"I looked into your eyes." - i looked into your eyes by Sky McCreery
A Song for Snakes and Rats
Day 2 of the Games (Early Morning)
Male Tribute from District Twelve, Viridian Ahane
I've kept moving since I spotted the hovercraft. I don't know who it picked up last night. Only that the death must have been quick because there wasn't any screams.
It could have been any of them, the pair from District 3, the dead Career, or Fransiska who died. I don't recall seeing anyone, besides the boy from District 9 dead at the bloodbath. But then again, I was out before the real tragedy struck.
I know running isn't going to get me much credit with sponsors, but what else am I going to do? Hang around, wait for whatever killed that tribute, to come and kill me next? No, thank you. I'll choose flight over fight if it gets me back home.
The words of Ruddie try to break in, try to come to unravel my plan of moving further away from all the other tributes. "You need sponsors," she says. I shake away the words. I'm not like that Career who won last year. I can't be flirty and skilled and continue a facade like nothing is happening.
I'm just me. And sadly, that will have to get me to the end of these Games. Because after all, by then that's all I'll have left: me.
Suddenly, the smell of coal hits me. It's overpowering and I cough. I glance around, shaken from my thoughts, only to see brightly illuminated plants. What are those? I think. But then I get another whiff of something that smells like sweat and lemons. My mind immediately feels in the blanks. Taren? It smells like Taren? His body smell mixed with the scent of lemons. He used to keep the skins for weeks, saying something about how he loved the smell and it helped with body odor. I remember the conversation we had about it.
Him holding the lemon skins. Me shocked he'd been able to afford a lemon, only to learn he'd stolen it from the trash bins in town.
"What are you doing with that?" I ask. I smirked. "You can't eat the skin."
He'd nudged me. "I know. It's for the smell."
"What smell?" I'd ask. There were many smells in Twelve. Most of them far from pleasant.
"Body odor," he'd said softly. For some reason, Taren was a little more sensitive to certain smells. Specifically, the human body. I ignored it mostly, smelling enough of my own odor and the musty scent of others to really not mind it.
"It's supposed to help with the smell," he added.
I'd laugh, saying, "It's not. You smell worse."
He'd frown, not finding the joke funny. I'd wanted to apologize then, saying I was sorry, but never did. Sorry was a word I'd struggle to say. I think of my mother, hunchbacked and body shaking, saying she was sorry for not being a good mother. She'd said the words so easily. Sorry for no food. Sorry we couldn't play. Sorry the boots are too tight. Sorry your father doesn't speak. Sorry Cyan is too bossy. It was always leaving her mouth, a constant in her stream of sentences.
Strangely, I think I hated the word.
So I didn't say it. Even when I was wrong in my arguments at school or with Cyan or even with Taren. Besides, we all have our flaws. And people in District 12 weren't above telling you, of pointing them out.
Taren was possessive of me. And I was moody and cold and unpredictable. People seemed to think that made us a perfect pair of comrades. And what can I say, Taren was the only person back home that I actually missed.
Although I hadn't really thought of him much until now. And I hadn't smelled that scent until I entered this part of the arena. Strange. I study the flowers more, noticing how many of them surround me. They must be playing into the nostalgia. So if that's the case, it's another thing to run from. Anything the Capitol uses to try and trick you, to try to get you from thinking about the Games, is a trap.
So I run, not bothering to think more about how I'm leaving behind all scents of Taren and home.
Male Tribute from District Six, Errol Acosta
"Why did you help them?" I finally ask. Tressa didn't have to tell District Seven those were mutts. She could have left them. We don't owe them anything, not at this point anyway.
"I don't know," she says. "Just thought if it was me, I'd like the help."
"It's the Hunger Games," I say. I give her a good stare, before realizing she can't see it. "You don't help people here."
"I'll remember that," she says, slightly chuckling.
"Good," I say.
"So don't come crying to me," she adds. "
"I won't," I say. "Besides, I don't cry." I wipe away the sweat on my forehead. It keeps collecting there before pooling down my nose and onto my lips. I'd like to say it's from the heat, but I know my body is responding to drying out. I've been down this road enough.
"Do you think the birds are gone?" Tressa says.
"I'd say," I say. "It's night. They're probably sleeping." Although I don't know if birds or muttations for that matter really sleep.
"Should we try moving?" she asks.
I need to distract myself from the shakes, the sweat, the growing turning in my stomach. "At night? You think that's smart?"
"I don't know," Tressa says.
"What about the Careers?" I ask. Every Games is the same for them, I think. They hunt during the night, attempting to kill resting tributes. "They'll be hunting now."
"I don't know," she says again. "There's not as many of them this year."
"There's four," I say. "That's enough."
"Maybe," Tressa says. "But I feel like we should move at night and sleep during the day."
"How do we do that?" I say. The sudden urge to vomit hits me and I take a deep breath. You can't puke where you sleep, Errol.
"We sleep up in the trees," Tressa says. There's the sound of ruffling which I assume is Tressa going through her pack. "We do this until a few more of them are dead." More ruffling.
"So we're going to walk at night," I say, confused. "Out there. In this jungle. With who knows what."
Tressa sighs. "It was just a thought."
"I don't think it's a good idea," I say.
"You've made that clear," she says. She continues to shuffle through her bag. Then her voice is changing, becoming higher. "Look, we have this." She briefly turns on the flashlight, illuminating the small burrow of the trunk.
"Turn that off," I say. Is she stupid? That'll attract everything to us. It's like a train coming in on the tracks at night. Everyone sees it. There's no hiding that light in the pitch of night.
"We can't use that," I say. "It'll attract everything and everyone in a mile radius of us."
"I don't think so," she says. "Look at how thick the vegetation is." She stops. I think the trees and leaves absorb most, if not all of the light."
"Prove it," I say. The shakes settle on me, stronger and faster. I can't control the trembling of my hands and legs. Everything in me wants to shake, wants to explode, but I exhale, telling myself this is just part of the process. You've been here before, I say. And it's partly true, but then there's that fear that comes next, of not making it past this mark. Of always finding the high before the real pains of drying out come.
It's stupid to hope that morphling can be sent as a sponsor gift. Even stupid to hope that there's something here, in this vast jungle, that I can take to numb the transition.
"You okay?" Tressa asks.
"Yeah," I say. "Why?" I try to play dumb. Innocent, even.
"You're shaking," she says. She adjusts her knee up to mine. Have them been touching this entire time, I wonder?
"It's fine," I say. "Just chilly under here."
"Okay," Tressa says. But we both know it isn't cold.
Female Tribute from District Nine, Tassia Morrone
I hear the pair from District Six talking. They're far from discreet. Sadly, it'll more than likely cost them their lives, not knowing when to shut up and when to actually speak.
Attempting to get comfort, I tunnel back up closer to the roots. My jacket wraps around me like some sort of blanket, although it's barely long enough to cover anything past my knees. And I'm small, I think. I can't imagine what it does for Proteus.
Proteus, Rahni, and Denim. I should have tried to help them, should have said something about the birds, but I didn't. Why? I wonder. But I know why. My plan has already unraveled with Sesame dying. And then with Five and District One showing up and me fleeing early from the bloodbath. If I hadn't thought to run in front of that girl from Twelve, the boy from One might have targeted me instead of her. And then I'd be just like Blair, Alys, and Sesame dead.
Still, I could go back to them, couldn't navigate my way to the Cornucopia. I could lie and say that I was chased by Avanelle or one of the others. They'd believe me. Of course, they'd believe me. No one would think to lie this early on in the Games about trivial stuff like that.
But it's the small lies that keep you alive here. It's the small details that make up the story you want to tell.
And at this moment, I don't know what narrative I'm giving. All I've done is run and hide. I have the array of knives, but that wasn't so much for me, but so that District 2 wouldn't get them. Or maybe even one of my allies who aren't that bad with knives.
I should bury them, I think. I should make sure that no one else has access to all these knives. But I don't want to lose them. They're a resource that could keep me alive. But that requires you throwing them, or at least stabbing someone with them. So maybe keep two or three at most. But you don't need a whole array of knives. And what, there's like fifteen or twenty or so lining this vest.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I start to dig. I set aside three knives, all larger ones with serrated edges. The rest I'll bury. It takes me longer to dig the whole than I'd expect. Maybe it's because of the heat or maybe I'm just self consciously moving slower to conserve more energy. Either way, when I get the small hole dug, I'm dripping in sweat and breathing a little heavy.
I shove down the vest and cover it back up, piling on the dirt. Once I'm finished, I sip from my water. I tell myself I'm allowed three small gulps. I'll need to conserve it, because right now, I don't know where another water source is located. And I won't be one of those foolish tributes who dies because they couldn't manage their water on day one.
To pass away the rest of the night, I go through my pack, sorting it. If I'm honest, I go through it because I don't want to think, don't want to let my mind grieve the loss of Sesame. Truthfully, it's pointless to go through my pack. I can't see anything. Can only feel the cool of the tins and scratchiness of the pieces of plastic as I pull each item out, fumbling it around in my hands a few times, before stuffing it back down in the pack.
Now that digging is done, I tell myself it's time to sleep. But I'm a little apprehensive, a little concerned I might see Sesame's head tossed through the air by Avanelle.
I try to bring pictures of home back to mind. Maybe I can trick my mind into having dreams instead of nightmares. But all I can think is my mother, of her leaving for days at a time, in search of food. She acted more animal than human at times. Lucid and wild. Hair unkept. I remember following behind her once. I was six or so. I'd watched her quietly as she begged anyone for coins. The wealthier sometimes made her do tricks, like whistling or dancing or singing for their children only to toss her a measly coin. I remember crying in the cold. I remember running home. I remember being angry that my mother sang and dance for other children, but never did those things for me. It was stupid to be bitter, but I was. And it only made grieving her harder, emptier. It only made holding her baby on my hip feel heavier. I've never told Luis, my little brother, any of that. How for the first two years of his life I think I hated him for just being what was left of her.
It would have made sense to hate myself, too, because I was just as much a part of her. But I didn't. Maybe because I looked like my father. Or maybe because he was a baby and a baby needed a mother, not a sister. And I felt more mother, feeding him, changing him, singing to him.
I think about Luis now. Eleven and probably alone at night, crying. He's still afraid of the dark despite how much I've told him not to be. It's the only thing childlike about him really. Momentarily, I wonder if my father lights a candle for him tonight like I used to. I wonder if I die here, who will bargain for them at the shops. My father? Probably not. I wonder if he'll have more fears after watching these Games. I wonder if he'll remember me like I do my mother. Barely. Sometimes only in flashbacks.
Male Tribute from District 5, Jeriah Chern
I can't make eye contact with McAfee. Every time I look at her all I see is the hatchet in Fransiska's neck.
McAfee does her best to scrub the blood from the blade of the hatchet. I sit down on the root, waiting for her to say anything, to give us a plan for the afternoon. She doesn't say anything, though, and it's been like this since the bloodbath. I know she knows that I saw her kill my district partner, but I don't think she's a monster. But I also know we aren't friends, that she killed someone from home, and that no one would forgive me if I became best friends with the tribute who killed Fransiska.
"We should probably find water," says McAfee. She shakes the silver canteen. "This won't last us but another day." The heat here is excruciating. I've never sweated this much.
"Okay," I say. I stand up, tossing my pack over my left shoulder, and gripping my knife. Despite having a weapon, I don't feel safe here. Before the arena, I thought that if I had a knife then I would be more at ease, that I wouldn't feel so nervous. But after fighting with Chime and Fransiska, I know weapons do nothing unless you know how to use them. And truthfully, I don't think I know how to.
The blade feels too heavy or too light in my hand. I swallow down the nerves as McAfee stands up. My eyes linger down to the hatchet, before I quickly jerk them back up.
"Let's try this way," she says.
"Okay," I say. I don't know how to dissolve the distance spreading between us.
We walk stopping periodically. McAfee assures me that water has to be around here somewhere.
"Everything's too green," she says.
"Maybe it's because of rain," I say. And as if the gamemakers are taking suggestions, rain starts to drizzle down. It's slow and light at first, but then it starts to pour, drenching us. My jacket sticks to me, blocking some of the water, but not all of it. I push back my hair, hoping it'll help me see to move around, but it does nothing. The rain is falling too hard. It's blinding.
"Let's wait it out," she says. We hover next to the trunk of a tree for what seems like hours, waiting for the rain to stop. To pass the time, I count the ants scattering on the jungle floor. They dodge the water droplets frantically.
When I get to one thousand, the rain has stopped. But from the thundering overhead, I know it's only temporary before it starts back up again.
"We need to keep moving," McAfee says.
"What about the rain water?" I say. "Can't we just drink that."
McAfee walks over to the leaves, which I'd think would be covered with water, but they look just as dry as they did before the rain.
"They seem to absorb the water," she says.
"Fast," I add.
Still, there's some water on some the leaves. If I was thirstier, I think I would risk it, taking up the leaf and drinking from it. But right now, I'm not thirsty.
We keep moving through the brush and when I heart it, the sound of water running, I have to fight the urge to run.
"Wait," McAfee says. She turns around and that's when I hear it, too. The sounds of insects or legs. We turn around and covering the ground behind us are dozens of beetles with hundreds of pinchers.
"Run!" she says and we're both sprinting out of what is definitely a gamemnaker's trap.
We break through the bushes, finding a waterfall. I let out a scream of excitement, but its so short-lived. Because there are two other tributes, standing there, watching us. It's the pair from District Eleven.
The girl hops into action. McAfee rushes forward too, hatchet in hand, ready to kill again.
Male Tribute from District Eleven, Lukas Brair
Dasenia rushes towards the other two tributes breaking through the brush. I'm still soaked, still gathering my bearings to even realize what's happening. I've been too busy enjoying the lake, too busy distracting myself from death or murder or the arena.
But here it is: the danger, the death, the more murdering. The boy stands there starring, watching me, mouth opened and eyes shifting. I stand by the water, shin deep in the lake, while Dasenia swings at the girl, nearly slicing her neck.
"Jeriah!" the girl shouts. "Help me!"
The boy lurches forward and that's when I take my cue. I need to help, need to keep this pair from double teaming Dasenia.
Before Jeriah can realize what's happened, I'm tackling him, colliding to the ground. The wet earth settles between us, soaking my back all the more. He grunts and I'm twisting around, trying not to think about how I'm wrapping my forearms around his neck. My legs wrap around his gut, squeezing. I try to distract myself with poetry.
Yellow canaries sing such beautiful-
Pain electrifies my nose. Warmth floods my face and my body is loosening. I didn't hear the crunch, the break, but the blood is consuming my face. I wipe away at it, aware now. The boy scrambles to his feet. He's crying. I glance over to the Dasenia. She's swinging the blade at the girl again. Neither one of them looks like they're willing to get too close, willing to take the risk to get the upper hand.
Despite wanting to admit it, I don't think Dasenia wants to kill. Not yet, at least.
"Leave," I spit out. "Please." I don't want to add that I don't want to hurt him.
"We can't," he says. He swallows. "Beetles." He adds.
I watch as he pulls up the knife. His hand shakes, the blade rocking back and forth.
I nod, understanding. Then I charge again. This time I kick out, but its only met by pain. I stumble backwards. Blood runs down my leg. I see it all over my pants. I glance back at the blade. It's dripping with blood.
Then there's a scream. I'm glancing over at Dasenia. The other girl is jerking backwards, holding her stomach.
"Jeriah!" She yells. He turns to look at her. I hesitate, watching. The world seems to slow down. The girl from Twelve starts to run, but Dasenia is on her, is chasing her down. I watch as she tackles her to the ground. They tussle, rolling. The girl tries to elbow her, but Dasenia jerks back again. She slashes at her, slicing her on the forearm.
The boy seems to come back to reality then because he's charging, tackling Dasenia off of his ally. I come back to reality, too, and I'm following, running at full speed with the knife out. The girl gets up and she's turning, unaware. Our bodies collide and I feel the blade go deep. Then there is only warmth, only liquid swallowing my fingers and wrist. The girl looks at me. Her pupils dilate then go small. I blink and she mirrors me, before falling on top of me.
We collapse to the floor, her weight overpowering my own. I hear the boy scream. Dasenia jerks up, trying to slash him but he's running, darting back through the brush.
I lay there, completely frozen, completely still. The canon sounds and I've never been this close to death.
Dasenia comes and pulls the girl off of me. I scoot away from her like some mouse barely avoiding the paws of a cat. I swallow down the panic, the anxiety, the fear. Shovel comes to mind and I think about who will bury this girl. Her mother. Her father. Her siblings.
"We need to let them collect the body," Dasenia says. She wipes at her eyes.
"Okay," I say. I realize then that my own face is covered with tears.
A/N: Thanks everyone for reviewing. I appreciate you all who have decided to keep reading. I know it's almost a year late, but I'm working on getting this story done.
Questions:
Favorite POV in this chapter?
Who do you think will make it to the top 12?
Who do you want to hear from next chapter?
Deaths are based on realism, plot development, and if I struggled to capture the voice of your tribute.
17th. Female Tribute from District Twelve, McAfee Sylvane. Bobo, I love your tributes. I really do. But for some reason, as I outlined this story, I didn't quite know where to put McAfee. Thank you for always submitting survivors to my story. I hope I do them justice.