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Levana Coltello
District Two Female, 16 Years Old
Day Four
There's a creaking sound.
Shooting up from the bench, I grab my belt of knives, immediately hopping onto my feet. Tying the belt around my waist, I slip out a knife, my fingers getting antsy. I peer down the hallway, and when it looks all clear, I turn back around, and then I hear something come crashing down.
One of the showcases has fallen over, the artifacts inside of it tumbling down with it. It all shatters into one big mess, with glass falling everywhere. I look back up, and once again, I see no one there. I take a step forward, gritting my teeth, prepared to shout, and just as I open my mouth, a window shatters from the other side of the hallway.
Stomping my foot, I peer down the hallway in that direction, and when I see the back of a figure, I try to get a better look. I call out to it, shouting, trying to get its attention. When it spins around, the first thing I notice is its sword. It's large, with a curved blade and a grip that wraps around the fingers. Once it sees me, it comes running at me, but the hair doesn't move or anything.
It seems solid.
As it gets closer and closer, it raises its arm, wielding the sword in the air. I get a better look now, and when I realize it's exactly like one of the statues I passed by the other day, my eyes widen. I examine it more closely, trying to find any weakness within it, but it's all stone. Or so it looks.
I jump backwards as the sword is swung at me, lodging itself in the wall. The statue rips it back out, taking a large chunk of the wall with it, and I swipe my knife out in front of me, trying to put enough distance between us. Now, I look at the statue's face, and when I notice the features – the nose, the eyes, the hair… Even the sword. I know that sword.
That's Lyme.
It's supposed to be her.
"Grandma?" I ask, my voice croaking. "Lyme?"
The lips are pursed into a thin line, the gray skin unfaltering. The statue, who I now know is supposed to be my grandmother, swings her curved blade once more, catching onto my suit. I push her back, and with my knife, I stab her in the shoulder. I jump back, slipping out another knife, and throw it, aiming for the chest.
The statue dodges it, and with every attack it makes, I find myself becoming more and more angry. This is what they want. They want me to kill her.
They want to see me kill my own grandmother.
The next knife I throw is aimed for her leg, and it finds it target, making the statue buckle over. Forcefully, I kick the statue, chipping off some of the stone-skin from her head. The statue grabs my leg, pulls me down, and with her sword, tries to stab me again. With everything in me, I push the statue off of me, and with my knife, I aim for her head.
The blade finds the intended target perfectly now.
The knife sinks into the statue's head, and I push the statue down, ripping the knife out with it. The statue drops the sword, and I kick it to the side, watching it slowly crumble into pieces of gray matter. I rip out the two knives from her shoulder and leg, slip them back into my belt, and kick the statue one last time with my foot.
This is what they wanted.
Well, I killed her. Are they fucking happy now?!
Shaking my head, I walk away, and as I do, I feel something grab my ankle. I spin back around, and the statue feebly tries to stand up, reaching for the sword. With one last powerful kick, I stomp on her head, this time watching it all crumble into pieces. The body falls, and I stare at it, becoming uncomfortable with how similarly it resembles Lyme.
It looks exactly like her.
And I killed her.
Looking around the hallway, I try to find any presence of the Gamemakers. A camera – something. But, there's nothing, and I begin to walk away, contemplating going back to where I was sleeping before. I choose to keep going, though, my body still shaking with anger.
With complete rage.
Why couldn't they lead me to Leilani or Jonah? Why couldn't I have fought them or Otrera and Ceylon?
It had to be my grandmother.
They just had to make her into a statue. It's cruel.
Finding another bench, I sit down, slamming my fists down onto it. I lean back, trying to calm myself down, but with every breath, I find myself looking back down the hallway, seeing Lyme's body slumped against the wall. Eventually, I begin to get over it, knowing that it's only a statue.
It's just the point, though.
She's already dead in real life and they made me kill her again.
They made me kill my own grandmother.
My grandmother.
She's the reason I'm here. No, it's just not because she was involved in the Rebellion. I was involved in it on my own, too. I was a part of the small group of kids that actually had opinions, the ones that weren't brainwashed by the Capitol. We were the ones the Capitol was scared of. We were the youth of District Two.
We had a plan.
It worked, too. We killed the whole damn Vire family.
But, of course, the Capitol was one step ahead of us. They knew we were coming. They knew about the plan all along, but they were too late. We killed Nashira and Narissa. I watched it happen.
I watched the bullet go through both of their heads.
It was payback, I think, clenching my fingers into fists. They killed Lyme, so we killed their precious Victors.
They might have killed most of the youth back in District Two – the ones who demanded freedom, the ones who supported Katniss and the Rebellion – but they didn't kill me. I was one of the more lucky ones to get out that day.
I made it out alive.
And, yet, here I am. Here's my punishment.
But, I won't let them kill me. I wasn't trained to die. I wasn't trained by my grandmother to die.
I wasn't born a loser, either. I was born to be victorious.
I was born to win.
And I won't let my family down.
Especially not my grandmother.
Marlon Haigh
District Nine Male, 14 Years Old
Day Four
On the wall, there's a painting.
Approaching the painting, I draw out my knife just to be cautious. When I turn my back, that's usually when bad stuff happens. That's when Lonan killed Reanine. That's when Caden ran after the girl from Drew. Whenever I turn my back, something always has to happen.
Not this time, though.
I'll be more cautious.
Back on the wall, it's a large painting, using mostly dark colors. There are several figures dressed in brown rags, all hunched over on the ground, and around them are figures dressed in white. I assume that they're supposed to be Peacekeepers, with machine guns aimed at the young men on the ground. In the corner of the painting, though, I see that there's someone else, red paint brushed over them.
It's another Peacekeeper.
In that moment, I know what this painting is supposed to be of. I look back at the young men on the ground, carefully looking at each one, and I when across one with familiar details, I take a step back, sending my fist flying into it. The painting shakes, is knocked off the wall, and comes falling down to the ground.
Holding the painting up in my hands, I snap it, the wood splintering and cracking. I toss both halves of the painting to the side, walking over one of the halves as I trudge away from it. I begin to shake, and I grip onto my belt, tightly shutting my eyes.
They tried to reenact Theodor.
They tried to paint the picture of what his goal was. Of what the young men in that painting were supposed to do.
When Theodor died, he was off with some rebels trying to assassinate a Head Peacekeepers. They might have accomplished it, but even still, it's not right. I look over my shoulder, the scowl on my face faltering. I lean against the wall, digging my foot into the carpet.
They did that on purpose.
They want to get inside of my head. They want to mess with me.
I won't let them, though. I won't let them play mind games on me. If I listen to anything my brother told me, it's that I should stay strong. That I need to focus on myself. That I shouldn't let anyone get inside of my head.
You're not scared anymore, Marlon. Not like the other children.
Repeating the words he said to me the night before he left, I push myself off the wall, heading off in another direction. I make a right, entering a narrower hallway, this one being lined with plaques. As I walk down the hallway, I repeat the words once more.
You're not scared anymore, Marlon. Not like the other children.
That shouldn't surprise anyone.
And, it shouldn't. No one should be surprised that I'm like my brother.
My brother was passionate. He was happy and hopeful. He knew that Panem could change, that if anyone banded together, we could make a difference. He saw the Rebellion as a good thing; with every united, nothing could go wrong. Nothing could stop the Rebellion.
Except the Capitol, though.
And my brother was gone before the Capitol really took measures to eradicate the Rebellion.
He was my brother… my best friend… and he was gone.
Just like that. He was gone. In the matters of days, he was gone, leaving me all alone. It wasn't the same without him.
It still isn't.
I might still have my parents, but what difference does it make? He was my brother. He was my idol, the sole person I looked up to in that District. He wanted to make the world safer for me, safer for my whole family. He joined the Rebellion to protect me.
He did it for all of us… And now, I want to do this for him.
I want to win for him. I want to show him that I'm strong. That I'm strong and tough and I am not afraid of anything.
Once I'm at the end of this hallway, I walk straight, entering another room. Once I take a step forward, the door slams shut behind me, and I'm startled, jumping forward. This hallway is lined with paintings, but they seem to be all bare. But, when I take another step, they're filled instantly.
They all have the same painting in it now… The one of my brother. The one that's supposed to bother me.
That one that's supposed to make me get angry and vengeful.
Closing my eyes, I run down the hallway, running as fast as I can to get out of this hallway. At the end of the hallway, the doors slam shut on their own, and I bang on them, making the skin on my fists go raw. I pound on the door, trying to break the glass or make it budge. I refuse to turn around, and after a few moments, I stop, slowly turning back to face all of it. To face it head on.
The paintings are still there.
My brother, the rebels, the dead Head Peacekeeper. They're all there.
And I'm here, gawking at them. I'm in the arena.
I'm in the arena because of my brother.
That only makes me stronger. I might be here as a consequence for my brother's action – as a form of punishment – but I won't let that stop me. I won't let that deter me. I won't let that scare me.
Because that's what they want, isn't it? That's what the sick and twisted Gamemakers want, right?
They want to see me crumble. They want to see me fall apart.
I won't give that to them, though.
I won't let them ruin me.
I'll show them. I'll show them that they don't own me.
I'll become the boy my brother was. I'll become exactly who he was.
The Capitol might have killed him, but they won't kill me.
I will survive for my brother and for the rest of my family.
I'll make my brother proud.
Cailen Arkley
District Eleven Female, 18 Years Old
Day Four
"Uh-"
Claire is startled, perking her head up and then turning it around. She raises an eyebrow, but I shake my head, averting my eyes and staring at the ground.
I have to say something.
What's there to say, though?
Opening my mouth, I let out a small, squeaky sound, and when Claire glances over her shoulder to look at me, I turn back around, closing my mouth. I keep my mouth shut, not wanting to say anything that might upset or annoy her. I watch her, though, as she sits there, her leg shakings constantly.
She taps her finger on the bench, facing away from me, occasionally looking over her shoulder down the hallway. She looks right past me, directly down the hallway, acting as if I'm not even here. As if I'm not an ally of hers anymore.
Gerri might have died. Nate might have died.
But, me? I'm still here. Claire is still here, too, even if she has become more distant.
And now, for some reason, I can't even talk to her. I can't open my mouth without worrying about what I say. It might trigger her into doing something that will hurt me. I saw the way she reacted to Nate attacking Kolter, so what would stop her now?
She was closer to Nate than she is with me. I was always just there for her.
She only cares about herself now, not me. Yet, for some reason, I am still worried.
What if she betrays me?
What if she runs away from me just like she did with Nate?
I hate to admit it, but I… I don't want her to go. I don't want to be here alone.
"Are you hungry?" I ask, desperately trying to start conversation. Whenever I was down, I always talked to people. I never bottled anything up. If I did, I became even sadder. "Thirsty? Anything?"
"No," Claire replies, shaking her head. She doesn't even turn around to face me.
"Just let me know if you are," I say, trying to sound as friendly as possible, holding out a backpack just in case she turns around. When she does look over her shoulder, though, I smile at her, but she just looks away. "I'll keep this here for you."
Sitting up a little, I hope that Claire might respond, that she might have it in her to at least fake some interaction with me, but she doesn't. She sits there, still bouncing her leg up and down as she taps on the bench. There's more silence – that awkward silence that has tension mixed in with it.
Tension about what, though, I don't know.
Over Nate.
Over the fact that I wanted to help him. That I was prepared to protect my allies.
Claire just left him… Claire grabbed my hand and told me to come with her. She didn't even give me a chance to do anything for myself. Isn't that what I wanted, though? To do what my allies told me to and to please them?
It is.
As bad as it sounds, that is exactly what I wanted to do. But, after all this time, I don't know if that's the best thing for me. Back in the Capitol, pleasing them didn't mean life or death. If they wanted something, I got it for them. If they said something, I laughed, and if they were upset, I consoled them.
But, here, pleasing someone meant someone else had to die. I let Claire control my actions. I let Nate die.
I could have protected him. I could have saved him.
Just like Gerri. I could have saved them both.
"We're moving," Claire says, shooting up from the bench, already staring off into a slow-paced walk. She shakes her arms, the knife in one hand, and I catch up with her, slowly following behind her. I stay quiet, though.
I don't say anything.
I get the hint now. She doesn't want to talk to me.
Claire stops abruptly, and she turns around, opens her mouth, and then shakes her head. I step forward, seeing her finally wanting to say at least one word to me, and she begins to walk away, but I stop her.
"What is it?" I ask, my voice probably sounding too eager.
"What are we doing?" She asks, looking down at her feet, and I don't know if the question is directed at me. She waves the knife out in front of her, and I get nervous, knowing that I have no weapon. I never found one for myself.
When I found a knife, I gave it to Nate.
It was always about them and their safety. It was never about me.
"What do you mean?"
"We're just walking around," Claire says, continuing on her tangent from before. She's not replying to question; she's probably not even listening to me. "Where are we going, though? Where is there to go?"
"I… I don't know."
"We're always just walking around. That's what got Nate killed. We just had to run into those statues."
"We can stop somewhere if you want," I say, immediately regretting my words. If you want, I said. It's not about what I want.
"No," she deadpans, shaking her head as she turns back around. She continues to walk away, and we pass by several doors, and although I gesture to them, she doesn't respond. We continue down the hallway, and I stare at the back of her head, my lips trembling. "Let's just keep walking like we always do."
I quickly stop myself from responding.
I might want to talk, but if she doesn't, then I don't care. I won't care for someone who doesn't even have the decency to reply to anything I say or to at least talk to me. If she wants to give me the cold shoulder, then so be it. If she wants to leave, then so be it. I don't want her around if this is how she's going to act.
I need to be able to do this on my own.
If Claire doesn't care about me anymore, then I shouldn't care about her, either.
I need to worry more about myself.
I need to make sure that I survive.
I need to put myself first.
Aella Rafferty
District Three Female, 18 Years Old
Day Four
Oddly enough, I prefer the silence.
I prefer not hearing Marlin's incessant babbling, Kolter's high-pitched voice, or Wren's muffled uttering. I prefer being on my own, listening to my own voice and thinking my own thoughts. It's easier.
It's more peaceful, if I may.
Without them around, I can sit here and do nothing. I don't need to act like I actually give a shit about their well-being, by either scouting out the area or trying to find supplies. Here, I can do what I want whenever I want. I don't need to wake up at a certain time or do this or do that just because someone says.
I don't need to do anything for anyone.
I have no one to impress anymore.
I have no one to be fake with it. No smiles, no giggles, no anything. I don't need to pretend.
Sitting down, I face the wall, looking up at the painting on the wall. It's a large painting, with these colorful flowers on it surrounding by drops of water. I poke the frame with my knife, and it doesn't budge, and when I poke it one last time, I hear someone else here with me.
I can already guess who it is without even looking.
"Aella."
Without flinching or even turning around, I face forward, dragging my knife up along the wall. It slices the wallpaper, revealing the wood paneling behind it, and I snicker, flipping my hair over my shoulder. I hear Wren's footsteps behind me, inching closer and closer, but I know that she won't attack me.
She has no spine. No initiative.
"I figured you'd follow me," I say, dramatically sighing. "It's nice to see you."
"Kolter is dead," she deadpans, and for a moment, I feel my chest become heavy, but then I smirk. I finally turn around, stand myself up, and face Wren. She stands there, knife in hand.
"What about that Nathaniel boy? How's he doing?"
"Dead, too."
I widen my eyes, sticking out my bottom lip, expressing my surprise. "Oh, wow. I wish I stuck around to see that."
"You made the choice to leave," she states, already jumping to conclusions. She shakes slightly as she stands there, her stance only showing me that one of us won't make it out of here. One of us will probably die within the next few minutes. "You made the choice to run."
"I… It was the heat of the moment," I lie, whimpering. "I didn't know what else to do! They were there with weapons and I… I didn't want to die!"
"Cut the act, Aella."
"You caught me."
"You just left us," Wren stammers, awkwardly taking a step forward. She glances down at her hands, and she looks back up, a perplexed expression on her face.
"And?"
"You betrayed us."
"You're simply stating facts I already know, Wren. Preaching to the choir here."
Wren shakes her head, mumbles something to herself, and then looks back up. She takes another step forward, and I do the same, spinning the blade grip around with my fingers. If she wants to fight, then so be it. I might have ran yesterday, but today, it's just me and her. There's no one else to interrupt.
There were too many people yesterday.
Too much was going on.
"You only allied with us to benefit yourself," she states, and I nod my head, completely agreeing. Why yes, Wren, I did only ally with you to benefit myself. "How could you be so selfish? How could you just pretend to care for anyone but yourself?"
"And what's your excuse?" I snap back, wielding the knife. I wave my hand back and forth, watching her eyes trail wherever the blade goes. "Do you care, Wren? Did you ever?"
"Yes," she utters, shaking her head. I sneer, and she looks up, the knife in her hand now. "I did care about you guys, Aella. Even you."
"You shouldn't have," I retort, holding the blade in front of my face now, looking at myself in the reflection. "Caring gets you attached. Attached gets you killed. And guess what, Wren? I, for one, do not want to get killed."
"We'll see about that."
"Is that a threat?"
In response, she runs forward, her hair flowing behind her as she charges. I extend my arms out wide, and as she collides into me, we fall backwards, and immediately, I tug back on her hair. She yelps, going under my arm and spinning out of my grasp, and as she's turn around, she kicks her foot out. As it hits my chest, I feel a sharp pain rush through the area, and I take in a deep breath, smirking.
"Turn around, Wren," I taunt, and as soon as she tilts her head, I swipe my knife upwards, catching the top part of her cheek. She jumps to the side, swiping her own knife, but it misses. She goes at it again, and again, and again, and each time, she misses. "Desperate, aren't you?"
Wren broadens her shoulders as she charges at me again, and this time, she ducks, avoiding my arms. She throws me against the wall, and I struggle to free myself, but she presses her palm against the bottom of my chin, pushing upwards. With my knee, I send it flying into her abdomen, and she buckles over, both of us falling back onto our feet.
"I'm surprised," I say, spitting out blood. I wipe my mouth, and she wipes her cheek. "This isn't done yet, though."
"I'm doing this for Kolter and Marlin," she says under her breath, probably trying to convince herself that killing me has some bigger meaning. That, in the grander schemes of things, this will prove something. Well, it won't.
I'll just be another death.
Just like the twelve other tributes that have already died. I'll meaning nothing once I die.
Before she comes at me this time, I go after her, holding my knife outwards. She knocks my arm to the side, and with her own knife, aims for my shoulder. I watch the knife sink down into the top of my arm, unable to react. I scream out in pain, and Wren pushes me back forcefully, and I smack against the wall.
I try to push myself up on the wall using my hands, but I fall back down, and I bite down on my tongue. My arm begins to throb with pain, and as my eyes begin to get hazy, I see Wren coming towards me. I still give her a smile, though, and she kneels down in front of me.
"How could you?" I say, my voice trembling. I smirk sinisterly, my vision gradually fading. "How could you… Betray your own ally?"
"You were never an ally of mine, Aella," she says, picking up the knife that I was using before. She holds it out in front of me, and with any last minute energy I can muster up, I throw my hands out. She knocks them to the side, and I watch her thrust the knife forward.
I let out one last laugh.
One last bitter laugh.
I probably deserved this.
After all I've done, I probably deserve this.
I deserve to be killed. For betraying my allies. For being selfish. For being manipulative.
Even for everything I've done back in District Three. I deserve this.
I deserve to die.
District Three, Aella Rafferty – Placed 12th
Author's Note:
Hey, another update! That was quicker than I thought, but I got bored and had a lot of free time on my hands (I have homework to make up, but whatever. Fanfiction is definitely more important) so I decided to write. I think I made the right choice.
Anyway, we are now down to eleven remaining tributes. Any favorites? Any least favorites?
Two questions:
Is there anyone you're surprised with making it this far? Is there anyone you expected to make it this far?