Part 5: The End

Someone grabs my waist and yanks me out from under the willow branches.

"No!" I shout. The long, agonizing scream pierces the night. I'm holding on to the plaintive branches of the willow for all I'm worth, flailing and squirming out of harm's grasp.

"Let go of me! Let me go, you—" My foot collides with soft flesh and I hear a satisfying grunt of pain.

"Glimmer, would you hold this piece of work still? We can't have fun with her if she keeps moving around," a deep, rough male voice demands.

"My pleasure," answers a high, clear voice. I can just hear the smirk in her tone. A second set of hands trap my waist with an iron grip.

"Stop!" I'm shrieking and yelling, kicking blindly in the hopes of hitting my opponents again.

"Shut up, you stupid girl." The swish of a knife cuts through the air and my legs are left in blinding agony. Something drops to the ground and bounces to a halt. I can't feel anything but the hot, pressing stabs of pain.

"I think that was her foot you cut off," somebody snickers, and the thud of a boot connecting with solid matter reaches my ears.

Bile rises in my throat. The pain is so immense I'm having trouble connecting their words to their meaning. All I can do is shriek and beg.

"Please, please! Let me go!" I sob. "Please, you don't understand!"

A wink of silver shines in the flickering light of the torches my captors carry, and another flash of pain washes over me, radiates through my body. Hot, thick blood slides across my limbs, down my chest. The warm liquid fills my mouth and I choke. This time I really do vomit, great heaves doubling and then tripling the agony I'm in. The tight grip on my waist releases me and I crash hard onto the ground, lying in a pool of my own blood and bile. Someone grabs my hair and yanks. I choke and splutter, coughing up mouthfuls of bloody saliva.

"Please…" I whimper. More laughter. More pain. It feels like they're peeling the skin from my body, tearing me in two. All I can get out now is a low moan. Cold metal cuts into my lips and forehead. Someone smacks the bloody mess around my mouth, silencing my groans, sending another wave of pain through me.

"Idiot girl." The clear voice laughs derisively.

"Come on, let's clear out. She's as good as dead," a softer, male voice suggests.

The sounds of supplies being gathered and feet stomping away reverberate through my skull. They make sure to kick me hard on their way out, crushing my fingers underneath their heavy boots.

The torches recede and I'm left moaning and whimpering on the hard, cold ground, waiting for the cruel face of Death to swallow me whole.

One. Two. Three.

I lay in the pool of dirt and fluid, wishing for my life to end, to cut short these moments of pure torture.

Four. Five. Six.

But as time passes, the agony only increases. My heart is still pumping. Faintly, erratically, but it's there. Warm blood continues to flow from the gaping wounds in my chest, arms, and legs, pooling in my mud-streaked hair.

Seven. Eight.

Why won't this stop? Who is out there in the world right now, wishing me this excruciatingly unbearable suffering?

Nine. Ten. Eleven.

I've lost the feeling in my feet. Or are those even attached to me anymore? My neck hurts too much to lift. I don't want to look at what the Careers have done, anyway.

Twelve. Thirteen.

Seconds, minutes, or hours pass by, I can't tell which. I focus on the numbers to keep the pain from overwhelming me, swallowing me whole. I want to black out, leave this horrid world behind. But my heart remains stubbornly beating.

Stomp. Fourteen. Stomp.

Is that the Capitol coming to get me? Where's my white light? Why do I still feel broken?

Step, crunch. Step, crunch. Fifteen.

It's not the Capitol, it's an angel! Coming to save me, alleviate my suffering. My mother told me about them at the Justice Building. Before I was dragged into this hell.

Twigs crack by my ear and someone crouches over me. I don't have the strength to look up.

What number was I at?

Six. Seven.

Why isn't the angel helping me?

Eight. Why don't you save me? Take me back to District Eight. Take me home, angel.

I must have been talking aloud, because the angel leans over me, murmurs something unintelligible. Cool hands stroke my face, wipe my eyes clean, hold my hands.

A white face and crystal blue eyes peer into my own.

"Angel," I croak. But already I can tell this isn't right. The face is dirt-streaked, the pale hair knotted and dusty.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," says the same soft, male voice that attacked me.

My breathing quickens and another wave of red washes over my vision. I try to squirm away, but everything hurts too much. A whimper escapes my lips as I grab for something, anything to help me.

The soft hands reach for mine again. The boy makes soft shushing sounds, siphoning away my pain with his touch.

"What's your name?" he says.

"Loo. Loom," I manage. The 'm' comes out as a moan.

"Loo. That's a pretty name. And you're from District Eight?"

I groan in response.

"I'm Peeta."

Nine. Ten. My legs throb and I scrunch my face in pain.

"I'm so, so sorry, Loo. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry I can't help you. I never wanted to do that. There's no rightful excuse for you, I know. But there's this girl… I promised myself I'd do everything I can to protect her. Katniss. Do you remember her? I remember you talking about a boy back home in your interview. Nylon? I bet you are to him what she is to me…"

I don't understand what he says after this, but I keep listening. His words captivate me, take my mind from my broken body. My breathing slows, the pain receding to a dull ache.

"Peet…a," I breathe.

"It's okay. I'll stay here with you," he murmurs softly. He strokes my hair just the way Nylon used to. "It's okay. I won't leave you."

My heart slows to a faint, irregular beat and my eyes close. The rise and fall of my chest becomes shallower.

"I tried…" I breath. "Tell them."

"Of course I will, Loo," the blond-haired boy whispers. With my last breath, my angel leans over me and kisses my forehead softly, transporting me to a world where nothing hurts.

The sun rises, the day passes. The moon and the sun, the sky and the Earth, continue their cycle as the arena darkens once again. Loom McGovern is projected across the sky, her eyes as bright as the stars. Somewhere, someplace, the blond-haired angel looks into her face, feels the weight of her death, the same as her family back home.

"I'm sorry, Loo," he whispers. The whole of Panem listens, feels for the girl for the brief second she is branded on their television screen. But life continues, and the people must return to their own troubles.