As you may already know, I have a knack for cursing. I say this as if you haven't heard say literally almost every cuss word in the book. I picked up a thing or two from my surrounding peers from my time in District 12. I know that it never solves anything when you say things like "shit" or "dammit", but it does relieve some of the anxiety and frustration welling up inside of you. Anyone who has a potty mouth understands this. Especially for instances like when you stub your toe on the corner of a table, or when you wake up super early in the morning and change into some clothes and go about your day and it's not until three hours later that you find out that you have had your pants on backward the whole time.
No! This is not a real example. Well… maybe it is... Okay, fine! Yes! That actually happened! Are you happy? And that's not even the worst of it. Everyone and I mean literally everyone, hadn't told me that my pants were on backward. And they knew the whole freaking time! How could they?! I was still adjusting to wearing clothes and it was embarrassing enough strutting around town donned in human clothing. Now I have to live with the humiliation of being the lion who couldn't put his pants on right for an entire day.
And another appropriate time for cursing is when a knife nearly slices your head off by a little boy barely half your size. I know this from experience because at this very moment I am smack dab in the middle of a massacre consisting of teenagers who could easily be mistaken for mass murders.
Wanna know how? It's simple. Grow up in a tyranny nation where the leader of said nation forces innocent children to fight to the death once a year in a God-forsaken arena packed with traps and who knows what to kill and torture us all for the entertainment of a pathetic lot of fashion-loving divas that make up the population of the Capitol.
So what does one do in order to have some fleeting chance at winning this gory play of life and death? You train yourself to become the strongest, the toughest, the most badass tribute there can be to outlast the others. It's not so much of a choice as it is to be picked to fight in the Hunger Games. If you're that desperate to stay alive, then you do whatever it takes. It's a natural instinct.
I act on this instinct now as I dodge a blow from the boy tribute who is aggressively trying to stab and slice me with a blade. I'm not sure how I managed to get myself into this hand-to-hand combat with this kid, but it's happening, and I'm struggling to end it. He is fast, swiping the knife to and fro with impossible speed and I'm not sure I can keep this up.
I don't want to hurt him. I can't hurt him. That's the last thing I want to do. He's just a kid, twelve years old with an obvious limp in his leg from an unknown injury. He snarls and growls through baby teeth as he swings his blade yet again, barely grazing my chest. His silver-grey eyes are avidly bright behind his damp curls pressed to his forehead with sweat. I step back over and over again, hoping that he will stop or give up before I run into someone or something and possibly get us both killed. Stunned out of my wits, I trip over something and he looms over me, prepared to strike. I barely have enough time to raise my arm as some futile form of protection when he stops in mid-thrust. His grey eyes widen in shock and he gasps, slowly looking down at the arrow piercing through his chest, spouting blood onto his shirt. His knife falls to my feet and he too falls to the ground, eyes still open and a small trail of crimson trickles from his thin, parted lips.
I watch, horrified. His killer watches me, too. A girl I hadn't cared to remember by name also watches me with the bow and arrow I desired not so long ago are clutched in her grasp. She looks to be able to handle it despite the obvious trembling in her arms that can only be performed by amateur archers. Before I can get another round to duel with her or anyone else for that matter, I scoop up whatever is beneath me and run for it. The sounds of the battle continue as I race away from the fight. The clang of steel meeting steel, the grunting effort of combat, the ear-splitting cries of a fallen tribute, and the sickening cracks of bones breaking as weapons impale bodies, surrounds me in a chaotic, deadly chorus of war.
I run. I run, I run, I run, and I run. Never looking back. My paws a blur of golden brown below me, the wind whistling in my ears, tail flapping behind me.
I have to get out of here! I have to get out of here!
I know nothing at this point. Nothing except the numerous bloody deaths I had witnessed, where blood was spilled and lives were taken, wasn't a trick of the eyes or an illusion. It was real. It was all real.
I have to get out of here I have to get out of here I have to get out of here!
I run for an eternity. Never slowing down, never looking back. Lungs burning, tongue lapping, legs pedaling, mind reeling. It's painful in the physical sense, but I don't care. I don't care. As long as I can put as much distance between me and the Cornucopia, I couldn't care less what my body endures.
I have to get out of here I have to get out of here I have to get out of here get out of here get out of here!
In my hysteria, I trip on an ingrown root and tumble down a hill, rolling and rolling until I abruptly stop at the bottom. I lay there, motionless and breathless, brain on hyperdrive.
I have to get out of here I have to get out of here! Let me out of here! Let me out!
I can't think! I can't breathe! Oh God! What the hell is wrong with me?! Let me out let me out let me out LET ME FUCKING OUT! Gotta get out of here have to get out of here let me out of here!
"Just calm down, Alex." A distant, foreign voice echoes in my head. "Calm down."
I can't calm down! I can't fucking calm down! I can't! I have to get out of here have to get out of here! LET ME OUT OF HERE! It's not until after that bout I realize I said that out loud. I don't care! I don't fucking care! I have to get out of here have to get out of here have to get out of here let me out of here! Let me out of here!
"Just breath." The voice continues to reassure. "Remember what Megamind did for you when you were scared?"
Okay okay. That's a good plan. Very good plan. I can do that. I can do that. Okay, Megamind… What did Megamind do when I was scared? I rack my brain for memories, trying my hardest to push the irradical thoughts out of my conscience to make room for logic, however small it is. He...he…was there for me when I was getting my tracker implanted. He helped me calm down enough to let the man take the shot. And he did make me relax a little before the interviews. And in the Opening Ceremony.
Megamind would want me to take this in slowly. To focus on what is before me and not on what is behind me. That is the way of the wild. Keep moving forward, never back. No matter how traumatizing, no matter how horrific the Games are—especially within the past ten minutes—, I still have to be strong. I must be strong.
I gulp air by the mouthful, releasing it through my flared nostrils. Ever so slowly, my heart calms to a steady beat from the erratic thumping, as if it were jumping on a trampoline. I stand to my feet shakily and lean against a tree. Cool, knitted moss armors the fat trunk, surprisingly soft and comforting.
Then out of nowhere, another mental voice pitches in. One that is angry and harsh, their words hot as they flit around in the confines of my skull like hot flecks of ash, burning flesh when it touches the walls of my subconscious. "Oh boo hoo!" It says, "So a few people died in front of you. Big deal! They meant nothing to you. Absolutely nothing! You didn't know them, you didn't meet them, you didn't even pay attention to them." It barks, getting louder and louder till I have to clutch my skull so that it won't implode on itself. "Cry me a river, build a bridge, and get the fuck over it! Get your sorry ass up and at'em before the Gamemakers decide to blow you to smithereens for being a weak ass wuss. Are you just going to sit there and weep like a fucking baby in front of your entire country, or are you going to stand up and walk it off? Your move."
The first thing I got out of that lecture is that I'm seriously considering that I might be going insane. Hearing voices like this is most definitely not a healthy sign. If I ever manage to get out of here alive, the first thing I want to do is see a psychologist.
And the second thing was that the angry voice was right. It was 100%, without a doubt, more than right. It's not like it was the first time I've seen death. I hunt for a living, in case you haven't noticed. So I shouldn't be freaking out like this. I should be rational and smart, cold-hearted even. Lives are on the line, so there's no necessity to put feelings and emotions into thought.
After I'm sure that I won't give myself another aneurysm of some sort, I scoop up my supplies—which just so happens to be a single backpack along with the curly-haired boy's forgotten knife—and head out. It's not safe to stay in the same place for too long, especially with weapon-wielding teenagers out for blood. My best bet is to move away from the Cornucopia while I have the advantage of keeping my distance. So I begin my journey.
A few hours have passed and it's already getting dark. I have been heading to what I assume to be south, descending a steep hill riddled with vines and clusters of green, mossy trees. The humidity and exertion of hiking all day have me panting heavily, a line of sweat tickling my temples and neck. My tongue is dry and coarse, like the surface of sandpaper, and I am dying of dehydration. Not yet anyway. I have been searching for a pond or a stream to quench my thirst ever since I caught my bearings and so far: nothing. There is absolutely nothing that runs with even the smallest of trickles of water. How could such a dense jungle with luscious vegetation be so fruitful but have absolutely no water? It's ridiculous.
Yet it's late, and I'm not planning on being someone's next victim. I look for a place to rest for the night. The ground will leave me vulnerable to creatures that lurk around (including tributes) waiting for their prey to fall asleep, so my best bet is to bunk in a tree. I'm not so much of a climber as I am a swimmer, and I don't fancy swimming. Yet I make it to a decent height where groups of fat leaves conceal me in their shadows easily enough. The branches seem sturdy enough to uphold a lion, which is more than I could ever ask for. It's not much, but it'll do. I take this time to rummage through my new belongings and come to find a sleeping bag, a plastic sandwich bag of dried fruits, a box of salty crackers, a water bottle with some iodine, and most importantly a knife. Great, now I've got two knives. Bonus! Yet no water. I sigh disappointedly at the empty water bottle, imagining clear liquid filling the emptiness magically as if summoned by a genie.
My stomach rumbles, clearly begging for something to eat. I have to conserve what little I have if I want to make it out of here alive--at least for the next few days--so I snack on a slice of peach and two crackers, wishing I had something to wash it down with. I unroll the sleeping bag and squeeze my way in. It definitely wasn't made for large cats like me. The night is cold and bitter. Even with my thick fur, I shiver. I'm just glad I have something to provide some warmth.
How many tributes are trying to sleep through the frigid night with nothing but the clothes on their backs and the ground at their feet? How many have failed to get the needed supplies to make it through their first night in the arena? How many fear that they'll freeze to death before they could've made it past the first day of the Hunger Games? Poor guys.
Suddenly the anthem plays and a beacon of light shines through the sky like the beam of the movie theater projector. I watch through the thicket of the tree's leaves as names and faces flash across the black canvas, hoping upon hope a certain someone doesn't show up. The boy with the limp is first as they go down the line. Another boy from District 6, the girl with the arrows pops up from District 10, and a handful of other unfortunate souls. I count them off in my head. One, two, three… ten. Ten down, 14 to go.
Right now, there are ten families mourning the deaths of their children. Ten groups of friends crying, huddled together over the loss of their friend. Ten innocent children who were mercilessly killed before the entire nation of Panem. A nation that not only allow this violence to take place but welcomes it. Enforce it. And all because our ancestors had riled up against them for being what they are; tyrants. So as given punishment, the children of these rebels must suffer at the hands of our leaders, paying the endless punishments for the actions of our previous districts. Punish the blameless. That's how it goes nowadays.
Sick, isn't it? Welcome to my world.
I tie the last knot of the rope wrapped around my waist and pull the length of sheer fabric up to my cheek. You're probably wondering why I'm about to sleep tied to a tree. Well as you know, I'm no expert when it comes to tree housing, but I do know basic physics. Take an approximately 400 lb lion and put him up in a tree, a good, solid 30-35 feet up in the air. What happens if the lion was to take a nap and—uh oh, rolls over in his sleep and falls? Splat! A broken neck and a few cracked ribs, that's what! I'm not entirely sure if that's what would actually happen, but I'm not taking any chances. This is the Hunger Games. You don't get a say in whether or not you live tomorrow, so you do your best to stay alive in the present. In this case, it's not falling out of a tree in the middle of the night.
I'm just about to doze off when the snapping of twigs jerks me upright. Has someone spotted me? Is someone trying to creep up on me and kill me in my sleep? I think frantically.
No. No one is around. There is absolutely nothing that could have startled me. I squint my eyes to pierce through the darkness in a quest to find whatever made the noise. If I'm not mistaken, it's close by. Too close for comfort.
There! A light has flickered. Small and yellow, like the spark of flint against a stone. There it is again! This time, the flicker of yellow grows into a small fire and a figure sits in front of it. Someone has lit a campfire.
You've gotta be shitting me?! Do they not know that they practically just shot fireworks into the sky screaming, "Come and get me!", drawing murderous tributes to them in hot pursuit to take down another one of their kind? Clearly not. I mean, I know it's cold and all, but seriously?! They just had to send a beacon of reckoning to the others as if they were begging to be killed. And right next to me!
They may not know it (obviously), but they will pay for their ignorance. And the payment comes sooner than expected. In a matter of seconds, the trampling of feet comes closer and closer until they have reached the person by the fire. I can see their shadows dance in the underbrush, blurred and smoky as they sway and twitch like the branches of a willow tree caught in the thick of a windstorm. Voices are heard, most threatening and one small, frightened one squeaking for mercy. I watch in stunned silence, engrossed in the scene that is taking place not thirty feet away from my perch. One shadow that dwarfs the others in size takes something long and sharp from their belt, glinting silver in the pale moonlight. The discovered victim's pleading have grown louder and more hysterical. The shadow raises an arm and brings it down in a swish movement that meets the cries for help. Then there's the scream. A blood curdling, ear ringing scream that echoes throughout the jungle. A shrieking of pure agony like that of a cursed banshee. It flows through my ears and bounces around my cranium until it's a continuous melody of complete and utter desperation and terror singing in my head.
The group hastily put out the fire and start making their way in my direction. For a second, I'm scared that they have found me and will make me their next target. Instead, I watch as they pass right underneath me. There has to be at least five of them, both human and animal alike, girls and boys. They smell of sweat, blood, and smoke. Some chatter amongst one another, others remain silent and watch their surroundings. Thankfully, they don't think to look up where they could easily spot me. They are the Careers. Each one a tribute who is probably capable enough to survive on their own since a majority of their lives were wasted away for this time in the Hunger Games, but have made a pact to become allies with other tributes. They mainly consist of tributes from the higher districts, the ones that have the best chance at winning. Together, they pick off their opponents one by one in the never-ending hunt for the crown of the Victor, eliminating the competition to earn their place at the throne.
I nearly slip off my branch at the sight of her. She trails at the end of the pack, smaller and quieter than the others. My lungs immediately stop working as if I had already fallen out of the tree and was winded on impact, now lying on the ground desperately trying to gasp for air like a fish out of water.
How could she?! How the actual hell could she?! After everything we've been through together, she has the audacity to go behind my back and make allies with the enemy. To stab me in the back and practically throw away everything we had done to be where we are now. Gia. Sweet, caring, forgiving Gia, has made allegiance to the Careers. A flare of anger spikes through my being and something snaps, like the snip of the scissors of the Fates from Greek Mythology taking the life of another soul to the Underworld. I curse under my breath.
Just… how could she?! After all the training hours, all the dinners of small talk, all the ceremonies in the Capitol, she has disconnected our mutual trust. I shouldn't be surprised. I knew from the very beginning not to trust her, to keep my distance because I knew for a fact that she would be trouble. But did I listen? NooOOooOO. Instead, my dumbass self gave into her faux performance, her acting of being a trustworthy friend who actually turns out to be apart of the mob of power-hungry individuals her murder innocent people to raise the stakes for themselves was too good to not believe in. I get that there can only be one of us who makes it out of here with our life, but betraying your own tribute just so that you can be favored and protected by others who are stronger and faster, even for a short time, is just despicable.
They pass without ever having the suspicion that a lion resides just above their heads. I wait until they leave and finally heave a big, possibly all too loud breath of air out of my lungs and refill them with oxygen. A distant sound like the whirring of a machine sounds off behind me and I look over to where the now-deceased tribute was found and see a metal claw materialize from the sky and pluck a limp body up into the air. And just as randomly and quickly as it had appeared, it disappears in a canopy of trees. I can no longer see the claw take the fallen tribute away to be prepped for their death ritual that will be held in their designated district miles away from where they were killed.
It's a tragic event, really. For as long as I can remember, the funerals for annual tributes that were held in District 12 were as distraught and depressed as they could be. Nothing spectacular has ever happened at them; a group of men and male animals would heft the pair of caskets on their shoulders and carry them through town—my first time doing it was just last year. In that ceremony, not only did I feel the weight of the polished oak coffin confining the child on my back but also the eyes of my people watching me perform this feat of respect and honor for another murdered innocent. The rest of the town would watch from the sidewalks without a word to say to pay their respects to the dead teenagers. Then we took the caskets to the local cemetery where the families of the tributes would place the bodies into the ground and buried. And then, slowly, people would dissipate as the hours ticked away until only the family members remained. And then they would leave.
I make a silent prayer for the soul that was so mercilessly taken along with the boy with grey eyes and a limp and curl into my sleeping bag where I hope to get some sleep. I stay awake for the rest of the night.