These Wounds Are Discerning

The marble tiles felt like ice underneath Meera's feet. All day she had been thinking about her testing session. Her heart hammered every time Meera wondered what score she would be awarded. No doubt it would be low.

She found herself reworking the obstacle course in her head, pointing out the obvious flaws and wishing that her aim were much better when the knife had haphazardly flown through the air. All through dinner they had questioned her about the session, each time she managed a shrug and silent drop of the eyes. Though Faron tried to keep a positive stance on his 15 minutes with the Gamemakers she could tell he was fibbing—if she did mediocre in her trials, then he didn't stand a chance.

The day had come and gone. Now they waited. Each person stared at the screen. Alida was elegantly draped over a chair near Linares. Faron sat on his hands at the far end of the sofa, near his stylist Kye. Glade paced. She was the most nervous of the bunch. Maybe even more nervous than me, Meera thought.

Without sponsors the arena would be hard, but Meera wasn't the sort to lean on someone else's shoulders. Sponsors or no she was sure that death was waiting just around the bend. A few giveaways during her dance with death wouldn't stop that—only slow it down.

She bit at her lip.

Already they were on District 3.

The Careers' scores all landed between the 8 to 10 range. That didn't surprise her, not after the things she had witnessed in training.

"Alright," Linares whispered it just as District 4 scores finished.

The mood in the room shifted with intensity. It suddenly felt like everyone was leaning towards the screen. Not Meera though. She pulled her legs onto the couch and looked away.

First came the picture. Then the score.

She waited silently. Instead of eyeing the screen she peered to Glade. That was the indicator. That would be Meera's way of knowing how good her chances were. She could see the colors of the screen flashing across the mentor's skin. For a heartbeat it looked like Glade was angry, but then her eyes brightened.

"Woah-ho!" Alida cheered drunkenly, clapping her hands together like a fool.

"Seven! Better than I expected!" Linares shouted in astonishment.

Crimson flushed Meera's cheeks. She twitched her eyes to the screen in disbelief. Sure enough the number seven was below her name and picture in big bold lettering. It wasn't great but it was better than she'd hoped for.

"I almost missed my target though. I stumble a few times on the course."

"They must have been impressed with your agility," Glade nodded to her in approval, "Good job."

"Not a ten, of course, but then again we weren't expecting even a six…." Linares arrogantly gulped some champagne and giggled.

Despite his callous attitude Meera leaned back and sighed. It was a small relief, but it wasn't enough to squash the always-present fear. They had liked her speed and reflexes, but a person could only run so far when it came to the arena. Could she manage to win just by hiding and moving like a shadow? Meera Eastwood and victor—the two didn't seem synonymous, not remotely. The Gamemakers had given her odds she didn't deserve. She braided her fingers together and stared at her whitened knuckles. The truth was so obvious she didn't want to even think it. Runners don't win games, fighters do.

Faron's turn was up next. His picture made him look even smaller than he was in real life, as if that were possible. Meera swallowed hard as she heard the number being announced, blood pull away from her face. The room fell silent.

A four.

She dropped her eyes.

Everyone was speechless. Even Linares couldn't come up with a quick response.

"It's not bad. We can work with a four," he spastically nodded, as if that would make his words more comforting.

"You'll wow them during the interviews, Faron. Don't you worry," Glade tried.

He clasped his hands together in panic. Meera saw it right then, a flash of terror in his eyes. They filled with tears just before he bolted to his feet and rushed out of the room.

Only 13 years old, she thought, it isn't right.

"I'll try to calm him down," Kye whispered.

Unspoken sadness replaced the empty space. Meera was surprised to see that even Alida and Linares had been shocked into reserve. Everything else before this had been child's play. The pageant-like costumes and the leisurely training were just the prologues. Now they had numbers pinned on them. They weren't from a grand District. They were from 5—much could be said about the poverty and mistreatment of the other outlying Districts, but 5 was a different matter entirely. Meera saw it on the faces of her team. Tributes from their District needed good scores otherwise they'd fall into the background. A mediocre to high score would have meant a lot for a small tribute like Faron. She grappled with her own guilt. A part of her wished there were a way to help, another part knew she couldn't.

"It's only a number," Alida finally offered. Everyone in the room knew that was a lie. Everyone knew that score could make the difference between life and death.

Muffled sobs echoed from Faron's bedroom. They uncomfortably rebounded off of the glass and marble.

Linares let out a forced laugh and nervously gulped his drink, "Glade is right, the interviews will be easy for the boy. He's so charming the sponsor will adore him."

The sobs continued.

"I—" Meera suddenly felt sick, "I have to go."

It didn't occur to her until she reached the elevators that there was nowhere to go. Each Tribute was in lockdown until the arena. The Training Center was their personal jail. Her eyes scanned the numbers. 15 floors. During her second night in the Capitol she had visited the roof, not realizing how tall the building was. She remembered the cool mountain air and bright lights, it should have eased her anxiety but the view had only made it worse. Just like the crowds, the roof was a reminder of what lay outside the world she was about to be thrown into. She hated that reminder.

After minutes of contemplation Meera finally pressed the only floor that was left. The doors opened up to a vacant hallway. No one was out. The other Tributes were too busy either grieving or celebrating the scores they had been awarded.

A few guards eyed her suspiciously as she navigated through the corridors, but none of them stopped her. Below ground level sounds of footsteps and voices were more distorted, a few times Meera found herself peering back expecting to see someone only to realize that she was alone. Voices traveled through these passages like a river.

At the dining room she stopped. The doors were opened, they always were. Having nowhere else to go she cautiously entered. Food was left at a banquet table for any sleepless tributes or mentors. Near the back of the room Meera spotted a few mentors sharing a laugh. They barely gave her a glance.

She slipped over to the table of food and quietly bit her lip. Despite her sadness she was hungry, but she didn't crave any of the rich Capitol food that stared back at her. She craved the sandy bread from home. Moments of surveying the food passed before she grabbed an orange and took a seat. Her eyes narrowed at the piece of fruit. She was examining the leathery feel of the skin, the vibrant color. Like many other fruits, Meera had never had an orange before. In the Victor's Village there were orchards planted and irrigated daily—or so she heard—even then only a few plants were livable in District 5. Her lips tugged together in concentration, she remembered the way Linares had peeled one the other day—all in one go.

The fragrance made her mouth water.

Juice ran down her hands as she gradually clawed away the rind until a veiny and succulent fruit was revealed. If she ever made it back to District 5 the kids at the orphanage wouldn't believe all the fruit she had been offered. Crisp red apples, plump strawberries, sweet plums…the Capitol had it all, waiting to be eaten. Everything was so easy here. All Meera had to do was breath and an Avox would appear with a pitcher of water, not just a glass but an entire pitcher. The people here didn't understand survival or loss. Survival was an exotic attraction that only came to the city once a year for the games.

When she slipped an orange slice in her mouth and felt the juice burst she grimaced. It tasted fine, in fact it tasted delicious, but it was hard to enjoy such a luxury when she thought about what the future held.

"I thought I'd find you here."

Meera looked up. Glade smiled.

"Oh yea?" she whispered, her teeth cut into another slice.

"Well, there are only so many places you could wander to. I checked the roof before this."

"I don't like the roof."

"Why? The fresh air might be good for you, it's easy to feel trapped in this place."

"They have a shield up there. Just in case someone jumps."

Glade nodded, "I know."

She stabbed as a piece of orange skin with her nail, "Faron was upset."

"Wouldn't you be? A four isn't great."

"He won't make it out, neither of us will."

When Glade took a seat, Meera hid her face under a curtain of hair and dropped her eyes.

"I don't think I ever told you about my games."

She didn't reply.

"I was younger than you. Not by much, only 15. I was scared too."

All the stories Meera had heard about Glade's victory were like farfetched legends. Despite her stubborn reserve her eyes slowly lifted intently.

"The arena was a wasteland. Not quite like home…there was more vegetation…but to this day I think that's one of the reasons I survived. My first night there I could hear screams, I remember trying to figure out who they belonged to. Sometimes I still hear them. I dream about them too, just as you will if you win."

Her lips parted.

"By the third day I lost track of time. One by one tributes were being picked off. I had to adapt. I knew it. My mentor wasn't like me, he didn't care if I lived or died. I quickly realize I was the only one who cared if I survived. It had to mean something to me, you see? I had to want it."

Meera furrowed her brow. The taste of orange had soured on her tongue.

"I cried after my first kill, but when the second one came it got easier. That's the thing about the human body…despite it's strength it's incredibly fragile. My knife slid into other tributes like butter. I was just a shadow in the night, they didn't see me coming till it was too late."

"How many did you kill?"

Glade's gold eyes moved to Meera's face. This entire time she hadn't looked at her, now that she was Meera felt strangely connected.

"Five."

"Do you remember their names?"

"Yes. Every single one."

"I don't want to kill anyone, not even the Careers. I—"

"But you will, if you want to live you have to," she rose to her feet and stared down at her mentee, "I know you're an orphan, Meera. That doesn't mean you don't have anything to live for. I'm not going to ask you to smile for them, not anymore…mainly because I know you won't do it…but I'm asking you to fight for yourself. You deserve to survive. Tomorrow are the interviews. They're going to make light of the games. They'll expect you to play along. Whether you do or not is up to you."

Shocked, a nod was all Meera could manage. She felt strangely moved by Glade's words, and guilty that she had ever distrusted her mentor. All along she had been behind Meera. She could see it in those gold eyes now.

"Thank you," she whispered after a time.

"Yea. Don't stay down her too long, you need to rest."

Her mentor had only taken a few steps before Meera worked up the courage to speak again, "Glade?!" she paused, "How did you win?"

Glade stopped. Her head lowered for several seconds before she turned her face to the side. Meera could see sorrow in the shadows of that face. "A story for a different time, I'm afraid. Maybe if you get back from the arena I'll tell you one day."

Just as fast as she had come, she was gone.

The room felt darker, somehow smaller.

All alone, Meera stared down at the half-eaten orange and sighed. The fruit rested in a bleeding pool of juice. Somehow the sight made her miserable. She couldn't bring herself to eat the rest.