Hunger Games OC

by Catluver3

The 74th Hunger Games. Years ago, the rules were set in stone. 24 Tributes. 1 Victor. 23 would have to die, and 1 would rise up out of the ashes, victorious. Even so, they were never the same. Something was never said, never mentioned. But, deep down in the hearts of the Victors, they knew. They were still just pawns, part of the bigger plan. No more OCs will be accepted.

21. Slipping Away

Me: Rhyming, rhyming, I do love

It is very, very fun

Unlike Fang I do not have the wings of a dove

But I am better at counting to 21!

Fang: What-

Me: Even though Fang

Does speak Spanish

He still smells just

Like a danish!

Amanda: -laughs-

Me: Amanda, on the other hand

Spanish she does not speak

So she is very bland

I am in the mood for some Meep

Carbonated Goulash!

Note: Recent lack of updates are due to something known as "school". This strange place requires that children between the grades of K-12 work 7 hours a day, unpaid, of course. They learn completely useless information, most of which will never be used in their lifetime.

Chapter 21

Rowan's POV

She is covered with bruises and gashes; bloody wounds covering her entire body. Orlena is still beautiful - she always will be - but the sight of her like this- sweating, crying out in agony every few minutes - in a feverish delusion - is sickening. It reminds me just how much I hate the Capitol, and their terrifyingly twisted ways. Before you experience the Games, you don't know how much it takes its toll - both physically and emotionally. The first night, I cried for the first time in years. Stupidity, recklessness, and arrogance; only then I realized how far that had gotten me in life. I wasn't brave; I was greedy. I wasn't strong; I was arrogant and full of myself.

The second I saw her, I knew she was special. She had this sort of air to her; bravery, kindness…. Everything I wasn't. Right from the start, I think I knew that. That in order to get closer to her I would have to change. And I have changed. The Games have broken me down, torn me apart, and showed me a side I never knew I had. One filled with warmth and compassion; sympathy and sorrow; and most of all, love. I never thought I could love someone.

I take the medical wipe once again and press it to the wound on her arm; the one almost deep enough to touch bone. It is long and ragged - stretching from her forearm to her wrist. I press down hard and the liquid from within the cloth seeps into her skin, toning down the vibrants shade of red surrounding the wound. She moans, and I shudder, hating to see her in pain, even if is helping her. As I dab at the blood covering the area, her moans continue. I finish, and instantly she is silent; her light, gasping breaths the only sound filling the air.

A sudden burst of chiming, loud and bird-like fills the air. I quickly stand up, brush off my shorts and move towards the entrance flap of the tent. There it is, sitting outside the entrance. A parachute; a dark gray metal-ish fabric cradling a small black bottle. I reach for the bottle and find a note taped to it. A thin, black font printed on thick, white card-stock, an obvious message from my mentor. It reads: 'Give it to her. Stay in love. Stay alive.' Simple, but meaningful. I gratefully snatch up the bottle, caressing it in the sweaty palm of my left hand. I'm careful not to drop it as I kneel next to Orlena, resting my hand on her scorching forehead.

She groans, rolling away from my body. I move with her, steadying her body with my free hand. I uncap the bottle, twisting it towards me a few times. I turn the cap upside-down and fill it with the liquid from the bottle, as I assume I should. The strange purple stuff glows, almost shines, filling the tent with a strange, unnatural light. It illuminates the ceiling and Orlena, next to me. The light floods onto her skin, giving it a dark glow. The blood on her arm turns silvery.

I lean down over her, forehead almost touching hers. My hand brushes against her cheek and I keep it there, relishing in her warmth for just a moment. My lips hover over hers, and for a moment I am tempted to pull her closer, kiss her, know she is with me. I want to more than- Orlena's groans have started once again, snapping me out of my fantasy and back to reality. I raise the bottle cap filled with the drug, and push the edge between her lips, all the while tilting back her small head.

Her groans of agony are instantly gone, replaced by a racking, rough fit of coughing. It begins almost silently, working its way up to the point where the noise is almost ear-splitting. She keeps coughing, her face turning a nasty shade of purple. No, more than that, she is choking.

I drop the cap and it rolls across the bare ground, stopping as it hits a rock jutting up from the strands of stringy, deep green grass. In that instant, I notice something I hadn't before. In its corner a tiny emblem rests, shining silver even in the faint light. It is something of the ordinary, very clearly visible even though its size. It is no Capitol symbol. No, it is a skull and crossbones, the sign of death. The universal symbol for poison.

Jumping back, I scramble to my feet, and to Orlena's side. The coughing has subsided, instead her body is racked by spasms. They run up and down her body, limbs flying out in every direction. Foam forms at her lips, spraying onto her dirty, bloody shirt. Her eyes are now open, she is obviously awake. I try to hold her down, constrain her. Her arm whacks me in the face, I stumble back, her body rolling and reeling in all directions. I hustle back to her writhing body, throwing myself on top of it in an attempt to stop her spasms. I sit on the lower part of her stomach, pinning her arms back with my elbows. Desperately, I press my hands repeatedly, hard, on her stomach, trying to get her to wretch, to get the poison out of her system. The more I press, the more she convulses, her upper body being thrown towards mine.

Orlena lets out one agonizing, ear-piercing shriek; containing all the desperation and anguish the world has ever known. In that one second, her voice breaking the silence, I know she is leaving me. The one girl I ever really loved is dying. She is silent. Her eyes, the hazel ones, once filled with such joy and happiness are now gone, blank and lifeless, seeing nothing as she stares toward the sky, the stars. They have already glazed over; she is gone, gone forever.

Her cannon sounds, the very sound almost breaking my heart.

"No," I whisper, staring straight ahead in shock. I don't even try to stop the tears when they come, blurring my vision, the warm streaks dropping down my cheeks like a waterfall; I have no more will to fight. I am over, through, done. Without Orlena, the one I loved, here by my side, I am nothing.

A sudden wave of guilt washes over me. I killed her. I killed Orlena Collins. With a vial of poison. I am the reason she is no longer standing by me, instead, lying on the floor, motionless. I am the-

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a glint of metal. Turning my head, I see it. The knife. Lying on top of my pack, so that the hilt is pointing towards me. I feel instinct taking over and I grab for it, my arm shaking. I don't quite know what I'm planning to do with it, only that it will be my undoing. I grasp it tightly in my right hand, palm sweating, goosebumps appearing on my arm.

I know, suddenly, why it's in my hand. The guilt that I felt just a moment before is coming back, filling my mind, taking over my limbs. I point the knife towards my chest, knowing, knowing the pain I am about to feel. Do I have the courage to do it? To take away my life, bring myself out of the world? Out of the pain? I know I must, must be with Orlena. She was the only one who saw me for who I truly am. She was the one who made me into who I am.

I'm sorry, I think. Orlena, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sor-

In one fluid, violent, sweeping motion, I plunge the knife deep into my chest. Into my heart. Pain wrestles and rocks my body, and I can feel the blood, the warm, thick liquid seeping through my fingers and down my shirt. So much pain, and then it is suddenly gone, and all I can see is a light.

White, almost blinding.

Then…. Orlena. She appears out of the light, wearing a white, long, flowing dress adorned with lace. She reaches toward me, extending her arm. I take her hand, surprised that I can move it, and look down, finding that my wound is gone. She helps me up, pulling me to my feet.

She looks beautiful, fresh, light makeup on her face. Her hair is clean, silky and smooth. Her wounds are gone. She is clean, and smells faintly of roses.I find myself smiling.

Those Dead:

District 1:

Rowan (M)

District 3:

Aaliyah (F)

District 5:

Rebecca (F)

Jack (M)

District 6:

Salem (M)

District 7:

Cable (M)

District 8:

Ebony (F)

Damek (M)

District 9:

Dahlia (F)

Yadon (M)

District 10:

Radella (F)

Pier (M)

District 11:

Orlena (F)