.
The Tides
"You don't drown by falling in the water; you drown by staying there."
My hand is still tracing the warmth on my cheek when my plate lifts. The timer hits 40 by the time my daze wears off enough to take in where I am. The Hunger Games. The thing that I spent the past week preparing for. My death or my victory. (ascension? rebirth? I still can't say for certain what the word victory means)
The plates aren't in a circle. That's the first thing that I notice. They're in a long, straight line that I'm nearly at the end of. Only one of the small outliers that I can't remember the name or district of stands to my right (chase? chance? It doesn't matter much what his name is, the boy is thirteen years old and thin as paper, the only person to achieve a training score lower than my three). To my left is the rest of the opposition. Laid out in one long line, they manage to make victory seem so far away.
The clock hits 20 when I feel water at my feet. I look down and come to the same realization that has half of my opponents pale in the face, looking over their plates with uncertainty. We're in the water. The sandy beach isn't far away, but it isn't close either, maybe 50 meters. Right there in the sand, a few daggers and backpacks are half-buried, while beyond them where the beach breaks into a few dirt paths are a handful of larger weapons. From what I can see, there are 6 of these paths, a steep hill of rock and granite otherwise enclosing the beach.
I've always been fast. There are no Careers close by here. I could scoop up a backpack and grab the ax lying unclaimed on the ground of the path directly in front of me before anyone else made it halfway there. Calanthe told me to avoid the bloodbath, but this is different. It would be all too easy to escape into whatever the arena has waiting for us beyond the path without having to fight, and arm myself with my weapon of choice in the process. It's a perfect solution, an easy plan. There's just one problem with it.
I can't swim.
There was a pool in the training center. I thought a few times about trying it out, but it had seemed like such a waste. I didn't have time to waste on relaxation or enjoyment or fun. I had to focus on the skills that mattered. And now I might die because of it. Funny how that works.
The gong rings and hardly anybody moves. The Fours dive right in, of course, a large splash as they leap majestically into the water and cut through the water with broad, fast strokes. Luckily for me, they're all the way on the other side of the beach. But that doesn't mean that I have time to sit around here and wait. Staying here means waiting to die. Waiting any longer won't change that. Stand and die or take the plunge and hope for the best.
I jump. It isn't as pretty as the Fours, with their majestic spring and dive, but it gets me into the water all the same. And I don't sink. My feet settle against a squirmy, muddy floor while the water still only runs up to my waist.
I don't waste any time being relieved. Right beside me wading through the water is Braxton Pierce, one of the loudmouthed members of the massive alliance of outliers Soren put together. To fight off the Careers, they say, as if half of them are any better. I can't let Braxton get to the ax before me. It doesn't matter that he would always smile and act kind during training. That won't stop him from burying the ax into my chest if it brings him any closer to victory. Who wouldn't do the same?
It's harder running through the water than I thought it would be. Each step is slow and awkward, but steadily enough I make progress. By the time I reach the beach, exhausted and dripping wet, there's only a handful of people already on land. The District Four boy is burying a dagger into the girl from Eleven's stomach. His district partner is running for a trident. I don't wait around to check in on anyone else.
I nearly stumble as I take my first step in dry air, not ready for how easily my legs move without the weight of water pushing in on them. I keep my balance, though, staggering as I loop a backpack over my shoulder and break into a sprint for the dirt path. Behind me I can hear Braxton's feet kicking up sand, but he's too far behind to catch up. I'm going to be the first one there.
A sharp pain bursts out in my ankle just as I'm about to lunge up the wooden steps and onto the dirt path. I crumple to the ground, my left leg giving way beneath me as I roll to a stop. My head cracks against the wooden railing and my vision spins. I can barely make out the knife buried in my ankle.
It would be easy to just sit here on the ground and not get up. That cool feeling rushes through me, that feeling that tells you to stay down, to shrink away from the horrors that wait for you. The pain is almost unbearable, my ankle shrieking out so harshly that I need to bite on my tongue to stop from screaming out, the taste of blood warm in my mouth. My head aches, the world dizzy as I shift in place. It's the type of pain that's almost enough to overwhelm. But that kind of pain is an old friend.
I hoist myself up to my feet, using the railing to lift myself back up. My left foot isn't much use, but it plants itself into the ground all the same, my balance shifting uneasily for a brief moment before I catch myself. The world steadies. Braxton stands before me, an ax in his hands and the rest of the arena behind him. An escape from the carnage I can hear breaking out behind me, the blood-curling sounds of screaming and clashing metal beginning to take shape.
Braxton could have been an ally. Soren offered to let me join them, back on the first day of training when he was first floating around the idea of a mega-alliance. Braxton had smiled and laughed and acted so friendly when he had seconded the offer, saying they would be glad to have me. He isn't smiling now. That's how they all are though, isn't it?
I don't even have time to try to pull the dagger loose from my ankle. With a yell he's charging toward me, swinging the ax downward at my head with a strained heave. I swerve back and the ax-head buries itself into the dirt, splintering a twig beneath its weight.
I don't know what I can do. All that I do know is that I can't turn back. So I do all that I can. I charge forward. Braxton looks surprised as he attempts to lodge the ax free of the ground. He only just barely manages to pull it free as I barrel into him, adrenaline coursing through my veins as I tackle us both to the ground.
The ax is flat between the two of us, my body on top of his, and he tries to use it to push me off. I hold tight to the handle, refusing to let my grip slip. My other hand takes grip of the ax head, and I ignore the coursing pain that digs into my hand as I squeeze tight. If I can just get this out of his hands and into mine, if I can just pull a little harder. . . .
I don't see his fist coming. I only feel it, a blunt force that snaps my head back and ripples a wave of pain through my cheek that runs down my body and into my fingers, just enough for them to lose their grip around the handle of the ax. He pushes me back and I stumble off of him, barely managing to keep myself on my feet. There's no time to be thankful for that, though.
He's up on his feet in a flash, his ax swinging out in another wild downcut. There's nowhere for me to turn to, my back to the wooden railing and my feet a tangle beneath me. Raw instinct is all that has the time to react, my body tensing up as I twist out of the way, turning my back to the ax that comes down at me.
No sharp pain cuts through my flesh. My body doesn't crumple. No cannon fires. His ax buries itself into my backpack and hits something inside of it, something that rings out with a metallic ding and fwish. For a moment, everything is eerily quiet.
The explosion is louder than I thought was possible. For a moment my vision is bleached white, my eardrums seeming as if they're meeting together in the middle of my skull as ringing fills my ears and I feel myself go dizzy again. The explosion from my backpack propels me forward, pushing me further into the railing and nearly over.
My vision returns just in time to find myself staring down into a murky stream, my body inches from falling over the edge and plummeting into the water. I lurch back, ears still ringing as I swing my head around on a swivel, not entirely sure what I'm looking for. Back on the beach it seems like everybody has stopped what they're doing, the tributes on the beach and in the water alike turning their attention to me.
It doesn't last for long. I don't hear it, but clearly everyone else does, because their gazes shoot over to the ocean in near unison. I regret looking the moment I lean forward to take in what's stolen their attention.
A wave the size of a building is looming in the distance, rushing forward toward the beach. Everyone still standing on their pedestals leap off now, desperately doggy-paddling their way to the beach. Those that are already on land are scrambling for the paths out, including the one that I'm standing on right now.
I don't need any warnings more explicit than that. I spin back around and find Braxton lying on the ground, his eyes milky-white as he lethargically lashes out unsurely with his hands. I pick up the ax from beside his body and hesitate for a moment. It would be all too easy to bring down the ax and ensure the kill. It would be practical, he's nothing but an obstacle between me and winning. And besides, he attacked me first. I have the knife still lodged in my ankle to thank him for. (it's funny, I forgot it was even there. I don't let myself linger on the question of what will happen when the adrenaline wears off and the pain comes back)
Ultimately, it's the sound of nearing footsteps and the assurance of a looming tidal wave that make the decision for me. He's dead regardless. No point in sticking around to see it through personally. Right now I just need to get as far inland as I can, anything else is secondary.
That thought spurs me on, the simplicity of an object goal pushing me forward, one step after the other, down the dirt path and into whatever might lay ahead.
I meet her for the first time on a brisk Wednesday morning. It's before the arena. Before the Capitol. Before my name was plucked out of the Reaping ball for the whole world to hear. It's just another morning, cold and dreary and wearing my bones down with the type of fatigue that caffeine can't shake off. Not that it doesn't help. It's something, a little blip of ease that fills the empty cavern inside of me, drip by drip. I'm not sure anymore if there's anything that can make me feel whole. Maybe it just needs to happen like this. Slowly, with immeasurable steps taking me to somewhere else.
But that feeling's not unique to this morning. Neither is the cold or the coffee or the mud on my boots. The only thing different in this sea of gray sameness is her. Her name is Calanthe Asana. She looks like one of my classmates, maybe 2 or 3 years older at most. But we're not alike. She's a victor. I'm decidedly not. Not unless survival counts as victory, because that's all I've managed so far.
She smiles at me over a cup of coffee of her own and I'm barely able to spare a smile in reply. It would be nice to let my gaze linger, watch her smile for just a little bit longer. But that isn't something I have time for. It's a dream meant for summer, and the winter hasn't shown any signs of breaking soon. Give me sunlight before I start dreaming about what I'll see illuminated by the sun.
A smile is apparently enough, though. I don't get the chance to buy my own coffee. Calanthe is there to buy it for me, not so much as a word of explanation as to why. Just another one of those smiles that I want to let make me melt. But the frost on my skin does its job too well to let that happen. Instead I just smile and say thanks. The two of us enjoy our coffees from other sides of the market. Every time we cross each other's eyes, she's always there with another smile ready.
I can't help but wonder what makes her eyes keep finding their way back to mine.
With night comes pain. By the time the tidal wave hit the beach I was already long gone, but I know not everyone was so lucky. My ears were still ringing when the cannons started firing, and I was too intently focused on continuing to run to get an exact count. It wasn't too many, though. Not as much as I selfishly hoped for.
At least I didn't have anybody chasing after me. There was somebody else on the same path as me, but either they were slower than me or decided not to try their luck, because by the time I stopped to rest there was no one behind me anymore.
It took me until near-nightfall to stumble out of the thick vegetation and into the tropical city I've found myself in. By then the adrenaline was already wearing off and my ankle was beginning to flare up in pain, but I forced myself up all twenty flights of stairs regardless. I'd prefer to keep pushing forward, but the next best thing is to get to high ground. Something tells me that isn't the last of the ocean that I'll be seeing.
I know better than to wait by one of the windows for a sponsor gift to come down. Calanthe will try, but nobody will be rushing to bet on me. I threw away any hopes of that when I decided to flunk my private session. I don't regret the choice. I'm alive, after all, and that was the point, to avoid getting targeted and leaving the bloodbath in a body bag. Pain I can live with.
Another thing I know: I have to remove the dagger. It's been lodged in my ankle for so long I'm nearly used to it by now. Maybe I should have pulled it out before walking for a few hours, but I didn't have the time to stop and consider that. All I can do now is yank it out, wrap it up, and hope for the best.
My head is another issue. I'm not sure if it's from the bruise on my forehead or the explosion, but my head is still throbbing. Noise is still muffled, but at least I'm not deaf. I might not hear every little thing, but I would hear somebody clambering up those loud metal staircases I just lugged myself up if they tried.
I decide to set up my basecamp before attempting to rip the blade out of my ankle. I'm already exhausted, and if I do pass out from it then it would be nice to at least have my head hit something soft for once. The building is surprisingly barren. Suspiciously barren, in all truthfulness. If tomorrow morning comes and I'm able, the first thing I'll be doing is leaving this town as soon as possible and heading into the grasslands beyond it.
For now though I at least manage. It's mostly just desks and stiff office chairs, but a few of the chairs have padded seats that I'm able to rip off to use as pillows. I find a long, heavy rain jacket that will suffice as a blanket, and a slim piece of carpeted floor just beside one of the windowed walls overlooking the city.
From here I can see everything. The beach is gone, half of the paths with it, completely flooded and swallowed whole by the ocean. It's calm for now, but I know better than to expect that to last. On the other side of the city I see one of the buildings alive with the light of torches and flashlights that must belong to Careers. They seem to just be settling in for the night, though, so I don't let it worry me. They're far enough away (and being obvious enough about where they are) that them sneaking up on me isn't anything worth worrying about. Knowing where they are is almost comforting by comparison.
Finally, the moment comes where I can't delay any longer. Sighing, I rip off a piece of my t-shirt and flatten it out. It would be nice to use the medpac that was in my backpack, but everything in there was torn to shreds by the explosion. Even the bag itself was in tatters, so I abandoned it back on the trail.
I don't give myself any time to hesitate. I bite down on the sleeve of my t-shirt and pull the knife free. My eyes roll back and it takes every drop of adrenaline rushing through me to keep me from falling straight backward and seeing stars. I wrap the t-shirt around my ankle, and it does enough to stymie the flow of blood once I tie it into place that I allow myself to drift off to sleep.
The goodbye room in the Justice Center is quiet. I can't say that I expected anything different. At least Frey came. He was even sober for once, not that I can much tell the difference anymore. He was sad the way an older brother ought to be sad when his little sister gets chosen for a deathmatch, but in some ways it didn't feel like he was mourning me specifically. Frey was just mourning the loss of the last bit of family he had left.
I wish I could say that was a feeling I've never felt. But Frey has been gone for a long time, lost in the thralls of the same thing that ripped our family apart in the first place. He's hardly any better than dad. Both of them are alive, and Frey I at least see on the occasional times he sees fit to stay at home. But mostly it's just the remnants of them I live with. The filth Frey leaves behind, the broken family my parents left behind so long ago I can't even recall their faces anymore.
There are pictures somewhere that I could dig up to remind myself, but what's the point? It's the same way with Frey. I could try to hold him tight, refusing to let the older brother that I remember go. But drowning people don't want to be saved. They want to sink. Holding on is good for nothing but letting their weight drag you down with them. I already have enough weight on my shoulders without choosing to take on more.
Not that it matters anymore. Not with where I'm going. I must look as tired as I feel, because Frey spent half the goodbye trying to talk me into trying to live, like that was something I needed. I don't need a pep-talk to try. I'll fight as hard as I can to survive, but it won't mean a damn thing. People like me aren't meant to come out on top. We're meant to fight until we can't anymore, and still end up in that same place as the people who let themselves drown.
Buried under the weight of an ocean.
There was just one cannon yesterday. That makes just six deaths in the first two days. It isn't enough. The Gamemakers will be demanding more blood and they have a perfect way to force it to happen. And I'm stuck right here in the crossfire.
I guess I should be grateful that I'm alive at all. I woke up yesterday morning too weak to even move. It took half the day for me to recover enough to start moving. I've been feeling better since then, but the long flight of stairs to take me down is still daunting to stare at. And even if I do make it to street level, it's a long, exposed walk out of the seaside city and out to the grasslands beyond.
It might still be worth risking it if it weren't for the Careers. They've been hunting since yesterday morning, sweeping through the streets and checking buildings. It's only a matter of time before they make it to my lonely skyscraper and once that happens there'll be nowhere to run. But they're keeping a patrol of two on the streets at all times, just a couple blocks from me.
I have to move eventually. Soon, even. I might have even gone for it later this morning, bit down on some cloth and forced myself to sprint regardless of how much my ankle disagreed. Except the last thing I want to do anymore is go down. The last place I want to be is the street.
Not with the wave that's coming.
It's even taller than the last one, towering even higher than my skyscraper as it rushes toward the coast like a behemoth. The sound of rushing water approaches, faint and distant but getting louder with every passing moment. There's nowhere for me to go, no higher ground to rush to. All that I can do is stand by the window and watch as the world comes crashing down.
The wave hits the city. In the moment that it still hangs in the air before crashing, I swear that I can hear screaming. Then it crashes, and all that I hear is rushing water. Smaller buildings are torn apart like they're made of twine. Cars and street signs are sent flying, transforming into projectiles that are shot through the air. I watch as the two Careers standing on the street turn and try to run, only to be swallowed up by the wave, buried beneath the surface.
It isn't saved just for the destruction of the ground, though. It's coming toward me too, a colossal wave that is still at eye-length even from twenty stories up. For one tense moment I hold my breath as the water comes flying in my direction, fully taking up my vision as I stare out the window.
The water crashes. The glass holds. I let out a breath. I can hear cracking glass and the sound of flooding water coming from below, but the window here holds. The water is murky and gray, practically opaque and dimming my vision, casting the room in near absolute darkness. Hesitantly, I take a few more steps toward the window, craning my head upward to see if I can get any idea of how deeply I've been buried. My head is just inches away from the glass, my fingertips reaching out as if to hold the window in place.
Something crashes against the window. I scream, scampering a few steps backward and nearly tripping over a desk chair. A boy is pressed up against the window, his gray body flattened against the glass as his eyes stare blankly forward. Cuts and lacerations pattern his skin, the metal pole of a street sign lodged halfway into his skull. A thick pool of blood is draining from the side of his head, so dark it's almost brown in the murky water.
"Fuck," I whisper to myself.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Three cannons fire off in quick succession. My first thought is that I'm surprised when more don't follow. My second thought is that if I don't do something quick, I'll be joining them.
Water is still flooding into the building from lower floors, not showing any signs of slowing down. Already I can look down the middle balcony and see the floor below me beginning to fill. As utterly shitty as it is, there's only one way for me to get out of here now.
I really should have spent an hour at that stupid pool.
No time for regrets now though. I've spent enough time on those the past few days, I told myself I was done with them in here. Just one foot in front of the other, one day after the next. One step and then another. I heave the ax up, trying to calm my breathing as I set myself next to the glass. It would be nice to know exactly what's about to happen when I do this, but something tells me this might be one of those things where not knowing is better.
I swing once. My ax buries itself in the window, the glass shattering on contact. And everything turns to chaos.
A wall of water comes rushing at me, the ax flying out of my hands and nearly taking off my own head as it spins wildly backward. I'm pushed in the same direction, the current taking me deeper into the building before I can even think of swimming out into the open water. I can't even manage to guide myself, my body stuck in a whirlpool that has me spinning and somersaulting into walls and desks.
I bring my arms up around my head just in time to collide with the window at the other side of the building. It's already cracked before I hit it, and my body manages to finish the job, glass shattering on impact as my body smashes into it, shards slicing against my skin as I do. The pain might be enough to make me scream, but I'm too disoriented to even do that, my mind losing track of where the rest of my body is as I keep on spinning and flying through murky brown water.
It's all I can do to keep my eyes open, for as much good as that does me. I try to orient myself, find some sort of sign to what direction is air and sunlight and which is certain drowning, but nothing works. Even as the currents loosen their grip on me and I manage to stop myself from spinning, there's nothing to differentiate where I am anymore.
My lungs are already burning, my mouth screaming to be let open and reach for air that I know isn't there. And beneath all the fear and panic boiling in my chest, there's a small piece of me that feels warm and comfortable, almost begging for me to just reach out and breathe and let my body fall to the bottom. Give up the endless fight and just for one moment allow myself to sink. From below, a piece of wood smacks into me, my body spinning out of the way as the thin door shoots past me and up to the surface.
The surface.
My arms and legs kick into action, trying their best to mimic the graceful form of those District Four swimmers as I chase after the door. And somehow, it works. Not prettily, and not well, but it works all the same, the surface climbing closer and closer as my lungs burn hotter and hotter. I reach out a hand, sunlight beginning to shine over me.
My head breaks through the surface just as I can't hold on any longer, a few droplets of water making it down my throat along with the air and sending me into a fit of coughs that nearly sends me back underwater again. The door is there for me to grip onto, though, serving as my lifeline as I hack up my lungs and gasp desperately for air.
One, two, three minutes pass before I finally let myself relax, my forehead resting against the damp wood while my body continues to float aimlessly in what might as well be an ocean, only the tips of a few rooftops still left standing. And with better judgment silenced and still too dizzy to take hold, I let myself rest my eyes for just a few moments.
The train is quiet. Shasta took all of two minutes to claim Soren and bring him to the next train car for private mentoring. It isn't hard to tell why. How many dozens of kids has Shasta watched die over the years now? She's just distancing herself from me to prepare for the inevitable. If it wasn't Calanthe's first year mentoring, she'd probably be doing the same already.
Not that I would care either way. A few cups of coffee isn't going to overwrite the lesson that I've already had to learn over and over again. You can't rely on anybody else. I wish it wasn't like that. I wish that I could just relax and lean back and let somebody else take the wheel. But that isn't how life works. Nobody is going to do me any free favors. Whatever I want, I have to earn it on my own. That's just the way it is. The way it always will be.
To Calanthe's credit, she does at least try. Neither of us have spoken since Shasta left, but her presence is at least nice. I can admit that much. I don't think that I want to be alone right now. I'm not sure where my thoughts would take me. Silently sipping coffee and nibbling on snacks is much preferable.
"Is there. . . any questions you have for me?" She asks, breaking the silence with a stiff and awkwardly placed question. She's grasping for straws, trying to fill in the silence because she thinks she owes it to me. That it's her job.
"I'm fine," I say quietly.
"Sorry, I should have some sort of advice for you, or something. I don't know. I've never really done this before, I don't know what I'm supposed to do."
I shrug, swirling a spoon through my coffee. "You don't owe me anything, it's fine. If there's anything that I need to know, I'll figure it out."
She shakes her head. "Sure, you could probably figure it all out on your own, but you don't have to, right? That's what I'm here for."
"You aren't going with me into the arena, right? I'll be on my own in there. I might as well get used to not expecting any help. You don't have to coddle me about it, I'm not upset or anything. I just know what my reality is."
I sigh and lower my head, burying myself in a deep swig of scalding coffee. It's more than I've probably spoken in months and just the act of speaking seems to drain me. Or maybe it's what I was saying. Knowing that life is crummy and unfair is different from dwelling on it.
Calanthe seems unbothered though. She just shrugs and takes a light sip of her own drink.
"If you don't want my help, or don't think you need it, that's fine. You can believe whatever you want. But what I believe is that everyone deserves to have somebody willing to fight for them, whether they want it or not. Whether they deserve it or not. My mentor did that for me, and I'm going to do it for you too, Sanna Heskin. That's your new reality."
It's nightfall by the time my wooden raft carries me to shore. Honestly, I'm not sure if I would have ever found land on my own. The currents that carried me to this new beach were as natural as every other part of this arena is. Meaning: entirely unnatural and entirely controlled. I wish I could believe they sent me here as a kindness. In reality they probably just want to see me try to survive another one of their tidal waves.
The arena is slowly taking us higher and higher uphill, that much is clearer now. That's about all that I can say for certain about this next part of the arena. A grassland should be easy to travel through, but it isn't so easy when the grass is about twice as tall as I am. All I'm able to do is drag myself forward in what I hope is a straight line, following the incline to higher ground. I only make it a couple hours before my leg gives in and I'm forced to rest for the night.
No more cannons fired today, somehow. Maybe most of the people here have realized what I already have and are staying far away from the ocean. If I were able, I'd be right there with them getting as much distance as possible. But my makeshift bandage got torn off in the wave, and salt water isn't the greatest salve for open wounds, it turns out.
I shouldn't complain too much. I'm lucky that I'm able to walk at all. Even luckier that I'm still alive. I've already lost track of the exact number of tributes left, but I know that it's more than half. I've got a long way to drag myself still. Tomorrow morning is going to suck.
It would help if I had any supplies left over to speak of. My backpack was lost in that explosion at the bloodbath and my weapons were swept away by the tidal wave. All I have now is the ripped and soaking wet clothes on my back. It's hard to not let pessimism take root. This is exactly what I expected from the beginning, isn't it? I've fought and fought and fought and where has it gotten me? Limping, bleeding, barely afloat, with the wave waiting just on my heels to swallow me whole and pull me under.
A twig snaps.
I scamper to my feet, my leg nearly giving way under my weight as I try to see through the thick yellow grass. There's nothing, though, just the swaying of the leaves in the chilly night wind. My fists have formed themselves into a ready position and it takes me a moment to realize how ridiculous I must look and put them down.
"Sanne, right?"
I try to spin around to meet the voice but my leg gives way underneath me and I only succeed in spinning to the ground in a tangled mess of limbs. A dirt-covered girl with noodle-thin limbs and about half my height peers out at me from the grass, her feet digging uncertainly in the ground as she peers behind her anxiously.
"That's me," I say hesitantly from the ground.
She bites her lip, still seemingly stuck halfway between stepping forward or sprinting in the opposite direction. The war wages on for a few awkward seconds before she cautiously takes a half-step in my direction. I flinch and bring up my fists again. She flinches and shuffles a step backward.
"What do you want?" I ask.
She brushes her tangled, messy blonde hair out of her eyes. I catch a glimpse of a fresh cut running across her forehead for a split-second before her hair falls back down and covers it. "I dunno," she mumbles, shifting her feet in the dirt. "I was walking and just saw you sitting here."
"Is that a problem?"
"No," she mumbles. "I just. . . was wondering if, maybe, you had any food?"
My stomach rumbles in response to that. It strikes me suddenly that I haven't eaten since I launched into this arena. There was some water at the skyscraper, at least, but even that was a full day ago. It's no wonder that I can barely walk for an hour without getting dizzy.
For some reason, I don't feel any need to worry about this girl. Aside from the fact that she's twelve years old and probably 70 pounds soaking wet (which she is), she looks like she'd bolt if I clapped too loud. I lax up, dropping my fists.
"Not that I know of," I answer. "I wouldn't recommend going around asking people that in here. Most people would put a sword in your chest for that."
"But you didn't," she says.
"Kind of hard to do that without a sword."
"You're joking," she says, but she doesn't look very convinced. "You wouldn't even if you could."
"And what makes you figure that?" I ask.
"I don't know, I can just tell." She shrugs. "You seem like a good person."
"If this is you hoping for me to be flattered into giving you some food, I already told you that I don't have any."
She smiles. "I know." She hesitates for a moment and then takes a couple of steps toward me. I tense up, but she doesn't make any sudden moves, still a few feet away from me when she kneels on the ground and slowly sets her backpack on the ground. She digs around in there for a few seconds before looking up at me. "You sound thirsty, do you have any water?"
"No," I say cautiously.
She takes out a water bottle and then, as if sensing my distrust, takes a deep swig from the flask before offering it up to me. It takes a minute for me to decide, but eventually I snag it from her, greedily drinking deep as warm water floods through my dry throat and dribbles down my chin.
I give a refreshed sigh and pass it back to her with an appreciative nod. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it," she says, smiling back nervously. "Just because we're in here doesn't mean we have to start all hating each other, right? I think the arena's gonna do enough killing on its own without our help."
"Yeah, maybe don't tempt them," I mumble. "At least not until you get a couple miles higher."
"About that," she says timidly, biting her lip again as she fiddles with her thumb. "You know, I may be small, but that doesn't mean that I'm useless. I'm really good at navigation and I know how to start a fire and spot berries and nuts that are safe to eat. . . if we find any berries or nuts, at least, I guess."
I shake my head. "There's a reason that I didn't have any allies, and nothing has changed." I sigh. "Look, thanks for the water, I appreciate it. But you really shouldn't just go around trusting people like that. You can't trust anybody here. There's no room to worry about other people."
"But why not? We could both help each other. It, it—" she trails off, her voice growing frantic and panicked.
"I'm sorry," I repeat. "Just trust me, though, okay? Get as far away from the water as possible and don't trust anyone, no matter what they say. It's just you in here."
She looks hurt and scared and there's a part of me that wants to shout out after her to come back as she walks away. But I don't say anything. I stay silent as she walks away and disappears into the grass. I stay silent as I'm brought back into the familiar quiet that tells me that I'm alone.
The first night in the Capitol I go to the rooftop for fresh air. The training center is stifling and crushing. There's been this non-stop go, go, go, go energy that's been pushing me through the last few days. I need this short moment of reprieve. A fleeting few minutes to recollect myself and wipe away all the stress and step away from the crushing weight that sits on top of me. I know that it won't help in the long run. These moments never do. Some fresh air, a good view, a cup of coffee bought by a stranger, none of that ever will be (or ever was) enough to release the stress inside me. The truth is I'm not sure if there's anything out there that would be enough.
It's a frustrating feeling. To know that I need more than I have. To be so soberly aware that my world is constantly teetering on the edge and I'm barely clinging on, but have no clue what to do to fix it. I don't know what I need. All that I know is I don't have it.
Calanthe seems to think that all I need is a helping hand. Somebody to be there regardless of if I want it or not, lifting me up when I'm not strong enough to stand on my own. I'm not so full of myself to think I wouldn't like that. Who wouldn't? But how many times have I fallen for that trap before? Where are all the other people in my life that have lined up to be the one to carry the things I shouldn't have to? Where's mom? Dad? Frey?
It's like I'm dangling over the edge of some cliff and everywhere I look I see people offering me a hand. But every time I build up enough trust to hold on, they let me go. Or they fall themselves, and drag me down with them. I'm tired of it. It doesn't matter that I can't hope to reach the top without trusting again, without grabbing another hand when it offers itself up.
I'd rather fall than be dropped.
I find her body on the fifth day. Her throat has been slit open in a clean, straight edge that runs from side to side. There isn't any sign of struggle. If it weren't for the blood pooled up around her neck and staining the corners of her lips, she might almost look peaceful. The bloodied dagger that did the deed is laying beside her. Her eyes are wide open, looking up with an accusing hurt burned into her irises.
I never learned her name. She knew mine, but I never bothered to ask for hers.
It shouldn't bother me. She's just another dead kid in an arena full of them. I told her not to trust anybody, so how is it my fault that she went and did exactly that? I told her. She could have listened and still been alive. That isn't my fault.
The cannon fired just a half hour ago now, the first death since the tidal wave two days ago. My leg has finally started to recover enough for me to make some good distance. Food is scarce and water even scarcer, but I've found enough to keep me on two feet thanks to a few bushes of berries and a small, hidden pond.
I'm not going fast enough, though. On the first and third days, the Gamemakers have sent their tidal waves. Math was never my strong suit, but I know enough to figure out that there's a good chance that means today it will be coming again. Especially since there are still far too many people left in this arena. All these variables are the things that matter, the moving pieces that will determine if I survive to see tomorrow or die in these grasslands today.
So why can't I peel myself away from her body? It isn't doing anybody any good for me to stand here and stare at the corpse of some girl that I barely even knew. But. . . there's something about the eyes. I can't stop imagining that look of betrayal is meant for me.
Survival is all that I've thought about for a long time. It's been the only thing that matters. Do whatever it takes to make it to tomorrow and block out all the noise that gets in the way. This is just survival, isn't it? But what even is survival? Is this it? A twelve year old kid with her throat slit because she made the mistake of wanting to trust somebody? And me still alive, still kicking and breathing because of what? Because I'm too burnt to trust anybody anymore?
How fucking miserable. It shouldn't be coming as any sort of shock to me. It isn't like I'm just now learning how unfair life is. How messy and cold and lonely it can be. But this just feels more real. Maybe it's just more final.
Maybe I just feel guilty and don't have the words in my head to understand it.
I almost don't hear the footsteps.
I spin around just in time to watch the girl from One as she brings down her ax into my shoulder. There's no time to react. The blade sinks into my flesh and digs deep, slicing through skin and muscle and digging into bone.
I scream. She tries to yank the ax out, but it's lodged into bone, wriggling around in my shoulder as I desperately rip away from her. She finally lets go of the handle and both of us go stumbling backward. It's a miracle I manage to stay on my feet, adrenaline shooting through my system in a futile attempt to block out the shocking pain that I feel rushing through every piece of me. My vision blurs, death seeming so suddenly close by as I reel, barely able to keep my feet on the ground.
She isn't going to wait for me, though. In a flash, a dagger appears in her hand as she takes a few certain steps toward me. The world is still spinning as I take a few staggered steps back, trying to create some sort of distance.
My heel bumps into the girl's body and I fall to the ground, my breath escaping me for a moment as my back smacks into the dirt. The ax-head shifts in my shoulder too, a fresh stab of pain coursing through me, shooting out from my arm and running up my head and down to my toes.
She's just above me now. Her hands are covered in blood both dry and fresh and she's still gripping that knife, just a few feet away from doing the same to me that she did to the girl beside me. My hands blindly fumble around in the dirt.
She grabs me by the front of my shirt and hoists me up, her dagger rearing back. I'm not even aware the knife is in my hands until it's lodged in her throat.
My hand rips the blade back out, blood spurting out in a heavy wave as she drops her dagger to the ground, her hands trying to cover the flowing blood to no avail. She sinks to her knees, blood still streaming steadily out of her neck and between her interlaced fingers. I bring up the knife to finish the kill, make it quicker, but the world starts to spin again and the dagger slips from my hands and clatters against the floor.
My vision dims and I stumble a few steps backward, reeling for my feet as I attempt to balance myself. Faintly, I hear a cannon fire. My body hits the ground with a distant thud. I try to force my eyes to stay open, try to cling on to the pain that's coursing through me and hold on to that. But there's no fighting the weights on my eyelids as they drag my eyes closed.
The training center is buzzing. It seems like everybody else is part of an alliance, some sort of group of people they've decided to trust. It's hard to believe, honestly. How can all these people look to the person to their left and right and think there's any way for them to trust that person. When it comes down to it, and you're laying on the floor bleeding out, who's going to come to save you?
Nobody. In the Games more than anywhere else, sure, but even in the real world it's all the same. Nobody wants to reach down and try to lift someone else up with every inch of strength they have. Because what happens when you pull and pull and you aren't strong enough to lift them up?
They pull you down.
I wake up. I'm alive. The surprise of that is nearly enough to kill me. My shoulder is screaming out in hot pain, I feel like my body is a limp rag-doll, and my throat is so dry that I can hardly breathe without it hurting. But I'm alive. I should be grateful, but I'm too busy being confused.
I try to sit up but a fresh wave of pain sends me right back down, my hand going instinctively to my shoulder. Instead of finding a bloodied mess, though, it finds a neatly wrapped patch of gauze. The dripping bits of flesh and mangled bone that were there when the world got dark have miraculously healed up. It still hurts like hell, but I can feel through the thick, light pink gauze that my shoulder is still somehow in one piece.
"You shouldn't try to stand yet."
I groan in response, my head smacking back against the dirt. The boy behind the voice pokes his head over top of me, looking only vaguely concerned as he tilts his head curiously.
"Who the hell are you?" I murmur between cracked lips.
"I woulda thought you'd have a few other questions first." He hands me a flask of water knowingly and I greedily gulp it down. "Chaim, District Eight."
"Right," I say between gasps of air and water. I wince and force myself up to a sitting position, resting my back against my bag for some sort of brace. It still hurts like hell. The kid is quiet, still just looking at me like he's bird watching.
"Wondering how you're alive?" he asks.
"It's crossed my mind," I mumble. I run my hand along the gauze again. "This you?"
He shrugs. "I did my best. There wasn't much left to wrap. Thought I was just making your passing more peaceful."
"Very thoughtful," I say, trying to keep the suspicion out of my voice. Nobody wastes time and resources on somebody they already think is going to die. Especially not here. The pipsqueak may be 13 years old and thin as a twig, but if he's made it this far then he's not completely helpless.
"Just doing what seemed right," he says, smiling at me like he fully knows that I don't believe a word he's saying.
"So why am I still alive then?" I ask. I rub my hand along my shoulder. "I'm feeling flesh that wasn't there last time I checked."
"Yeah, it was pretty gruesome." He pauses for a moment. I raise an eyebrow and he shifts uncomfortably. "You've been out for a day. There's been two more canons. One of them was your district partner. About five minutes after he died, you got some medicine."
"Oh."
He studies me for a minute. "Sorry, or congratulations? I don't know. It's a weird feeling, knowing you're the second choice. I get it."
I look down at the ground, tracing my finger in the dirt. "It isn't like that."
And it isn't. I've never been Calanthe's second choice. The fact she managed to even get me some miracle medicine six days into the arena is proof of that. But it's also proof of something else. No amount of work would have been enough for Calanthe to win that many sponsors for me. Which means Shasta: jaded, cynical, pessimistic, practical Shasta, worked with Calanthe to spend every last one of their hard-earned sponsors to keep me up on my feet.
It may not be a vote of confidence. I doubt that it is, coming from Shasta. The sponsor money has to go somewhere, after all. But it's something. It's a message to get up and keep on fighting. It's a challenge. Prove her wrong. Prove Calanthe right. Show that all that dumb, naive faith that she's thrown my way from the start wasn't any of that.
It's Calanthe's hand, reaching down and pleading with me to hold on and let her try to pull me up. And no matter how much I try to fight that feeling, I can't help but want to keep holding on. She won't drop me. I won't fall and bring her down with me. We're both too strong for that.
"A three, huh?" Calanthe appears at my door, smiling and resting her head against the doorframe.
"The ax was slippery," I deadpan.
She laughs. I try to bury the way that sound makes me feel inside. It doesn't work. Keeping myself from blushing like some lovesick pre-teen is all I can manage.
"Any reason you did poorly on purpose?" She manages to ask that question in such a sincere way. It's the trick she's been playing on me since the day I was reaped. No matter how much I try to push her away, no matter how persistent I am, she's there to mirror every ounce of persistence. It should be infuriating, but it's hard to ignore how good it feels to have somebody care.
"It'll keep me from being a target." I shrug. "Maybe I can lay low and everybody will just forget about me."
Her smile widens. "Well, not everybody will forget. I'd be a pretty crummy mentor if I managed to do that."
I quirk a smile.
Her smile falters and she sighs. "Just don't let the act convince you, too. You're not just some wallflower floating in the background."
"I don't think anyone will be tuning in to watch me be the star of the show," I joke.
"Somebody will," she says softly.
The air between us goes still, silence hanging between us for a long few moments. Finally, she nods her head, pats the door frame, and backs out of my room. She looks me in the eye, all the playfulness in her replaced by a calm sadness.
"Don't forget that," she says. "Don't you forget it."
Chaim is annoying. He speaks like a grandpa even though he's barely a teenager, is infuriatingly kind and calm, and talks way too much. But he's also kind of endearing. In an annoying sort of way. The fact that he might have saved my life makes it a bit hard to hate him too much, try as I might.
It's funny how things work out. He wasn't alone in the arena. He had an ally of his own, a girl his age from Five named Sadie. They were on their way out of the grasslands when the girl from Two caught up to them. According to Chaim's retelling, Sadie made him run while she distracted the Career. Chaim didn't see her die, but he heard it. He also heard how long it took for the cannon to fire. That's the only time I've seen him be anything but pleasant. Something about the way his voice trembled as he described Sadie screaming. . . he was telling the truth.
Maybe if I was a better person I would have promised revenge or something, but there's no point saying things that might not be true. He didn't seem to want that, anyways. Mostly, he just seems to be beating himself up for leaving her behind. Not that he could have done anything, pacifistic little runt that he is.
And if he hadn't run, he wouldn't have stumbled across me bleeding out on the ground. Funny how things work out. Except there isn't really anything funny about it, is there? It's just one long trail of fucked up stuff after fucked up stuff leading to me somehow still be standing. Or, well, half-standing. I'm still not exactly in peak condition.
It's a weird position I'm in. I've told myself a hundred times over that I won't have any allies in this arena. It doesn't matter that Chaim has given me zero reason to think that I can't trust him. Even if I can trust, what does that matter? Letting him get close is just setting myself up to be hurt when he dies.
Just like Calanthe has for you, the nagging part of my brain keeps on telling me. It bothers me that I don't have any counter-argument to that. Because it's the same at the end of the day, isn't it? Calanthe let herself get close to me. I let her get close to me. And if it weren't for dumb luck and a way-too-nice kid, I would have repaid that by getting killed and proved Shasta right.
But letting her get close also saved my life. Without her, without Chaim, I would be gone, another Heskin dead and buried. It's all too much to think about, too much to understand or come to terms with. There's no right, simple answers anymore. Everything is muddled and complicated. It was so much easier when it was just me. Or maybe it wasn't easier. Maybe it was just less.
Chaim is up and packing up our things. I'm still feeling weak, but we both agreed that it's past time for us to leave the grasslands and head for higher ground. The last few days, I've almost managed to forget about the wave. But that doesn't mean that it isn't still coming.
"Hey, Chaim," I say.
He perks up. "What is it?" he asks.
"I was just wondering, why did you really decide to save me? You could have left me there to die. You could have stolen the medicine when Calanthe sent it. If you did, there'd be one less person in your way of winning. You'd have more supplies. You'd be long gone from here and up to higher ground."
He's quiet for a while. I'm ready to move on and just assume that he doesn't want to answer when he finally does speak up, his voice quiet and distant.
"I met Sadie a week ago. I knew her for one week, and she saved my life. She died an awful, horrible death and the only thing the universe got out of it was me. Still being alive. She gave me a gift, and when people give you gifts, you don't get to just think about yourself anymore. You don't get to pretend that what you do is just about you. Everything I do from now on is a response to that gift that she gave me. I guess. . . I guess I just want to make sure that no matter what happens to me, that even if I do die in here, that gift that she gave me gets to live."
"It isn't your responsibility," I say. "You didn't ask her to save you."
He shrugs. "No, I guess I didn't. But she did. I can tell myself whatever I want. I can be whoever I want to be, do whatever I want to do, but that doesn't change it. It doesn't change her being dead. It doesn't change that gift being left with me to carry."
A day ago I would have bristled at that and let it deflect off of me. I would have scoffed and told myself that I'm not carrying anybody, and that nobody would ever bother to carry me. But a day ago I was bleeding out in the dirt. I've been bloodied and drowned and knocked down to my feet so many times and every time I've made it back to my feet.
But I haven't done it alone. I've already reached out and taken that hand reaching down to pull me up. What good would it do to let go now? All I can do is hold on. Hold on for all that I can manage and pray that the hand on the other side doesn't let me go.
"Thank you for joining us, Sanna Heskin!" The interviewer is loud and obnoxious, screaming into the microphone like there isn't just two feet separating us. All the other kids before me looked so carefully rehearsed and practiced, every action and word a part of a routine. I refused to go through all those hoops yesterday. At least Calanthe didn't push too hard. I think she realized that no amount of pushing would get me to be anything but honest up here. I don't have it in me to be anything else anymore.
I spent the whole time waiting for my interview strung high, nervously tapping my foot and waiting for my moment to sit in front of the whole country. Now that I'm up here, I just feel tired.
"How are you doing this evening, Sanna?"
I shrug lethargically. "Been better, I guess," I mumble.
"Well, the Games are tomorrow, how do you feel about your chances?"
I shrug again. "I don't know. I'll try to win. I'll try as hard as I can. I doubt it'll be enough, but I'll fight and keep on fighting until I don't have anything left in me. I can promise that, at least. You won't see me lay down and give up. I may not win, but as long as there's a way to keep on fighting. . .
"I'll do it."
It's right there. Right within sight, so close it almost feels like I can touch it. The end of the grasslands, an easily climbable gathering of large stones leading up to a towering mountain, dozens of trails carved into the rock. Just a couple hundred more yards and we're there, safe for the next handful of days.
So of course it couldn't be that easy.
The tidal wave is nearly deafening. It isn't as massively towering as the one before, but with how flat this ground is, it won't take much to submerge the whole place in enough water to make sure we drown. It's hanging in the air, rushing forward and threatening to crash down on us.
We're both sprinting. It doesn't matter how little energy I feel left in me, or how much my arm and leg are still protesting with each step and pump of my arm. This is do or die. I'm not gonna lay down and give up.
The grass is denser here at the end, so dense that I can't even see where I'm stepping. There's other things, too, chunks of metal and wires and knocked over barrels. I step over some shards of glass and am left with a parting gift as the glass sticks into my feet, but I still don't let myself slow down. No matter how much my foot screams with every step, no matter how sharply the glass digs into my feet every time my foot hits the ground. I keep on running.
Chaim is running as fast as he can too, but his little legs can only carry him so far. He's trailing just behind me, panting in ragged breaths. But I can hear him, at least. Just behind me. The mountain is closing in, closer and closer. The wave is still far behind. We're going to make it.
Chaim screams.
Something pulls me to a stop, fighting through that instinct to keep running and let nothing stand in my way. It forces me into inaction, freezing in place. Chaim is still screaming. Not just a shocked yell, not just a surprised yelp. Pure, bloody horror is pouring out from him in a painful screech that tears through my soul.
I turn around to face him and nearly lose my footing. He's on the ground, his leg so bloodied I can barely see the skin, a bear trap gripping tightly around his leg. He's still screaming, desperate and ragged breathing mixing with screams and tears as his body shakes and he tears into his hair, nonsense babbling out of his mouth.
He looks up at me. My heart drops even further, sinking straight into my gut and making me want to retch. The wave is still tearing through the grassland behind him, rushing closer and closer. The fingertips of the wave are already here, a light stream of water beginning to layer the ground.
Stupidly, I rush back to him. I go right down to the trap and try to undo it, but the force behind it is stronger than I can manage, especially now, especially with my hands slick with sweat and the metal slick with blood. The whole thing is a mangled mess, flesh and blood and bone mushing together in an ugly mess. The trap is chained to the ground, dug deep enough that I'm unable to pull it free. The calm, mature person that I know is gone, replaced by a kid screaming out, desperately calling out for people and things he must know deep down aren't going to save him.
Reality hits. It hits hard.
He's sobbing now, begging for a million different things, each plea running over the next and blurred by tears and calls for his mom. I'm not sure if I'm even breathing anymore. He must sense something that even I don't yet, because he takes hold of my wrist, his hands holding as tight as they can, clinging on for all he can manage.
And the wave is still coming.
Each finger I pry from my wrist feels like burying a dagger into his heart. He's still frantic, but his energy is dimming, that tight grip turning to just a weak grasp, the screams going raspy and incomprehensible. His eyes are still the same, though. Wet with tears and staring at me with something more than just judgment or betrayal or hurt or fear.
It's terror.
But I can't stay with him and die. I can't drown here, trying to pull him free when I know he can't be saved no matter how hard I try. Even if I didn't care one bit about myself, even if I was willing to let myself drown, I'm not allowed to.
I'm carrying more than just myself.
I climb to my feet, my whole body shaking as I finally pull free. The water is up to my knees now. From where he is on the ground, it's already at his chest. I don't let myself look at him any longer. I don't want to see the look in his eyes when it happens. I don't want that burned into me.
I reach the safety of the rocks and climb up, but I don't stop then. I keep running, one foot after the other, my feet feeling heavy with each purposeful step that it takes. It's like there's weights pulling me down, weighing heavy with each step forward that I take, each step away from the wave coming to crash down and force me under.
They're my weights to carry now. Only me.
The rooftop is calming. Something about fresh air and a dark night brings me back home. Not that home was perfect, but it was at least simple. I knew where I stood every day and had a simple routine. There may have been missing pieces, but I'd rather go back to that then be where I am now, with the whole puzzle flipped and turned until I'm not sure what's what anymore.
But at least I've found that one, big missing piece here. It's just like life for me to find that right before I have to lose it, though, isn't it? But for this one last night, I can have it. I can rest my head on Calanthe's shoulder on this cold, dark night and look out ahead, not able to see more than a few feet in front of me.
Neither of us have said anything in a while. What more is there to say? So much has happened, so much has been said. . . sometimes, silence can be much louder than words.
There's four of us left. More cannons than I could count fired off after the last wave. It wasn't until last night that I got to count. Chaim was the last of the five faces that greeted me. It's weird, but in a way I was glad I got to see him like that. Smiling, with that peaceful look in his eyes. It's a better last image than the real one.
Two more cannons came earlier today and it isn't a leap to guess the water is responsible for those two as well. There's no massive tidal wave coming, instead a bunch of smaller waves crashing against the mountain, forcing us higher and higher. I've barely kept out of reach of the climbing water. I'm near the top now, I can already see it. Soon I'll be at the very top of this arena, and there'll be nowhere else to run.
I've been trying to not think much. There aren't any positive thoughts that will find me right now. Just accusations and guilt and feelings of inadequacy and worthlessness. It isn't just Chaim, though. It's like this giant tidal wave of guilt that's been hovering over me my whole life has finally come crashing down, and I can feel myself drowning underneath it. My parents, my brother, the girl from Twelve, Chaim, how many people have I left behind?
And for what? Survival? How many times can I fight and fight to see another day, just to do the same thing again the next day? I'm not fighting for some light at the end of the tunnel. There's no fairy-tale ending waiting for me. No final goal or victory. Just more fighting. Just more surviving. Just more watching the people I care about drown.
What for?
What. For.
I'm bashing my head up against this brick wall, demanding for it to bend and give me answers. But all I'm doing is bloodying myself, asking a question that I know doesn't have an answer.
But my feet keep on moving forward all the same. Despite all of that, despite all of the reasons I have to just give up and stop trying, I keep on moving forward, ahead of the water lapping at my heels.
Maybe I don't deserve it, god knows I never asked for it, but one way or another I'm alive while they're all gone. Chaim and the girl from Twelve and even Sadie, I'm all that's left of them. Even Mom and dad and in his own way, Frey, I'm holding on to all of them.
Later, if I make it out of this, I'll look for bigger answers, ask questions that have impossible answers. But for now, that can be enough.
Calanthe walks with me to the launch room. She's not supposed to, and she'll probably get in trouble for it, but she doesn't seem to care. As much as I want to, I'm probably not coming out of the arena. It's nice to get to spend a few more moments with her.
"How are you feeling?" She asks.
If it were anybody else asking that question, I would hate it. But not with Calanthe. With Calanthe, she asks that question and she actually wants the truth.
"Scared, mostly," I say quietly. "Like I'm trying to stretch out every single moment but it's just making time race by faster."
"Yeah, I get that," she says. The sound of our footsteps on the metal hallway floor is the only sound in the air for a few drawn out seconds. "You don't have to hold on, though. You'll be back soon. In the arena, it'll feel like forever. But once you're out, and you're back in all the familiar places retracing your steps: the interviews, the train, home. . . it'll feel like somebody just snapped their fingers and you leapt from here to there."
"Once I'm out. . ." I trail off.
"Once you're out," she reaffirms.
She stops at the doorway and I walk through, turning back to her with a sad smile as I backpedal toward the launch tube.
"Cal. . . people like me. . . we never make it out."
Her dagger is still fresh with blood. The pair from Four both lay dead at her feet, as if there was any question about where it came from. Two cannons. Two dead. Two more left. She looks relieved to see that it's just me that she has left. There's nowhere left for either of us to turn to. The last wave struck the mountain, leaving just this small circular peak left. Water surrounds us on all sides, the ground flat and smooth.
I grip my knife tight. I managed to find it while climbing the last bit of the path, or maybe the Gamemakers sent it to me to make things more interesting. Either way, it's all that I have. A bloodied shoulder, a hole in my leg, a spinning head, ripped up flesh at the bottom of one of my feet, enough blood loss to make every light breeze send me swaying. And a knife.
She's not entirely unharmed herself. A few cuts, both new and old, line her arms and legs. Her pinky finger is missing on her dominant hand courtesy of the boy from Four, so she's had to switch to her off-hand. Blood is covering her, dried and fresh. Some of it is probably Sadie's. That should spur me into action, give me the ammunition for some sort of emotion. But staying up on two feet is all that I can manage.
"Let's get this over with," she finally pants out.
I don't say anything.
She charges forward, dagger reared back. Even with all the time to react in the world, I barely manage to backpedal out of the way of her first swing. I try to respond with a swipe of my own, but she easily sidesteps my swing and connects a backhanded slap to my cheek.
The world spins and I do too, flying back and nearly stumbling over the edge and into the water just below. I barely catch myself, staggering back to my feet and wildly slashing out. This time the blade does connect, slicing a shallow cut against her stomach. She doesn't even seem to feel it.
Time doesn't freeze. The world doesn't move in slow motion. Everything is still blindingly fast as she buries her dagger in my chest.
I crumple to my knees, her dagger still in me as I fall. Through the rush of adrenaline I can barely even feel it, just a tight sensation pulling at my chest, but my body is able to react to what my brain can't seem to.
I try to stagger back up to my feet and fight. She punches me in the chin and I drop back down. And I try to climb up again and this time she kicks me sharp in my shin, something snapping as I drop back down. And I try to reach for my dagger but her foot is there, her boot crushing my fingers underneath them. And she punches me once more in the head. And I see darkness for a second. And I fall back, or am pushed back, and my head is dangling over the edge, and the water is rushing below me, and my dagger is just out of the reach of my outstretched fingers, and everything in me is hurting and weak and just wanting to give up.
And it's not enough.
It's never enough. I fight and I fight and I fight. I have all these weights I'm carrying, all these reasons that I need to see tomorrow. And I'm fighting with every last scrap that I have, tooth and nail to stay afloat, keep my head just a single inch above water. But it's never enough. There's no running from it, no staying above water. Sooner or later, everybody just drowns.
Calanthe steps into the launch room. The warning to begin to enter our tubes blares, a red clock lighting up with the number sixty. Calanthe takes another step forward, then stops, just out of my reach but somehow seeming a million miles away.
"You know, when I found out I was gonna have to mentor this year, I was scared. I didn't know what to do. I thought to myself: how am I supposed to do this? How am I supposed to teach somebody how to survive?"
She smiles. It falters, but even through the startings of tears she smiles again, taking a hesitant step forward and bringing her hand up to my face, her thumb resting softly on my cheek.
"But I was worrying about the wrong thing. You don't need to be taught how to survive." Her voice drops to just a whisper, her smile shifting in and out of place as she shuffles one small half-step backward, her hand dropping to her side. "You need to be convinced you can."
Thoughts come slow. The world moves fast.
The water rushes below me. She kneels above me, leaning down to rip the dagger from my chest and throw me to the currents below.
I get there first.
It hurts more than anything I could have imagined, but I don't balk for even a second as I pull the dagger from my chest. She only has a fraction of a second to realize what's happening before I bury it in her neck.
She coughs up a dribble of blood, her body falling onto mine as her hands grasp for her throat. With the last bit of energy I have left in me, I roll her off me and push her off the cliff, down into the water below.
I hear a splash. Blood streams from my chest.
Darkness comes for me before the cannon does.
For the second time in the last week, I'm surprised to wake up. This time I'm not bandaged up in the wilderness of the arena, though. I'm in a hospital bed. Connected to a bunch of machines with tubes and wires and pumped full of who knows what kinds of fluids. Beneath the blanket and covers and my hospital gown, I reach down to my chest and find only a light scar where just moments ago there was a knife.
I'm alive.
I won.
I survived.
That thought hits me hard, some mix of surreal disbelief and relieved exaltation. Survival has never felt like this. This is something more, something bigger. What that is I can't even begin to pin down. I'm not sure I even want to. I'm alive. There's nothing more that I can ask for right now. Even if there is one thing that I selfishly want more than anything else.
But surviving is enough. Surviving and knowing that whatever small pieces I still have with me of Chaim and Sadie and the girl from Twelve and every other person that died in that arena and before it, are there. Alive.
The door swings open. Calanthe rushes in, nearly tripping and falling on the floor as she halts to a stop at the entrance when she sees me awake and sitting up. The door swings back and hits her on the back of the head. I laugh.
For a second at least. My chest tightens in an intense pain the moment a single sound comes out of my lips and I shut myself up. Calanthe is still frozen, a deer in headlights as she stares at me, as still as stone.
"You're awake," she says.
I smile.
And even though it's stupid and probably going to get me yelled at by some doctors and nurses, I swing my legs off the edge of the bed and slowly, carefully, prop myself shakily to my feet. Calanthe looks like she wants to stop me, but she's still frozen, closer to me now, a few steps away, holding out her arms like she's ready to catch me if I fall. And I don't feel the need to trust myself not to.
I let go of my grip on the bed, and sure enough I stumble and fall, but she's there to catch me, my clumsy fall turning into an awkward and stiff sort of hug as Calanthe keeps me on two feet. And she steps away, as if to reach back and let me go, and I hold her tighter, not wanting to let her go. Not wanting her to let me go.
And everything else suddenly seems to fall away and she's holding me even tighter, holding on even as my grip loosens and my body begins to shake. And she holds on, even as I lean into her shoulder and cry, sobs running through my body with violent shudders.
And I hold on, gripping tight to this lifeline as all the currents and tidal waves of the outside world wrack my body, trying to pull me under. I just keep holding on.
I just keep holding on.