Have you ever had something for a short period of time and took it for granted? Like vacations, candy, make out sessions, and coffee?
Whether or not you're willing to fess up and admit that you have done so on a number of occasions within the time you've spent on the face of this planet, it's safe to say that it's something everyone does. Everyone, and I mean everyone, doesn't see the true value of what they possess until it's truly gone. Trust me on this.
God how I miss coffee.
I would kill for a cup right about now. And seeing that I'm in the arena, murder over something as small and insignificant as coffee is actually not that uncommon. I've seen tributes from the past fight to the death over a bread roll. Not because the roll was of some great benefit or power aside from saving them from starving to death. And I'm only complaining like a sissy because I can.
Can you blame me?
I didn't think so.
My head throbs like something fierce, as if it's being banged on by a hammer dead set on smashing a nail through my skull. I've tried to assuage it by rubbing my temples with my fingertips, which didn't help. I then tried eating some more of those dried fruits and a few crackers to see if it would numb the pain. That did absolutely nothing. And finally, I tried taking my mind off of my coarse tongue and scratchy throat parched from any form of liquid by busying myself with small tasks such as chewing on bark and braiding vines together into ropes. Can't say it worked because after all of that, my cranium is screaming in agony. And it only gets worse whenever I look up at the sun.
No! I swear to God I'm not doing it on purpose. Seriously, who does that?
The only reason I risk going blind is because I am trying to see where exactly I am. The position of the sun tells me it's still morning, which means I have a full day of searching to do. As far as I can tell, I'm still heading south and still descending this never ending hill. Whatever lies at the bottom of this plateau is my goal. Water is at the top of my list, then food, and then possibly shelter. All water leads downhill, and therefore that's where I must go.
Dammit! I still miss it.
I miss it. I miss it so much it's not even funny. Oh, all those times I poured myself a mug and sprinkled spoonful after spoonful of starch white sugar and copious amounts of creamer into the newly golden liquid. The tiny spoon clinking musically against the polished porcelain inside of the cup, the thin tendrils of steam curling through the air and up into my face, gently soaking my nose in perspiration that was pleasantly warm. The absolutely awesomely bittersweet taste of the morning beverage filling me with insurmountable joy—
…
I think I have a problem.
Well, consider me an addict because right at this moment I'm pretty sure some invisible being is chopping my head open with an axe and splitting into the worst headache I have ever had.
If it isn't the lack of coffee being as unbearable as it is, imagine being dehydrated and having trouble thinking due to it. We lions can actually go at least four to five days without water and function properly and when we do drink, we take to it like moths to a flame. Yet I am no ordinary lion, in case you haven't noticed. Back in District 12, I used to drink gallon after gallon because I had this unexplainable fear that one day we'd run out. Not in water supply, specifically. It was more or less out of fear of running out of food and water altogether. We spent our first year in District 12 on the brink of starvation; miserable, hungry, and poor; because of the absence of said necessities and I didn't want to go through it again. Gloria made it a daily routine to argue with me about the amount of stuff I would bring in from my hunts, complaining that I'd get too much and that I ate as if it were my last time eating. I defended by saying that it would be if I didn't provide us with our meals. That about shut her up.
This sucks.
I thought that my biggest and most severe enemy would be the tributes hunting me down for the kill. That my ultimate challenge was to battle my way out of every duel with another grave tribute to live to see the sun again. But nooOOooOO. My nemesis isn't the hordes of teenagers scouring the arena to savagely maim and murder me. It's this goddamn stupid, endless, humid jungle that has nothing to offer a survivalist but trees, vines, and utterly no water.
And just my luck.
My stomach grumbles mulishy, pleading on its knees for sustenance. All I have are two-thirds of a box of crackers and half a bag of fruit left. It won't due. My body basically requires the constant intake of protein. Without it…
Oh no! No no no no no no no no no! Not again! Anything but that! I can't go savage! Not after what happened last time.
Wait! You don't know? You don't know about the incident? In Madagascar?
Yes?
No?
Oh, what the hell. I'll tell you.
A long time ago—it was actually about 4 years ago—life was sweet and simple in the Central Park Zoo. I lived like a king in my beloved zoo, adored and loved by all of my people. That is until we were transferred by boat because a certain someone had this fantasy of going to the wild. While I was in the middle of a disagreement between Marty at the moment, something happened and we were sent catapulting into the sea. Later we all ended up on the same island—aka Madagascar—and came upon an entire civilization of lemurs all led by their ring tail king, Julien. They welcomed us into their home as long we—or more accurately—I protected them from the dreaded foosas. It all started so well. We had a party, laughed, danced, sang, and all that jazz. But then it happened. I started experiencing my first ever famine that inevitably took over my mind. The deficiency of food was turning me into a blood hungry, ravaging monster trying to eat my friends. In the end, I managed to get straightened out and switched my diet from slabs of steak to fish.
Yet after all of that, I was—er, am—still worried about going off the rails crazy and devouring everything in my path, including those closest to me. I know it sounds dark and depressing, but it's the truth. When I starve, my blood sugar gets too low and I start to get a little… how do I say this… aggressive. We've had a quite a few false alarms and instances where it actually happened. Each time I was scared out of my wits. I'd run off into the woods, lost in the midst of the forest to keep them all safe from me. I had to get away from Marty, Melman, Gloria, and everyone else in the Seam. Sometimes I'd wake up in the forest to find myself drenched in blood and a mutilated corpse by my side. Other times I was half drowned in a lake. I can't tell how many times I've had nightmares of the animals I've killed and the flashbacks of the terrible acts I committed when I was all out of sorts.
Tigress would come and get me and help clean me up before taking me back into town. No words of comfort were said, no hugs were given, no consultation was rehearsed. She was straight forward and stern, and it was then that I appreciated how she didn't sugarcoat how absolutely pathetic and horrible I was.
Although the others constantly reminded me that they are no longer afraid of me possibly murdering them, that didn't mean I wasn't the least bit terrified of losing them, especially if it was my fault. I just couldn't live with the guilt and mortification of it.
I can already feel the adrenaline in my body arousing, my body twitching with unspent energy. I can't go savage. Not here, not now. Not in front of millions of people watching me along with the rest of the tributes who may just become my lunch. I cannot give them the pleasure of watching their so-called celebrity lose his mind and and gobble up all of these poor kids, whether they deserve it or not. But that's another matter we don't need to discuss.
I need to find a water source and fast!
The rest of the day is wasted away in this quest for water. I travel for miles on end, still fidgeting with vines and gnawing on strips of bark. The soft, stringy meat of the tree is moist which at least dampens my throat and gives my mouth something to do, so I keep it up until my jaw is sore.
Tigress taught me this. Said it was a travelling merchant's old trick she learned when she was younger. She had tested it once when she was sent off to ward off bandits and marauders in far away land and found it quite enjoyable. Sometimes, when we used to go into uncharted areas in our beloved forest, we would share a few pieces of some aspen to pass the time. I'd watch her face scrunch up in disgust when she took a nibble as if she had licked the inside of a lemon. She didn't say it, but she was silently complaining that the particular choice of tree wasn't to her liking. She even mentioned that her personal favorite was bark from the Maidenhair tree. To her, it was much sweeter and was usually used to make her favorite kind of syrup, stickier and more savory than anything any maple tree could produce.
Sunset approaches and by this time I think I might explode. Every so often I find myself yearning to get on all fours and take a quick sprint, my very being beseeching for some of the built up exertion to be eased. I refuse and now my body is literally fighting with my brain.
The scents and the sounds of the jungle have enhanced, too. I can hear everything; the flutter of a distant bird's wings, the trampling of a dear from a few miles away. Vegetation, soil, and sweat are a sharp incense to my nostrils.
Oh come on, Gobber! Haven't I suffered enough on this shitty day?!Gobber, my asshat of a mentor, is in charge of the gifts provided to me by my sponsors (if I have any) and oh-so adoring fans. They raise the money to buy a piece of equipment or food item and send it to me in my time of need. Yet as the days drag on and the Hunger Games get more intense, the prices for the supplied gifts get higher and higher until only the richest of the rich and wealthiest of the wealthy can afford it. Gobber, that douchebag, is the one who coordinates said gifts and decides when I receive these desirables. And for some unknown reason, he hasn't taken the time to give the one thing I need the most; water and actual food.
Is he evading my pleas on purpose? Does he want to torment me? I wouldn't be surprised.
Either that or he's too drunk to work with the sponsors and correlate exactly what he should do.
Still not surprised.
But he was sobering up for this. The entire time we were in the Training Center, he avoided liquor as much as possible. Not that he didn't cheat because I caught him taking a sip from his flask more than once. Yet even still, he managed to somewhat stick to his promise of having a clear mind when we are in the arena. And knowing Tooth, his second in command, she is going above and beyond to make sure we have a moderate mentor who is at least a little sensible.
Is he waiting till I kill something with my bare paws to render a gift? Does he want me to put on some kind of show to amuse my audience? What more could he want from me?!
Then it hits me just as I'm sitting down at the base of a tree trunk. He isn't sending anything because he of all people won't waste the generous donations of the viewers on something as valuable as water if I already have it. Or I am close to having. So that means water is nearby, and if I'm going to live to see tomorrow, I have to get off my ass and find it myself.
I stand up, my legs a little more wobbly than I expected, and brush dirt off my trousers as I start this whole trip over again.
Not gonna lie, the little spurt of motivation was temporary. I give up within twenty minutes. Sorry guys. My body so drained of nutrients that it feels like my stomach has been hollowed out with a giant spoon, howling grumbles echoing through the emptiness of my tummy. It hurts so much I have to clutch it just to stay upright.
I suddenly trip on something and plummet to the ground with a flop. I bang my head onto the ground, hard.
"OH SHIT!" I screech out.
What had I tripped on?I don't care to figure it out.
I sigh deeply, fed up with this entire day. The ground is cool and soft, softer than it should be. Bundles of vines press into my stomach, offering a much appreciated pressure to the sunken in torso. An upgrown root rams into my cheek and another into my shoulder, scraping through the flesh with its rough outer layer. Oddly enough, it's comfortable, so comfortable that it's practically inviting me to stay. I decide to take a nap.
Why not?
I'm tired and hungry and miserable. If anything, I deserve a little rest. I haven't slept in two days and it's showing.
I say that as if you haven't noticed.
I don't think about what to do if someone discovers me and kills me in my sleep. I don't think to possibly arm myself with one or both of my knives. I am too worn out for that.
Instead, I focus on the sounds around me. Mother Nature is playing a symphony with all her creations in the orchestra and I have a front row seat to hear it. Birds sing, insects buzz, wind whistles and rustles the groves of leaves above my head. And there's a strange chiming sort of sound; mellow and smooth, almost bubbly.
I move my arm to rest under my head and a squelching noise emits from the ground. I glance up to see mud smearing the sleeve of my jacket.
I hate mud. It's dirty, mushy, and grainy. And it tastes horrible!
Don't ask how I know.
It was always a bad day when the woods were swamped in mounds of sog. Coming home with my feet and pant legs soaked with moisture and soil was the worst, and my mom's and Gloria's grumblings of how they just mopped the floors when I trekked in muddy paw prints didn't lift my spirits. It wasn't my fault the world decided to rain cats and dogs and bury me to my knees in slop.
Mud. Mud? Mud.
…
HOLY SHIT!!! MUD!!!
Mud means water.
Water!
I jerk upright and not a mere three yards in front of me is a stream, a bubbling brook gently passing through the jungle. It is one of many veins of the main water source that lies somewhere in the tangle of this jungle. How I had not seen it before is unbeknownst to me, but I crawl to the small riverbed and dip my paw into the cool water to test and see if it's a mirage.
Real. It's real!
OH, HELL YEAH!
I want to dunk my head into it, to be submerged into this liquid salvation and swallow as much of it as possible. But what little common sense I have left holds me back. For all I know, this stream could be infused with some kind of virus or sickness that could kill me within seconds.
There's only one way to find out.
I scramble to get my bag off of my shoulder and pull out the empty water bottle. I squeeze a few drops of iodine into it after I fill it to the brim with some of the sparkling water and wait a few minutes. After I'm sure it's sanitized, I put the lip of said bottle to my cracked lips and drink. It's sweet as honey and runs down my throat smoothly, washing away the droughtiness of my mouth and replenishes my tongue from it swollen state. I down the entire thing in a single gulp and fill it once more, put some more iodine into it, wait, and drink. I repeat this process until I cannot hold any more, my insides threatening to burst like a rupturing dam.
Much better.
Now all I need is something to eat and I can finally say that I'm not a total goner.
Is that a fish?!
Shit! It is!!!
With a revived energy, I leap into the water and snag the fish by its slimy tail. It wriggles and writhes in my grasp, but I am determined to keep it steady. Without another moment to lose, I bite it's head straight off and it stops moving altogether.
Oh… oh God. It's better than I could have ever imagined. The absolute splendor of actual food and flavor is just… oh shit! This is amazing.
Take my word for it, eating fish raw and in such a ravening manner isn't my first choice. But nearly turning into a wild feral predator in an arena filming us tributes has made me take desperate measures. And there really isn't anything bad about eating the head of a fish. I like it actually.
Fun fact for you: the meat of a fish's head has more flavor than the rest of its body.
I eat the rest of the fish in a minute tops, sucking the bones dry. I look up and witness small schools of fish swimming downstream. You have absolutely no idea just how happy I am to see all the silvery bodies glinting in the setting sun. It was like something you see in a painting that revolutionized art. I nearly cry at the sight.
For the next hour, I fish in that tiny river, catching and devouring fish after fish.
Have I ever explained my love for fishing?
Well then you're in for a treat. Fishing is so relaxing and peaceful. The faith one has in casting a line and patiently waiting for a fish to snag onto the hook makes the world a little less awful. As if the horrors and stress of reality is somewhere else and your in your own kind of world where your only concern is losing your bait or a string of the pole snapping. The excitement of reeling in said fish is beyond explaining. It is a battle between your wit and the animal's and I absolutely love it. If you succeed, you get a meal. If not, there's always a next time.
Here, I don't have any fishing gear aside from my own two paws. If I had a bow and arrow I could efficiently kill and catch a fish all in one without having to wrestle it out of water. Like killing two birds with one stone. I make do with what I have.
Who am I to complain, right?
The fish in the stream vary, if only somewhat. There are two types; the smaller, more lean ones are fast and are as slippery as an eel, bonier and are harder to catch. And the fat, slow ones are much easier to snatch up but grappling them is like trying to contain a slippery cat fighting for its life.
In all, I ate as many fish as I pleased and finally, finally, was full with a pile of fish bones to prove my prosperity. The sun goes down and I once again crash in a tree for the night. I can't help the smile that grows on my snout. I have food, water, and a place to sleep. What more could I ask for?
The anthem plays and I watch the death toll of the now deceased tributes light up the sky. Only two had lost their lives today. Twelve down and eleven to go.
I tuck myself into the sleeping bag and settle down to sleep.
Maybe the Hunger Games won't be so bad after all.