Flashes of Gold
Chapter Six | The World as I Know It
I don't know who I am when I wake up, or where I am, or why I'm laying in a pile of snow. All I know is that I'm freezing, and that there's a dull aching in my legs.
Sitting up is painful. At first, all I can see is the whiteness of the snow mixed with dancing colors. My head spins around wildly, leaving me dazed and sick. When my eyes catch sight of the rest of my body, I can't even keep myself from hurling. I empty my stomach into the snow, coughing up blood and feeling even more lightheaded than before.
It must have snowed last night, because my body is sprinkled with the white flakes. As I heave myself into a sitting position, I take a quick look over myself. My clothes are tattered from the struggle with the mutt, and there are angry looking scratches all over my limbs. But it's my legs that are worst. I can't see the full extent of the damage, but it looks bad. My pants are dried with blood, which has splattered all over the fabric, from my thighs to my ankles. The blood has stuck to my skin, and even the slightest movement makes it peel and anger the wound, which I can feel searing all the way to my knee.
I don't know what happened to the Bob Cat mutt, but the body has disappeared. I wish it hadn't. Perhaps I could have used the fur for something. In the back of my mind, though, I'm sort of glad I don't have to pull the body apart. I don't know if I could do that.
It's clear that, in my condition, I won't be able to take to the trees any longer. I roll over, rise onto my knees, and hold back a gasp of pain. At least I have one leg that's unharmed.
My survival is now completely dependant on reaching the mountain by nightfall. The goal doesn't seem to be too high, because I can see it now. I can only guess the distance, but I venture to assume it's about a three mile walk. Three miles on a wounded leg isn't good, but it could be worse. I keep telling myself that as I take the remaining bandages from the pack and wrap them haphazardly around my leg.
I need to find a cave for the night, so that I can take care of my leg. I can't rely on Sponsors for medicine, because at this point, I doubt I even have any. Luckily, I know a few remedial qualities about some plants that may help. I'll have to keep my eyes out as I walk, because once I find shelter, I don't plan on moving for a while.
I feel like the girl from District 4 as I hobble though the trees. I'm leaving such an obvious trail, but once I reach the mountain I'll be ok. Even when it starts to flurry, I keep telling myself that. The mountain has become a symbol of safety. If I reach it, I'll survive.
I have to stop after a mile, because my leg has started bleeding again. I lower myself onto the ground, panting from the strain, and take a look at the wound. The useless bandages have hardly done anything. I unwrap them, press some snow to the wound, and then rewrap the bindings over the snow. I proceed to wrap the other bandages, from my hands, around it as well.
It feels better for about half a mile. The temperature has decreased rapidly, and it's good for my sanity if I can't feel the wound. But in the back of my mind, I know that the numbness is actually bad. And the rest of my body is starting to feel numb, too, not just my leg. If I don't get to the mountain soon, there's a high chance that I'll get hypothermia.
By the time I reach the last mile, I can see the base of the mountain. I'm so close, so close, but my body just wants to collapse and not take another step. There are sharp winds cutting over me, now, but even the jacket I took from the District 4 girl doesn't do much to break the wind. It's now snowing so hard that my vision has become clouded. I try to keep a straight path, but it's hard. So hard to keep moving at all.
Keep it up, I whisper, aloud or in my mind. You're almost there. Just a few more steps. I can see it now, feel the warmth of the cave. You can make a fire when you get there. No one will see the smoke in this snow storm. You'll be warm, warm, warm.
When I trip over a jagged stone, I cry out. My hands rush out to break my fall, landing on a rough surface. It's rock. Everywhere. My fingers brush out, all around me, and all I can feel is the rock. Relief spreads over me.
With the knowledge that I'm nearly there, my mind hardens. My body forces itself to push forward. I'm crawling now, over the stone, in an upward motion as I trek towards safety. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there.
The farther up I climb, however, the more my heart sinks. How will I be able to find a cave with the wind and the snow tumbling over me? I can hardly see three feet ahead of me.
But my answer comes in the strangest way. A deep voice sounds in my mind. At first, I think it's my own voice, but as I pull myself up, I realize that it sounds vaguely like father. He's really dead, then. Leading me forward, pulling me up, telling me that there's a cave just to my right...a place to find comfort, safety. I feel like a child coming into his arms, when he used to take me far into the forest and show me all the different types of trees. He could name them all just by looking at their leaves, could love them just by running his fingers over their bark. True beauty, he'd once told me, was when you could look past what you see on the surface and find something greater. Something invaluable.
I don't even realize when I stumble into the cave. All I can feel is the dryness that it brought. My cheek isn't pressed into snow, but rather cold stone. My eyes droop heavily and then close. All I can see is the face of my father, smiling his broad smile, eyes twinkling with hidden mirth, lifting me up into his arms and spinning me around.
It was an image that I hadn't remembered in a long, long time. It was before father had left, when our family was still very happy and my mother still looked at us all with her shining, beautiful eyes. When Calan and I still loved each other more than anything. When we'd spend practically every moment together, whispering back and forth in our beds after the lights were turned off, sitting huddled together before the fireplace during rough winters, cuddled together in the crook of our father's arms while he told us stories before bed...
The coldness creeps up my body, making me delirious. I can't move, can't open my eyes. Am I dying? Now I'm afraid. Death really isn't something I want. I want to see Calan again, because I really don't hate her. She's my sister. The sister I'm jealous over, because she's always been better than me. Has the better personality. Could make people love her with just a few short words. I don't realize what I'm doing until I've already done it. My mouth opens, my eyes lift up to stare heavily at the opposite wall, and my voice, rough and low, whispers a pitiful, "...Cal...an..."
Then, my head falls back down, hard against the rock floor, and I fall away from the world as I know it.
District 7, Fey House
The room is as silent as death. Every eye is turned to the screen, which is now fixed upon a different tribute who is still in the forest. But the moment hasn't passed, and every breath still hangs precariously still.
The room is small. A few townspeople are also huddled in it. Close family friends stand around Mrs. Fey as she leans heavily on the counter. Dinner sits, cold in front of her. No one is hungry anymore.
The desperation in Wren's voice is plain to hear. Her eyes are more emotional than anyone had ever seen. In a tiny exhalation, Mrs. Fey closes her eyes. The neighbor, Mrs. Johnson, places a hand on her shoulder in silence. Still, nothing is spoken.
And then, finally, everything falls back together. People shuffle, walking away from the TV to help hand out plates. Someone gets glasses and fills them with water. Light chattering fills the silence, but Evon doesn't speak. And neither does Calan, whose face is pale.
People sneak glances at her at they eat. Her mother hadn't expected Wren would call out Calan's name. Evon, perhaps, but not Calan. It is a shock that no one can really grasp. So they don't try to.
Mostly, nobody eats. Calan pushes her food around with her fork, staring down emotionlessly. She wants to feel something – anything – but all she can think about is how her sister is in the Arena. It's still not something she has accepted.
She'd thought she was happy about it. But without Wren here, she has no reason to stay with Evon. Her blonde hair falls into her face, and she can feel his eyes on her. Does he even like her? She thought he did, but the way his eyes haven't left the TV screen since the start of the Games makes her think not. It's Wren, of course. Wren is the only one he thinks about. As she tries to make herself eat, she can't find herself caring all that much.
The chattering raises up a level as eyes return to the screen. Wren is not being shown. The cameras have left the other tribute in the forest and are now focused on the Career pack as they curl around the mountain.
" – pretty far away from her. It'll take them two days, tops, before they reach – "
"She's strong. She'll survive this – "
" – could use an ally – "
" – District 4, now that would have been a good choice. So alike..."
She felt herself stand suddenly, and her random movement made the murmurs die down as people directed their eyes to her. Calan could feel something curl around her heart. It wasn't like anything she'd felt before. It wasn't the jealousy that she'd often felt toward Wren and Evon, or the annoyance of when her father would always pick Wren over her. This was different. It swelled through her like wildfire, spitting up it's flames and make her eyes darken with every passing second.
How dare she say her name. How dare she pretend as though she didn't hate her. Calan's hand fisted tightly around her fork. She wished she was there, in the Arena, because she hated hearing the words of her District. District 7 was supposed to hate Wren. Calan was supposed to be the center of it all. The special twin. The one everyone wanted to be.
But now, people were bent on Wren. They watched the TVs as though they were completely and utterly addicted. Every movement warranted some sort of reaction. The people cheered her on, were raising money even now, loved Wren's strong personality and stubborn attitude. And Calan felt very much overlooked.
Her hatred crawled at her heart, contorting her expression as she glared at the TV screen. The image of her sister, laying in the mouth of the cave sent shivers of disgust through her. She hated her.
So blatant was her fury that the boy beside her didn't even have to look at her to feel what she felt. Evon just sat there, facing the TV and purposefully keeping his body rigid. He felt her loathing eyes, once such a lovely shade of blue, draw over him. And he didn't shift his own eyes to meet hers. He just ignored her, mind thinking only of the girl with the black hair and the biting words, who was so very far away from him. Who was hurt because of him. For whom his heart was utterly aching over.
Another tense minute, and Calan furiously threw herself from the house, wishing, hoping, yearning for her sister's death. Because Wren had so much more than she did. She had Evon, the boy who would never give up on her. And she had nothing.
The Arena, Wren's POV
The wound was better than I thought it was. Upon waking up and seeing the blizzard still very much alive, I don't think twice about starting a fire. No one would ever be able to see the smoke with all the snow.
It takes a few aching minutes collecting snow in the tin can and heating it over the fire, and then I begin washing my leg. Stretching it out feels good, if not a little sore, and it's easier to peel off the bloodied pants to get better access to the scars.
After it is clean, I really take a good look at it. My eyes are brooding as I stare, entranced by the angry red lines. They're large, running the length of my thigh and not stopping until they reached my knee. Though it aches like no tomorrow, I'm relieved that I can feel the pain. It's a sign that it'll heal.
As I chew on some pine needles, I assess my situation. I have no medicine, no food, and a limited amount of time before someone shows up. I also have only a dagger for defense. I'm injured, hungry, and desperate. Never a good combination.
The only thing I really have is willpower. And a good shelter. And time to spend in which the other tributes may not have. Many of them are probably in the blizzard. I know I'm lucky to have found this cave.
I decide to make use of what I have, because I'd be stupid not to. I go out and collect more snow to heat up. I peel off pieces of clothe bit by bit, washing each separately and waiting until they're dry before washing another. It's an excruciatingly slow process, but I feel dirty and bloody. If nothing else, it'll make me feel better about my situation.
When I finish with the last piece of clothe and hang it by the fire to dry, I'm left with trying to put together an adequate dinner. I finish off the cheese and the berries, which I warm a little by the fire since they're both rock hard. I make some pine needle tea. I chew on some of the plants I had collected the day before. But it's not enough, and my stomach still rumbles, unsatisfied. I close my eyes, hands over my abdomen, and scold myself for not making use to that Bob cat mutt when I had the chance. It's useless to complain, though. It's not going to get me anywhere.
So for the rest of the day, I sit there, keeping my fire going and stretching out my leg. Sometimes, I walk around the cave to get my blood going. I tell myself over and over again that I'll find food soon.
Every so often, I change bandages. I collect new snow to wash them in. I wet my face and get the dirt and grim from my cheeks. But I feel as hollow as my actions. I have no plan. No idea where I'm going. I thought of leaving my cave frightens me, but I know it's only a matter of time before hunger drives me outside.
It's late into the night when the first stab of hunger comes. I keel over, clutching my stomach, and groan. I wonder if this is why the Games have gotten their name. Is it because the tributes often starve to death? Or is it because the contestants are so overcome by the will to survive that they become inhuman, hungry for the blood of other tributes? Somehow, I think it's a little bit of both.
Heya! Thanks for the feedback! :D Chappa Points:
1. By getting Wren out of the forest, she'll be out of her element and will therefore be suscepible to harm. This will drive all the tributes together and hopefully up the suspense...and all that good shtuff~
2. POV change where Calan becomes more of a bitch than she already is...Not sure what I was doing with that. I guess I just wanted to get some Evon-Wren action and explain how the District doesn't hate Wren. I feel sorta bad for Calan...I might redeem her character by the end of this lovely fic, but I might decide to be a whore about it pftt
That's all for now. I feel like I cut that chapter off too soon, but I'm going to start the next one and hopefully get that posted by Sunday :3 Thanks for reading and listening to me ramble!