Day One. Morning.
Peter bleeds out due to untreated injuries.
Peter stumbles across the leaf-strewn ground. His toes kick at roots and rocks and his hands scrape at tree bark, but Peter hardly recognises the pain. His body is too busy listening to the scream of his side where the knife pierced him. He looks down at his right hand and loses his balance in shock. His shoulder slams into a trunk. He can't breathe– he can't see, everything blurs– is he crying or passing out, he can't tell, maybe both. He can't comprehend the sound of birds above him; it all sounds like three tin cans rustling around in a metal garbage tin. His hand is stained red. Red, like cherries. Red, like Aunt May's mixing bowl, the most vibrant thing in the entire household. Peter smiles weakly at the memory, but any more strain and he will collapse in pain. He can't collapse– he has to rest– he has to make it back– he has to heal– he has to–
Peter tries to lurch himself forward, and for a second, he'd walking. His foot kicks at another root. He falls. His head collides with something hard – he can't know what, can't see, can't think – and he lets out a loud yelp, a cry, a shout. Pain wracks his body. He can't move. He grunts and squirms in attempt to roll over, but his side is about to burst into flame. It's red hot and about to explode. Fireworks, he sees fireworks in his mind eye, the kind that his best friend, Ned, smacked together behind their two-roomed, District Three house. Ned was brilliant; I'm going to miss that dude.
Peter's heart sprang into a frenzy. He's going to die – oh god, what about May, what about Ned – and there is nothing he can do. He's bleeding out from his side, red dripping down his side and dropping to the dirt. He can't think straight thanks to the fireworks in his brain. He can't walk with a twisted ankle let alone the cramping muscles in his side. He's dying, he's dying, he's dying...
"Help!" he croaks. He surprises himself with how loud it actually sounds, or maybe that is just his ears amplifying everything because, oh god, why are the birds trying to deafen him? "Help! I'm here!– I'm down here!– Hey! I can't–! I can't–! I'm– help! Somebody, help!–"
He chokes on some saliva. He takes that as inspiration and immediately quiets himself save for the rattling sobs heaving from his chest. He cannot help it; he is lying face-down in a pile of leaves, everything hurts, and he just wants to go home. He wants to see May one last time and hug her and tell her he's all right, everything is going to be alright, he will be fine. He wants to see Ned again and talk about that story they were going to write, the one about robots and space fights and warriors as trained as the District Two tributes fighting for the good of humanity. They were going to overthrow the evil overlord. The galaxy would be safe again. He wants his friend again. He wants to laugh. He wants to make Ned laugh. He wants to have one more night in his own bed, wrapped in his own blanket, feeling secure and happy and surrounded by love. He wants to die surrounded by love, not by early morning fog and the held breath of a thousand spectators waiting for that canon shot.
Peter still cannot roll over, but he doesn't want to. He is imagining the warmth of the hearth and May's arms around him. There's a little draft coming from the windows, but as long as the fire is roaring, he feels completely warm. The fire, May's arms, the blankets shared between them – he's safe. Tomorrow, he will rise early from bed and race to see Ned. Tomorrow, they will start to write their book. Tomorrow, the world will be back to normal. But first, he has to rest.
So he does.