, it prompts my wandering thoughts toward the elegant little treats that people make during Color Fair. Of course, the Color Fair isn't anywhere near as grand as the celebrations that the District organizes for the Hunger Games, and in lean years we don't even manage to have it at all. Each of our color factions usually has its own informal annual party to greet new members, wish outgoing members well, and to memorialize those who have passed away during the year. I haven't been to one of these "Yellows" in years, though they are kind of fun. The best fun happens when when all of the different groups can collaborate on a Color Fair. There's music, dancing, and craft judgings with prizes… Mother is the best at tooling leather, and she usually wins a champion's ribbon. The different color factions serve their signature foods, never very much of it, but what they present is always top quality and decorated to perfection. The Yellows make delicate, feathery wafers out of pounded tesserae grain and flavor them with pulped goldmint. I don't know the exact process, but I remember the smooth batter being stored in clay jugs for a long time before it was used. Long ago, someone figured out how to extract small amounts of sugars from the plain grain, so we stencil the wafers with a very thin slurry of sweet icing. I haven't tasted any since I was about twelve years old, but my mouth waters savagely at the memory of those special treats.
I wonder what my family is doing right now. I'm sure they've been watching the Games every night, as that's mandatory. I'm not wearing the leather wristband my sisters made for me, because the Gamemakers decided that a buckleable leather strap could be too useful in the arena. They are probably right about that, but it's a shame. The bracelet was very pretty. Just by being raised in District 1, I know how to appreciate beautiful things, but I'd never had a durable luxury item of my own until then. I'm finding it difficult to picture them at home, though. I haven't actually been "home" for more than a few days at a time since I was a child. Last year, I wasn't permitted to go at all.
It occurs to me that if I win the Hunger Games and get the house in the Victor's Village, I won't actually be able to move them in until the next year, after I come back from the Victory Tour. Father and Mother were so sick when I saw them on Reaping Day. Nearly everyone in the District has the "poison" to some degree. We use many different chemical compounds to make the things we do in District 1, and the Fabricators' Strip literally stinks of them. They hang in noxious clouds of vapor and smoke, and streams of runoff carve paths through the dirt. Even people who don't have to live in lofts over own their shops have to regularly clean powdery black dust from every surface in their homes. Suddenly my heart feels more hollow than my stomach. How did I not see it? Father won't last another year. Mother probably won't either. After enough time, if you don't get better, all the medicines we can get stop working, and you die. It's not unheard of for people to survive after the remedies run out, but it they are just as likely to be sick for years before they eventually succumb. Even if they are fortunate enough to recover, they will never be fully healthy. Like my sisters aren't, now. My little brother isn't sick yet. If he gets selected for Academy training, he will be taken away from the Strip. He won't get the poison, at least not until he exits. He won't ever get it, if he is selected to volunteer as tribute, like me. But sitting at the bottom of a hole nursing dregs of food and water with trained killers waiting for you to make a mistake isn't much better than getting the poison. It's a slow death over years with your family versus a relatively quick death in the Arena and a life afterward with no one you care about. I know that now.
Everyone is playing the Hunger Games. They just don't all know it.
My side is hurting again, deep inside, worse than before. I could take another pill, but there doesn't seem to be much point in it. I'll run out of those too, eventually. I think about taking all of the pills at once. Somehow I doubt that the Gamemakers would allow a lethal dose of painkillers to be in the Cornucopia. They provide everything that lets us kill each other, but suicide isn't sportsmanlike. I giggle a little at that word, as if anything about the Hunger Games is "sportsmanlike," but even that small motion of my chest wall makes me groan and grit my teeth.
Something lands softly in my lap. I see a silver parachute settling across my legs, floating down over whatever is fastened beneath it. A gift from the Sponsors? I open the cylinder clumsily, propping it between my knees and using my right hand. Inside is a rolled sheet of what appears to be cloth with some sort of plastic film adhered to side. It's about the size of both of my spread hands, and it the smell of strong medicine seeps from the unsealed edges. There is a little scrap of paper in it too, with a printed note.
"Peel. Stick to ribs. Climb out."
It sounds like what we would call a plaster, medicine spread over rags and stuck onto a wound or sore place. I slowly peel the plastic film away from the cloth, which releases more of that medicinal stink. It doesn't seem to be sticky, so I wonder how it is going to stay on me. Carefully, carefully, I ease it under my shirt and smooth it over my side. As soon as it is in position, it bonds to my skin, and I am startled by a sudden penetrating, spreading warmth. I start to feel better almost instantly. This is amazing! This is medicine that they have available to them at the Capitol, and just dribble out to the Districts. My mother, father and sisters stand no chance of ever having medicine this effective, even if I win. It would never be permitted. If they let anyone outside have it, everyone else who has the poison would be willing to do anything to get it, even defy the Capitol. They have to be kept sick…the Capitol can't afford to have too many of us well.
I think that Kier was right about winning being ultimately pointless.
I don't know what I am going to do with this new understanding, but right now, I know that I need to get out of this pit. The pain is fading rapidly, and I find no difficulty standing. I start pushing stones and broken cave rubble into a hopefully stable pile. If I can stack it, perhaps like stairs, I should be able to reach one of the ledges and haul myself out.