The first night
Duff was shaking.
The room was dimly lit, but everything Duff saw was tinted red.
He felt horrible. He had slammed the door to the ballroom closed before he burst out into angry tears. He saw his reflection in the large mirror of the ballroom: him, short and stocky, his thin, starved figure, his pathetic crying face, his manicured nails, his wide hips, his large chest, God, his stupid fucking chest. Duff had never really cared for looking at himself in the mirror, but now it was absolutely intolerable. Now he couldn't deny how fucking pathetic he looked, how fucking horrible he looked.
He hated seeing himself, he hated the realization that he would always be called "ma'am." He couldn't stand it, goddammit he couldn't stand it, he pulled his fist back and punched the mirror right where his splotchy, acne-ridden, pathetic face was reflected, he punched it again and again until it cracked, until his knuckles were bleeding, and he felt no better.
Tears that he thought he could hold back poured out of his eyes. He hated himself for crying. That was the last thing he wanted to fucking do right now. He was furious, he was mad at that stupid bitch who killed Knut without even blinking twice, he was mad at the Capitol, he was mad at everyone. He didn't want to do anything but sit there and cry his eyes out.
Get the fuck up, he thought, sitting and grabbing his hair in his hands. He pulled on it until hit hurt, cursing himself for being this way. His knuckles throbbed, maybe they were bleeding, but that didn't fucking matter. If they wanted him to fucking hurt, then he would fucking hurt. He would fucking hurt until they realized they didn't want him to do this. Which he was finding would be never.
The path ahead was nothing but darkness. He was trapped. He had been reaped, sure. But this had been the hardest part of his life for a million different reasons. And, in the darkness, he found a torch. Someone who listened to his story and reassured him with gentle words. Back home, it was nothing he'd ever experienced before. He had never met someone so tender, so… So fearlessly honest, so boldly genuine. And just like that, it was wiped out. Duff was mad. A part of him was even mad at Knut. He knew it wasn't rational, but he felt it anyways. Denying that it meant anything just hurt more, but he knew that it wasn't right to feel so mad at someone who was just doing what he thought was right.
Duff couldn't run anymore from how fucking lonely he was.
He had friends back home, but he was distant from them. He was confused and lost, and knew that half of the people that claimed they loved him would abandon him if his suspicions were right. More than half, surely. And nobody he knew understood how fucking hard that was. Not like they tried.
Duff's fist clenched around the rough wooden piece that had been placed there just that morning. Duff punched the mirror again, just once, not enough to break it again, and collapsed to his knees, tears pouring out of his eyes.
He remembered his conversation with Knut, about how God lets bad things happen, and they're not sure why. He just couldn't help it, though. He was so mad at God, whatever the hell God there was. Whatever the hell God let Knut die like that, whatever the hell God let him suffer through hell, whatever the hell God let the Districts fall and be oppressed by the Capitol. He punched the ground, sobbing quietly. He didn't want to eat, he didn't want to go home, he didn't want to do anything.
What would he even get back to? A broken household. Scattered Mom, dead Dad, two dead brothers, one little sister. Mom constantly saying that the girls needed to stick together, which always bothered Duff, but now the thought of it made his stomach twist. He felt uncomfortable, generally shitty when he thought about it. A small group of friends, but they're still shaken over Doc disappearing in the same explosion that deafened Noor, paralyzed Forster, and set Duff on fire. And they never really talked about the tough issues, besides the rebellion. Duff didn't trust any of them enough to go to them, anyways.
Not to mention that time Duff and Forster kissed in the hospital. Sounds like a good thing, and at the time it was, but Duff was trapped in a weird situation of everyone around him being glad that "Duffy got a man!" and Duff just feeling so weird about it all. He was awkward, and unclear about what he thought because it was pretty sudden. He was just really confused. It was just another thing there to stress him out. Maybe keeping up the straight girl rep was safe, but he felt so fucking fake. Who is he going to talk to about that? Nobody has any idea how hard it is to know that being honest only brings pain. And that's not fucking fair. It just made him angrier. Why should he have to suffer through this?
He was so fucking pathetic that the second Knut, a fourteen-year-old stranger who he was going into a death match with, tapped, he poured it all out there. He opened up and everything came spewing out. He couldn't stop it. It was damn lucky Knut was trustworthy. He could have played Duff like a violin and Duff wouldn't have known until it was too late. It had happened before, and it seemed like it would never stop. Knut had given Duff this hope, though. This hope that something, someone bigger was at work, creating a plan that would all become clear someday. Now, though, it was just so fucking hopeless. What was to be accomplished through this!?
He felt fucking pathetic for this. He felt fucking pathetic for having these emotions, probably just because of his female hormones, which made him feel even more awful. After spending eighteen years trying to be seen as strong, having it ripped out from under him was more than a little uncomfortable. Holding it in wasn't good for him, but he didn't have another fucking choice. Everything was collapsing in front of him and there was nothing he could do.
Duff squeezed the splintery piece as hard as he could, but it didn't help. He buried his fingernails in his palm before he threw the cross across the room, biting his tongue to keep from screaming out loud. It was the worst feeling, a culmination of every horrible nightmare he'd ever felt, and it was all happening right now, all at one fucking time. And there was nobody there. The only one he would've wanted to be there was gone. Everyone else wouldn't understand, they wouldn't care. He kicked the wall, which just hurt his foot, before surrendering to the tears that were rolling down his cheeks and blurring his vision.
It was so fucking useless. He was alone, and he was afraid. He was afraid of people that said they loved him. He always just went with it, figuring it was normal, it was just something that happened. Tough love, it was called. But it was still love.
Knut showed him that it was all a lie. That isn't love. That isn't healthy. That isn't fair. If someone really loved Duff, they'd care about him. They'd open their arms to him. They'd listen to him. They'd show him compassion. They'd be real with him, without scaring the shit out of him. Knut showed Duff a kind of love that was foreign to him. At first it was off-putting, but it became disarming. The feeling of being shown such kind, gentle love, was so… warm.
Through the short few hours in which the two boys from Eight talked and prayed, Duff poured everything out. He put it all out there, he was brave, he was honest, and he was open. And Knut was proud of him for that. He was affirming. Even if Duff thought he sounded stupid, Knut listened and nodded and reassured him. It was the best feeling. It didn't take Duff very long at all to realize that he was talking to a very special young man, who was showing him a very special kind of love. For that love to die, or go to waste, would be a tragedy.
Duff felt horrible, but he got control of his tears. Now he just felt numb. Peaceful, but miserably numb. How do you ever get over the death of such a sweet, kind young man? He hadn't done anything wrong, and he was gone. It hurt, but Duff was done shedding tears about it, for now at least.
Duff was still shaking as he made it up to his feet. He crossed the room until he found the token. He picked it up slowly, and in that second, made a very important decision. He put the cross around his neck. He had been keeping it in his pocket, just because he wasn't sure if Knut would be mad if he wore it, because the thought of wearing it made him slightly nervous given everything he'd been through.
Duff was ready to be brave.
It was a small step to start, but it went a long way in Duff's eyes. Knut was with him, and he always would be. That love would always be with him, in his heart, and he would get out of here and pass it on to the hopeless, the helpless, the people that needed it most. Duff thought back to what Knut said, when Duff had the honor of hearing some of his story. Knut was a great story-teller. He had gotten really red when Duff told him that, and said that it was probably just a pastor-in-the-making kind of thing.
More tears filled Duff's eyes as he decided he wasn't quite ready to think about those memories in depth. They still hurt far too much. Duff wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to think of them without this pain, but he hoped that with time, maybe someday.
He sipped some water from a thermos in his backpack as his breathing slowed back down to a normal pace and he dried his eyes. His eyes stung and were still wet, and his nose was still running, but he felt a sense of calm that hadn't been there before, which was all he wanted. He sat silently for a while, nothing but the quiet dance music playing in the background of the ballroom,
From there, he vowed to do his best to keep the tears away. He'd have to put on his big kid pants and face whatever came at him.
He knew damn well it was only going to get worse from here.
~.~.
The sound of the slamming door brought back so many memories.
It wasn't always this common, of course, but since everything went to shit, it had become normal. The sound of a shout, usually, "Just leave me alone!" and a door slam. It meant that his brothers were fighting again.
Maybe Malthe shouldn't have butted in, but he always did. Malthe didn't like it when his brothers fought, it did nothing but make him nervous. Especially with Hillevi in such critical condition and his parents so preoccupied taking care of her. Having a divide just made Malthe feel so nervous.
Malthe Hier liked to be in control.
He believed that all of his actions lead to consequences. He had been reaped because of something he'd done in the past. He'd caused his own fate, he was the one in the steering wheel, in control. He had control over his own fate. Control, control, control. Malthe had control. He could change his future. He could help his sister. If he wins, if he takes care of her well enough, he can keep her alive, he can help her to get better. He has the power to bring his broken family back together. He can do it. If he screws it up, the family will break. But Malthe has the power to control it. He can do it, and he will. Malthe could help mend his brothers' relationship, and keep it all together.
Every time Folke and Flemming argued, Malthe intervened. It was a lot of pressure, sure, but Malthe didn't mind at the time.
He didn't realize how much it hurt him until he heard that slamming door. He had already been tremendously nervous, considering the fact that he had seen people, many of them younger than him, die as he was escaping the same fate. But the sound of the door just intensified everything in a new, sick kind of way.
Malthe was good at handling pressure. He put so much of it on himself all the time that he was just used to it. He would have much rather taken responsibility for bad streaks of fate than admit that there was nothing he could do or could have done to stop it. So far, he'd always been able to work through Folke and Flemming's problems. When one was being irrational, he nudged the other to be understanding. He asked the others to forgive each other, even when forgiveness was not particularly deserved. He had to keep control. He had to keep order. He wanted to know everything that was happening within the household and try to solve the problems however he could.
Malthe didn't consider himself particularly strong emotionally. He was a strong guy, physically, and could chop down trees like nobody's business. But he didn't consider himself a very emotionally strong person. He felt things strongly, he felt deep guilt and deep sadness when something happened, and strong anger, self-hatred even, when he felt he caused something to happen to his family or friends. He just didn't realize the sheer pressure that he'd put upon himself. Not until he heard that slamming door, and he immediately felt terrified.
Truth was, he hated it when his brothers argued. It scared him. He was worried that his family, the people he trusted and loved the very most, the unit that was more important to him than anything, would just collapse. He wasn't ready for that. There had to be something he could do to keep it from disintegrating. He would mediate every conflict, work as hard as he could, forgive and forget, he'd do anything to keep it from crashing.
He had control. He could do something. He could hold it together. And he would. He would get home, he would do it, he would fix everything.
The first thing Malthe did when he entered the room was barricade the main door. The last thing he needed was a big fight at this time. He knew that he had to take some time to recover to the shocking realization that people will die here before making his next move. Upon further inspection of the large, dilapidated room, Malthe found two other doors that were smaller. One was in the back of the room, directly across from the hallway door. When he opened, Malthe found that it led outside, into the dark stillness of the night. The other door led to a big room with a royal red carpet and a sleek, shiny wood table. The dining room. He barricaded both doors as well, straining to move heavy furniture in front of the doors. It took him a while to make sure all three were properly closed off.
After that, he decided to take stock of the things in his backpack. He took everything out and spread it on the floor in front of him.
He had a thermos in his backpack, along with a flashlight, a small first aid kit, and a spare T-shirt. There were also a couple bags of jerky and dried fruit, and a small net and a spool of rope. He also had a knife, which felt foreign in his hands. He was used to holding a big, heavy weapon, like an axe. This was so sleek and light it was practically weightless. It was so strange.
That didn't take him very long, so after he was done, he decided to take inventory of the room. After all, it was a kitchen. He went through the cabinets, where he found more food supplies. There were a couple cans of Spam, some bags of tuna, some fruit snacks, and other snack foods. When he turned the sink on, water flowed out. It was clear and with a taste, was deemed drinkable. He brushed some of the blond bangs out of his green eyes, sighing. He knew he could leave the kitchen to hunt for other tributes, but the thought still made him uncomfortable. Leaving the kitchen, which was a good bet and a fairly safe spot, was a good place to be. It was up to him to make a decision. He had to choose.
He started wrapping up some of the kitchen food and putting it in his backpack. He was going to hold onto it, just so that no one else could take it. He wasn't going to let anyone have an advantage like this if he could help it. After that, he found himself feeling pretty tired, and because he felt safe in the barricaded room, took a nap. He didn't sleep well, as he was plagued with dreams verging on nightmares. He did get some time out for a while, though. He had no idea how long, but it must have been a while because he woke up to the sound of a microphone and a Capitolite's voice.
"Congratulations, tributes. You have all survived your first day in the Hunger Games."
Malthe felt groggy and wiped his eyes as Octavian Spencer continued.
"The tribute deaths today are as follows: in twenty-fourth place, Miss Heidi Emerson of District 11. In twenty-third place, Mr. Knut Passerini of District 8. In twenty-second place, Miss Paulina Manson of District 2. In twenty-first place, Mr. Drago Cross of District 11. In twentieth place, Miss Watt Fairbend of District 5. We hope you settle into your first night, tributes. May the odds be in your favor."
He knew that he had to take control, and start seeking out other tributes. The quicker they all died, the quicker he'd be home. The quicker he got home, the quicker he'd solve everything. He had to get home, he had to hold his family together. He was in control, it was all on him. Maybe that much pressure wasn't healthy, that much guilt and blaming, but he liked it better that way.
Malthe zipped up his backpack and took a deep breath. He wondered if his brothers were watching together. Malthe hated not knowing if they were okay. He always assumed the worst, even if it wasn't logical. He hated the thought of Folke locked in his room with some guy taking advantage of him, with Flemming by himself. Flemming could be dead. What if Malthe got home and they told them Flemming was dead? What if Malthe got home and Hillevi had died? The thoughts sent surges of anxiety through him with each beat of his heart.
He had to get back to District 7, as soon as possible. He was desperate to get home quickly. To do that, he was going to have to make this happen, take control, and he was going to have to do it fast. And what better time than now, when everyone else was probably sleeping and he barely felt tired? He put his backpack on his back and took a deep breath, trying to settle his nerves.
He decided to go to the dining room. It was so spacious, there had to be at least one tribute there. He took another breath before he unbarricaded the door and opened it slowly.
The room was huge. A huge, half burnt out chandelier hung in the center of the room, shedding an eerie light on the room. The walls had display cases, most of them filled with expensive-looking plates and dishes and other little decorations. Malthe would have admired them if he weren't here, but knew that he had to stay focused. He couldn't see the full way down the room because it was so long and dimly lit, but he walked cautiously and slowly.
Suddenly, he was attacked. If you would call it that. The younger tribute from Twelve didn't know what to do except for run at him with all of her might. Malthe was startled more than anything, but in a fight to the death, that was a good thing. In that moment of fear, though, Malthe acted. He plunged the knife into Chico's chest, who gasped and collapsed. Malthe pulled it out and stabbed her again, trying to end her quickly. He didn't stop until a cannon boomed, signaling that Chico was dead. Malthe took a quivering breath after that, turning away quickly from the body in front of him. He wasn't sure what to do next, but when he heard two girls' voices talking to each other, he knew he was outmatched. He quickly escaped back to the kitchen, away from Jessie and Rune.
Malthe wasn't stupid. He knew that he would have to take them sometime. But he was hoping that something else would happen first. He would face them another time. Maybe he was putting off the inevitable, but if he just waited for Rune to lose a few more arrows and maybe the girls to get injured, it'd be a fairer fight.
You're not doing enough, the voice in the back of his mind told him as he barricaded the door again and took a drink of water. Go out there, fight them, be a man dammit! He didn't go. Instead, he ran his knife under the sink to wash the blood off. From there, he took inventory again, three, four more times, doing everything to avoid thinking about what he'd done.
The worst part wasn't the feeling of stabbing someone, he was still in fight mode when that happened. The worst part wasn't even the cannon, the knowledge that he killed a twelve-year-old.
The worst part was how easy it was to end a life.
And how ready he was to do it again, and again, and again, until he won.
~.~.
A/N: So I finally made a plan for this story and mapped out where the tributes are, woo hoo. Now this story can really pick up. I love this story because I get to put a lot of me into the tributes because they're mine. So, if you're reading this story, thanks I guess, because this story is ultimately my creation, and so much of me goes into it, you have no idea.
Sponsoring's still open, by the way. Just shoot me a PM if you're interested.
Chapter Question: Um… I don't know. Anyone specific you want to hear from? Sorry it's lame, lol.
Thanks and see ya next chapter.
