"And at once, I knew I was not magnificent." - Holocene by Bon Ivor
A Poem of Swine and Wrath - 40th Annual Hunger Games
Games, Day 6
Male Tribute from District Eight, Harland Adary
It's night when I finally make it to the table. Barely able to move my fingers from the cold, I search around desperately for anything that perhaps the other tributes left, but there's nothing around the table. Paranoid that I'll run into the bear again, or even worse, another tribute, I hold the spear in my hand tighter. The flashlight beams out in front of me, glowing over the white snow painted with blood. Someone died earlier, I heard the canon. Well, I heard two canons, but the fading pinkish snow says that someone died here specifically. Right near the table.
More snowflakes descend from the sky as I move around the table, shuffling the snow to see if there's anything that might have fallen off and to the ground. Still, I come up with nothing. There's nothing left for me all because I was scared. All because I didn't listen to the voice of Shenille in my head that kept screaming at me, "Be Brave!" But I wasn't brave, not this time, just like I wasn't really brave letting the boy from District One get chased by the bear. I'm certain it was his canon that sounded today. I'm certain the bear mauled him, which is what it would have done to me if he hadn't stumbled into the situation.
To attempt to warm myself, I try to think of home, of the fire place that burns on winter nights. My father and mother are sitting there with me on a rug that my grandmother made for my grandfather as a wedding present. It's so many colors. Dull blues, deep reds, mustardy yellows, and faded greens. Colors they didn't need, of course, or couldn't be used to make clothing or uniforms. I picture myself there now, laying down, hands running through the fibers, while my mother hums a song and my father whittles with an old knife.
A tear burns down my cheek as I think about the rug and the certainty that I'll never see it again. I'm not stupid. Without something from the feast, I'm easily at a disadvantage. And with only three other tributes left in the arena, I can't afford anything but advantages. Especially since I don't have any kills, and the greatest thing I've done is spear a bear. The majority of my days here have consisted of hiding and leaving my only , I'm not a real show stopper. Compared to the others, I know I'm the least favorite to win these games probably. It makes sense.
I continue to move around the table, determined to find something, determined to take this moment to show everyone in the Capitol and the districts that I'm still a fighter, that I'm still someone to bet on. I'm not just going to cry and fall down, letting the snow freeze me to death. No, I'm here to be a victor. And despite whatever they may think-even what I think myself-I'm not giving up. Not now. Not when only three people stand in my way from laying back on the rug and hugging my parents.
As if my internal fight has produced some sense of luck, my flashlight beam lands on a package sunk in the snow. I nearly scream when I see it, but thankfully I slap my hand over my mouth. Quiet, I tell myself. The bear could still be out there. Then I'm running over to the package, scooping it up, and heading in the opposite direction I came. I'm eager to open it up, but I tell myself not yet, not until you've cleared some distance from the feast. There's no telling which remaining Careers are lurking around. I stop for a moment, thinking I've heard the anthem. But there's nothing. Only silence.
Then there's a branch breaking and I'm turning around, shifting the beam. It illuminates the face of another tribute, dark skin, thick mustache. I scream and the boy from District Eleven screams, too. I stumble backwards, wanting to flight, but then I remember my internal fight. I have to stop running. I have to actually make a kill. And sadly, this boy will have to be it.
I lunge myself forward on the balls of my feet, thrusting out with the spear and swinging the light. If I don't catch him with the blade maybe I'll hit him with the flashlight. Anything can be a weapon, after all. But the boy from District Eleven jumps backwards, dodging the spear. I stab out again, determined to gut him, determined to just have this moment over. I want to go home. Just let me go home!
The boy from District Eleven jumps back, but as he does he swings his own knife upward. I can't stop myself fast enough. I tell my legs to heel, but I'm still leaping forward, arm extended when the blade glides across it. I scream, pain devouring my arm, and drop the flashlight. The boy screams again, too, and I have just enough time to step backwards, escaping a second wound from the blade.
"Please!" The boy screams, taking another stab at me. I shrink backwards.
I kick out with my foot as he gets closer, but miss. I thrust the spear out, too, hoping it'll gut him, but he's jerking sideways. I attempt to do the same, but he's leaping on me. Our bodies collide, rolling through the snow. I try to head butt as we wrestle on the ground, but he gets me pinned. I drop the spear, screaming out, as he presses on my wrist. Warmth slithers down my wrist. Blood, I think. So much blood. I go into survival mode, attempting to head butt him again and again and again. Then I'm crying and I think he's crying, too, because he keeps says, "Please! Don't fight! Please!" Or maybe I'm just hearing him saying it repeatedly because my heart is pounding and my ears are ringing from all the fear.
I go to jerk out again, trying to lift his body off of me, but then I feel the sharpness of force in my stomach. I scream, but it doesn't leave my throat. Another sharpness enters me, then another and another and another, until I can't really feel my lower body. I go to turn my head, but can't. My mouth bubbles with blood and I swallow it down.
Suddenly, I see the rug coming into view and feel an abundance of warmth. Maybe it's the fire, I think desperately.
"I can't," the boy says. Then there's nothing, followed by the crunching of footsteps on snow.
I blink as the crunching gets softer in the distance. My minds tells me to get up, but when I don't, it tries to turn on me. Tries to tell me that this is karma for what I did to Shenillle, leaving her, now only to die alone to. But I shuffle that thought away quickly, finished with beating myself up. My fight is over. Now, I just want to breathe, close my eyes, rest. I think back to Shenille again. This time I see her wide smile, her round eyes, her and curly hair.
Exhaling heavily, I wonder if I'll see her again.
Female Tribute from District One, Blest Rinear
The anthem starts right as the canon sounds. Another dead, leaving only three of us left. Only three, I think as I squeeze my hand around the small packet of cookies. I told myself I'd have another tonight for Malachite as I watch the anthem. And so, here we are.
The light from the anthem illuminates the sky, so I toss my hair into my face. Hopefully, the Capitol won't see the tears I know are bound to come.
Malachite's face appears first. Tears descend down my face, fast, like small streams. I wipe away at them, but they insist on pouring faster, harder, flooding my cheeks.
Sitting there, I don't think I've ever cried this much, and I don't think my eyes know how to handle it. They burn, so I wipe at them. I wipe at them until they burn harder.
Tal's face is next. I flinch at seeing his smirk. I remembering the swines, remember his screaming. I shove a cookie in my mouth, hoping it'll help me deal. The tears come anyway, though, as I chew and swallow. Brielle's face appears next, making it clear that I'm the last remaining Career. I know I should be happy, because they'll say I have this win in the bag, but I can't stop shaking, I can't stop thinking about what if I'm next. What if someone kills me now, what if the boars or the night hounds find me alone, up in this tree, vulnerable, bawling my eyes out. Besides, I barely have anymore knives to throw. Plus, I don't know if I can do this alone. I don't know if I can just protect me.
The boy from District Eight comes and goes. If honest, I'd forgotten about him. Then there's Rapture Rose from District Eleven. My first kill. I cry for her, too.
After wiping my eyes again, I tally the remaining tributes. Me. The girl from District Ten, Halona. The boy from Eleven, Onyeka, I think. I squirm at the thought of the girl from District Ten. We'd faced at the feast, but then I saw the club raised and remembered the bloodbath. She almost killed me. I'd rushed her confidently, only to be clubbed. Lights out. And surely, I would have died had not Malachite carried me away from the ants.
And so, I ran after seeing those flashbacks. I ran because I knew if she clubbed me this time there was no Malachite to pick me up. I ran because I also couldn't do it. I couldn't kill two people back to back, not right after losing Mal and Tal like that.
I pull the collar of the suit up higher on my neck as the wind blows. My teeth don't rattle anymore, but I still can't feel my fingers, and I don't know if it's from the chill or how tightly I clenched my knives while running from the feast. I stretch out my hand, curling it out flatly, before wiggling my fingers one at a time. The movement hurts, adding to the tears.
This isn't how it's supposed to be, I think, scooting closer against the trunk of the tree. The music fades, leaving me with silence. More tears come as I'm left with myself, as I think about how this wasn't supposed to be this real. It wasn't supposed to hurt this badly. I wipe away at the pouring tears, thankful that my hair still hides my face.
It didn't seem this way on the television back home. I mean, they just did it. They killed. They hunted. All the others before me, all the ones I watched win. Beauty. Luster. Glamora. Shine. Harmony. I've seen them all fight and win their games and none of them seemed bothered or broken or hurt. So, why am I different? Why aren't my games fun? Why isn't this enjoyable for me? Because you're not them, I think. You're not Beauty or Luster or Shine. You're Blest.
But still, I think. Why? I reach for another cookie, needing it to fight away the memories and the tears. This was supposed to change my life. Now, I just feel corrupted. I feel captured by grief and loss and pain. Like, I know I'll never forget that image of Tal and the swines. Never. And I don't think I'll ever forgive Harmony for sending these pathetic cookies when she could have sent medicine to save Mal. An unfamiliar wrath comes, shaking me, warming my bones, as more tears slither down my cheeks. I think I might hate them all. For the lying. For making this seem desirable. What's so desirable about dying? Almost dying? Nothing. What's so good about doing this? It doesn't feel good. It hasn't since I volunteered. So why did I do this?
Because I thought these Games would give me more. But they've just taken. My mind goes deeper than I want it to now, pulling back up the memories. I squirm at the resurfacing of something I want blogged out. I see myself young and unsure, not wanting to train, but my mother and father forcing it on me. I see myself excelling at the Academy. I see myself bored, wanting something more, be it adventure, fun, happiness. I see my mother and father telling me to volunteer, to actually excel at something, to become a legend. They sit me down. I'm on the couch, fidgeting, playing with my hair, My mother tells me to take this opportunity to be someone, to be more, and she hands me over a tray of donuts. I take a bite, smile, then say yes. She hugs me. Squeezes me. Whispers she loves me in my ear.
I feel more wrath now because it was a trick. I see that now. She'd told me that becoming victor would make me someone. And I believed her. I'd believed that coming here would make me more than just the girl from District One that everyone laughed with or at, depending the situation.
But it hasn't. The games haven't done any of that for me.
They haven't made me someone. They've just stolen the parts of me I used to love most.
I wipe back the tears, telling myself that it's not over. That I still get to choose how this all unfolds. Maybe I can steal it back from them. My life. My victory. Maybe if I win I can do something more than what the others have done with their lives. Maybe I can be honest at the Academy. Maybe I can give the trainees other options. Maybe I'll convince them to be leaders in our communities, instead of legends. I don't know, maybe something good can come out of this if I just try.
And if I can't try for me, I owe it to Mal to at least do it for him. He lost his life volunteering because he felt like he had to. He lost his life thinking there weren't any other footsteps to walk in except his mother. That had to be the reason he volunteered at sixteen. He wanted to it over quickly. Wanted to go ahead and move past this moment, I think.
My head hurts from all the thinking, or maybe it's from the chocolate. It tells me to stop. Like I always do. Like I'm used to. Because I'm not used to facing pain. I'm used to avoiding it.
But not anymore, I tell myself. I have to start facing things. So, if it's the first next thing I'll leave this place knowing to do, it's squaring off with pain, not always running from it.
A/N: So I'm still toying around with my format. Originally, I said I wanted to do three POVs, but I changed my mind. Maybe I'll do two POVs now, I don't know, this just felt like a good place to end, so I'm going with my gut. I have no outlining skills, so yeah, I just do what feels rigggghhhhtt
You all guessed it. Blest, Halona, and Onyeka were my top three since I got them in form submission. Teddy. Katie, and Haiden, thank you, for sending these three my way.
Deaths are based on realism, plot development, and sadly if I struggled whether or not to write them. For those who have fallen, I hope the creators stick around and continue to read and review, but if not, I understand.
4th. Male Tribute from District Eight, Harland Adary. Corey, you knew it was coming. I think everyone did, but I really enjoyed writing Harland. He was a character that came so easily to me, and deep down, I think a part of me kept trying to find a way that he could be our victor and come back and have a convo with Euphorba. But sadly, I couldn't swing it. Thank you for submitting such a sweet, complex character who really moved the OGRE plot in this story. Much love, Austin.
No questions. You guys have already guessed your victor predictions. Just a thank you. I'm only three chapters away not to finishing this journey I started. If you're interested in reading some of my original work, PM me. I'll send you the wattpad link.
~prayers for peace and protection your way~