Ugh. My head is throbbing, and my swollen eyes refuse to open. I guess crying all night has its pitfalls. I sit up on my bed, hugging my knees to my chest. Today's the day. It's finally here, and there's no alluding it. Today, a handful of innocent teenagers are going to drop dead for the Capitol's amusement. And I might end up one of them. A selfish part of me wishes I could just stay in this room, lock myself in and just refuse to get up. But before I can even consider the idea, the door flies open. Effie waddles over to me in her skyscraper-high heels, but instead of pestering me until I leave my bed, she throws her arms around me and pulls me into a tight embrace.
"Oh, Peeta!" she says, compassionately. "You must be heartbroken! Katniss is already spoken for!"
"Heartbroken to say the least." I say, wrapping my arms around her kindly.
She pulls away, her watery eyes meeting mine. Haymitch has entered the room, standing at somewhat of a distance. I'm sort of resenting him for putting me through this, but I try to forgive him, because soon it won't really matter. I feel like a child who's just woken up from a petrifying nightmare, being consoled by both parents. I absorb all the affection and savor the moment, because I'll never know another one like it. My nostrils burn and a dull pain pierces through my temple, but I've already used up all my tears from last night. Haymitch tentatively stumbles over to my bedside.
"I've got faith in you, kid." says Haymitch, patting my back. "You're gonna get a lot of sponsors."
"Thanks, but where's Katniss?" I ask.
"She's taking a bath, so I wouldn't worry about her coming in. We've already given her our condolences." says Effie.
"I've got to protect her," I say. Some of my concerns just seem to have slept in, only to pop up in my mind shortly after my it begins functioning for the day. "I have to lead those Careers away from wherever she is."
"Cross that bridge when you get there." says Haymitch, as Effie wraps the brown bathrobe around my shoulders. "But remember, stay alive. First, find food and water. Then, you hide."
I remember Cato's instructions to run into the woods and wait for him. Maybe he'll bring me those necessities. But I have no idea where to find anything yet. The only sense of direction I can rely on is a fuzzy picture of the arena I've illustrated in my mind, and the only thing I know exists in there is woods. That's all they've told me so far.
"We need you to get ready though, Peeta." says Effie, collecting herself back from emotion, and prompting me off of the bed. "Rain or shine, the Games start in two hours."
I stand up, feeling weaker than ever before. Haymitch and Effie slip out of the room, so I proceed to the shower. My jokes about it during my interview were really stupid. Even though the audience laughed, all of Panem is probably pitying me, thinking I'm some lovesick fool that can't operate a simple appliance. I know how to turn on the hot water, which is all I really need anyway. I let it encase me, wishing I could just wear its warmth as a coat through all the cold nights I forecast in the arena. I realize that under all of the frills and ruffles, make-up and wigs, Effie has a very motherly aspect about her. She's never said anything about her past as a mentor, or any other Tributes she might have grown fond of before Katniss and I. It's definitely something to ponder, but I really don't have much room for any other thoughts with everything else that's already occupying my mind. I turn off the water and pat myself dry with a plump fluffy towel, wrapping it around my waist. When I walk back into my quarter, I see that someone's laid out an outfit on my bed. Cargo pants, a simple black shirt made of thin material, thick socks and fair-traction boots. Is this what I'll be wearing in the Games? Whoever put it here must have assigned it to me, so I conclude this case by putting it on. It's warm and durable, but I know it will be inadaquete for the arena. I wonder what Katniss and Cato were given to wear, and I can only pray it's more supportive and insulated than this.
Haymitch and Effie are eating a breakfast of grilled salmon, sunny-side up eggs and orange juice. The grim and hopeless shadow hangs drearily over the room, causing a side effect of silence and long faces. Even Katniss looks discombobulated, which is in some way refreshing because I can tell she's still capable of emotion.
Cutting her food into pieces, Effie breaks the silence. "You two were a pleasure to mentor."
The words strike me in the heart, giving me a much-needed sense of self-worth. "...Thank you Effie."
"Yeah," Haymitch says, his mouth stuffed with food. "See you 'round, kid."
It takes me a minute to realize that he's talking solely to Katniss. Does he doubt I'll survive? Of course he does. He probably ranks me equal to the weak twelve-year olds who die in the initial bloodbath. And here I was, completely ready to forgive him when he and Effie were in my room. Bitterness washes over me as we eat the rest of our food in a pensive silence. It makes my body ache for the family table back home. Even though the people in my household didn't care much for each other, at least we'd fill the air with light-hearted small talk. It feels like I'm slowly dying as it is, losing touch of each small pleasure little by little. At least it's making me grateful for what I once had. After we've finished, our mentors silently escort us to the elevator. Katniss stares back at the Penthouse for as long as it's in view, just hanging onto her last memories of luxury as we ascend. I can't help but feel for her, but I find myself wanting to keep my distance from her. She's easily irritated and sort of rude, and I'm beginning to numb myself to the fact she's dating Gale. But I'm not going to break my promise to stay strong for her. The elevator opens at the roof of the Tribute tower, letting in an algid blast of wind, mingled with raindrops. The sky is overcast, with grey, fluffy clouds serving as a background to the gigantic dirigible hovering directly above us. A ladder dips down to our level, implying we must climb it into the aircraft.
Effie and Haymitch throw their arms around us both, almost replicating this morning's episode. Effie's eyes fill with tears as she pulls us both in closer. I feel a motherly love completely foreign to me. My eyes begin to moisten as well. Katniss and I embrace them both deeply, the only sound being the beat of our mourning hearts. Finally, we depart from each other, not breaking eye contact with them as Katniss and I walk toward the ladder. As much as our mentors lacked in some areas, I realize they aren't perfect. Even if Haymitch does doubt me, he has a right to. I guess I'll always have a parental essence surrounding their memory. We climb up the steel ladder, grasping the rungs tightly as possible. I squeeze my eyes shut to avoid looking down as it pulls us up into the hovercraft. Once we're inside, I peer around. The other twenty-two Tributes are sitting, uniform in the same clothes as mine, strapped to steel chairs. I find the Careers close to the far end of rows. Clove is staring down at her feet, the freckles on her face prominent against her pale skin. She looks as though she's severely nauseated. Glimmer is even solemn and alert, peering around nervously at the faces of the others. Marvel's elbow is propped up on the arm rest of his chair, his face resting in his palm. Perhaps the reality of the gruesome situation finally sunk into them. Cato, however, is staring straight at me, his eyes filled with determination and strength. I feel a bit consoled as Katniss and I sit down and are strapped in by a blue-skinned woman in a white coat.
"Attention, Tributes," she says in a monotone voice. "We are about to install your camera trackers. Please keep calm and be relaxed, otherwise the process will be very painful. There's also a prepared breakfast for those who would like some."
The woman disappears through a heavy steel door. After it slams shut, nobody makes a peep. There's so much silence today, because there's really nothing anyone can say to make the dark circumstance any lighter. I make eye contact with Cato from across the small room. Soon, we're both sadly smiling at one another, holding each others' gaze for about a minute. The woman returns to us with an immense needle and sanitation wipes. Every face in the room flushes as she grabs the forearm of the small boy from District Four and injects a camera tracker deep under the surface of his skin. The boy winces, trying as hard as he can not to whimper. The woman removes the needle, sanitizes it, and moves down the line. Soon, she reaches Cato, who willingly submits his arm. I'm amazed as he doesn't flinch in the slightest as the chip is pushed into his veins. When it's my turn, I look at both Cato and Katniss. Their faces are sympathetic, anticipating my reaction to the pain. I remember my promise, and bravely give the woman my arm. A raw, stinging pain shoots from my fingertips to my diaphragm, centering itself at the site of injection. When the torture is done, I try to immune myself from the lingering throbbing, knowing that I'll suffer much worse in hours yet to come. About fifteen minutes later, the hovercraft lands on the roof of an unfamiliar cylinder building, twenty-four elevator pods lined up along its circumference. On each elevator reads a number, representing two Tributes of each District. An Avox fumbles around, attempting to non verbally herd us into our proper places. I'm directed into one of the two "Twelve" elevators, and I descend down at an even greater speed than the one in the Tribute Tower. When it opens, I find myself in a dark, grey room without windows. The only things in here are another elevator on the corresponding wall, two wooden chairs and Portia sitting in one of them, holding a bag.
"Good morning, Peeta." She says, sweetly but bereaved.
"Morning, Portia." I return.
She motions for me to have a seat, pulling a hairbrush from her bag and slowly stroking my hair with it, as if to imprint the feeling of brushing it into her memory.
"Did you get enough to eat?" She asks.
"Yes, I did."
She continues stroking my hair and sighs deeply. "You're a great boy, Peeta. We really enjoyed being your stylists."
"Thanks." I respond. I would be flattered by her words if they didn't sound so halfhearted and dry, but every expression of kindness at least makes the internal strife I feel a bit easier. The automatic voice from the Training Pavilion sounds over an intercom above, reminding us that we have thirty seconds in this room before the Games begin.
"Well," Portia says, fluffing up my hair for the last time. "It was very nice meeting you."
"You too."
We shake hands, and she directs me into the other elevator, which will lift me into the arena. I enter, feeling the first pang of anxiety from being closed in this small space. The lights in the room flash off immediately, surrounding me with pitch black as I feel the ground rise beneath me. Fear evades me and my chest pounds rapidly as the elevator propels me up into the arena. The light of the sky blinds me, but I eventually adjust my eyes and survey my surroundings; a dense, green forest behind me, a clear lake to my left. All twenty-four Tributes are standing on metal plates arranged in a circle around a gold Cornucopia-like structure, which is stocked with supplies and weaponry. A timer attached to the top of it begins descending its glowing red numbers down from sixty, as the robotic voice counts down along with them. I look at Katniss. Her eyes are fixated on a bow and arrow set at the mouth of the Cornucopia. When she finally sees me, I shake my head, warning her not to try for them. I can't let her die, even if she does have Gale to return home to. But actually being in the arena makes my self-sacrificial plans easier said than done. I am trembling in fear, as there are only forty seconds left. I look at Cato, who nods his head in the direction of the woods, apprehensiveness flashing across his face. I nod in response, preparing to run as soon as I'm able to. Twenty seconds left. I look around the circle of Tributes. The younger, smaller ones are trembling, their eyes darting around the arena. I feel compassion for them, because I can tell they've never had a single intention of killing anyone before now.
The gong sounds, and all of us frantically scatter. At a colossal speed, my feet barrel towards the woods. I don't even look back. I run until there is no human being in my sight. Unfortunately, I'm not exactly obfuscated from view. Since I have nothing to hide myself with, I try my hardest to climb a lofty tree. I'm pretty proud of myself, because back at home I had no skill to coordinate myself up a trunk. I hated heights and still do, but before I know it, I'm at least thirty feet above ground. I rest on a thick and sturdy branch, listening intently to the sounds of the forest. The mockingjays sing a melodious tune, contrasting almost sarcastically with the awful sounds I hear from the Cornucopia. Screams of panic and pain, of terror and torture echo in my mind long after they've been silenced. The low vibration of the canon sounds to represent each dead Tribute. One, two, three... I count them, because it's impossible to think of anything else. It's a haunting nightmare I wish I could simply fly away from. My stomach begins to growl, but I'm too sickened from the slight smell of blood in the air to even think about food. I'm so far away from the conviviality of the Capitol now. I never hungered there. And I'm even further away from my familiar homespun bakery and family, which would never be the same, even if I were to return at this moment. I squeeze my eyes shut, counting more canon booms. I just wish Cato would get here. Soon, the shrieks of death begin to trickle off, and the sky overhead begins to glow dimly like hot coals, indicating nightfall. The Gamemakers who control the arena must madly exaggerate the environment, because I know it's about noon in the rest of Panem. The twilit sky doesn't look near as beautiful as what I've seen in the Capitol. It's a dark, monochromatic orange that for some reason scares the hell out of me. The cold bloody air tickles my nose, causing the sounds of the bloodbath to ring in my mind once more. It causes my breakfast rise up through my throat, but I swallow, trying to keep it down. The last thing I need at this point is to lose any strength or energy.
"Hey Loverboy!" I hear Marvel call from the base of the tree. I'm glad I swallowed my contents now. I hesitantly look down at the ground below. Clove, Cato, Glimmer and Marvel are standing at the base of the tree, undaunted from the murderous excursion.
"Hey!" I shout back. If the Careers weren't so feared and left alone in the arena, we'd all be dead from being so loud. "I'm coming!"
I have so little experience with trees that the idea of scaling down one petrifies me. But the last thing I want is to look weak, so I suck it up and strategically maneuver my footing down each branch. When I reach the bottom without injury, my head swells with esteem.
"Come on," Cato says, nudging me along. "We're all setting up camp."
"Alright, I'll follow you." I say.
As we hike through the woods looking for a sensible location, I notice he's dripping with both sweat and blood...blood that isn't his. In fact, all of the Careers are well equipped and physically undaunted, but covered in crimson splotches. I figure that many of those terrible cries that are still ringing in my head were caused by them. It's a scary thought, to be wandering around a remote wood with a few capable murderers. But somehow, I feel consoled, knowing Cato's the eminence of the group and that he's keeping the odds in my favor. Soon, we spot a small flame in the distance, masked by a few tree branches.
"Looks like someone's got a fire." Marvel says, spear ready in hand. "Let's check it out."
The pack runs like wild animals toward the flickering light. I tag along, my stomach churning in anticipation. Brush and low branches smack us in the face as we make our way to the slowly intensifying flame. When we reach the source, we find a girl shivering next to a small fire. She looks up, realizing we're surrounding her. Her pallor turns a ghostly white, and her eyes bulge in shock. She pierces the silent wood with an ear-splitting scream. Within seconds, Marvel's lodged his spear deep through her abdomen, blood swiftly emanating onto the ground. I'm just standing and watching weaponless, and my skin's probably as white as hers. I've just seen a life's gruesome end, heard the awful sound and smelled the potent scent of the internal organs. Every fiber in my body wants to vomit profusely, but I'm paralyzed in fear, trembling at the fact that soon that could be me.
"Well then," Marvel says calmly, stomping out the fire. "let's move on."
"Wait," Glimmer says. "There's no cannon, damnit! Marvel, you didn't kill her all the way!"
"Tell you what," he says, pointing his spear to a tall oak tree in the distance. "Why don't you finish the job while we set up camp by that tree, Loverboy? You haven't had any honors of killing today."
His offer causes my mouth to run dry, and the blood rushes away from my head. The group runs silent and their eyes are centered on me, awaiting my response. Cato looks slightly sympathetic, but says nothing to dismiss me from the duty.
I sigh. I guess this is what the Games are all about. "Alright." I agree.
"Alright," says Marvel, smirking.
I wait until the Careers leave to sit beside the dying girl. Blood is pulsing, ebbing out of her open stomach, and she's already unconscious. I lightly nudge her with my foot, rolling her onto her back. Instantly, the canon sounds. I run away to the tree Marvel pointed at as fast as possible without looking back.
Did I just kill her? I question myself. The thought makes the hairs on my neck stand, tears welling up in my eyes. After possibly killing a stranger, I can't even imagine killing anyone I know. Not even Glimmer. The Capitol is so fucked up, forcing sixteen-year olds to annihilate each other like homicidal maniacs. As I near the campsite, I force myself to regain composure and feign sanity. I find that each of the Careers has obtained a sleeping bag from the Cornucopia. Glimmer and Clove are laying theirs out, bickering over who will sleep next to Cato, who seems to be egotistically brushing aside the attention. But I know there's something much deeper lying under the vainglorious surface.
"Here," he says, handing me a backpack with the number "12" etched into it. "I got you one."
"Thanks." I lay my sleeping bag next to his. On his other side lies Glimmer, who apparently won the argument.
"Now," he raises his voice, commanding around the other tributes. "I want to take sleeping shifts. That way we can keep a constant guard over our lives and supplies. Marvel, Clove, and, uh, Glimmer, you take the first. Loverboy and I will keep guard."
"We're staying up?" I ask.
"Yeah, got a problem with it?" he smirks.
"Not at all."
Even though he's given me his oath of sparing me, some subconscious part of my mind truly hopes he isn't going to kill me mercilessly, like the girl who just fell at Marvel's hands. The other Careers willingly follow his orders, wrapping themselves in their insulated bags. Cato and I sit on the ground at the base of the tree, patrolling for other Tributes. In the quiet of the night, the Capitol anthem resonates through the arena, and its seal appears as a projection in the sky. Photographs of the Tributes who have died today play like a slide show in ascending order of District. The portrait of the girl Marvel and I had just killed stares eerily down at us, sending chills racing up my spine. I find out she was from District Six, even though I wish I hadn't. I wish I didn't know a thing about her or who she was, because it causes waves of guilt and self-loathing to course through my blood. But when the show ends, I sigh in relief; the last Tributes' faces to flash in the stars were both from District Ten. Katniss is still alive. Still I worry, because even though the District Six girl was speared, she wasn't technically dead until I kicked her over. The thought of Katniss bleeding profusely, waiting to die while laying in lowly rubble paralyzes me with fear. Even though she's Gale's emotional burden to carry, she's still my friend that I promised myself to stay strong for and protect to the best of my ability. The other Careers begin snoring, drifting into peaceful slumbers. What monsters they are, dreaming and resting their own bodies, disregarding the many they've beaten and broken today.
"Looks like Fire Girl's still alive." Cato says, his gentle tone breaking my angry line of thought.
"Thankfully." I reply. We both look up at the artificial stars that glisten a bit too much. Suddenly, the temperature drastically drops, and I am left shivering. Regardless, I try to make conversation. "So this is really better than District Two?"
In the faint moonlight, I can see the expression of pain flash across Cato's face. "You bet it is."
"I'm sorry it was so awful." I say, trying to be gentle.
He changes the subject quickly. I suddenly remember our ears aren't the only ones listening to our conversation. "Did you get any kills in today?"
Ugh. Even the mere mention of death makes the night even colder. "It feels really horrible."
"It really isn't. I've killed more Tributes than I can count." he boasts.
"Cato, how is it so easy for you to kill someone?"
He sighs. "I just try not to think about it. 'Cause I'm the one with the the upper hand against them."
I try to visualize myself in the shoes of a Career, wielding a spear over a helpless Tribute. I shudder. It repulses me. "It wasn't easy killing that girl."
Cato chuckles bitterly. "She was basically dead. Marvel's the one who killed her, you were probably just there when she stopped breathing."
The air seems to get frostier by the second. I feel his eyes studying me, like when we first met. I'm hunched against the tree in the fetal position, my teeth chattering so loud I'm surprised that I'm not waking the other Tributes.
"You cold, Loverboy?"
"T-to say the least." I stammer out.
Cato takes off his jacket, unveiling his large muscles. I wonder how he isn't cold as he drapes it around my shoulders. I wrap myself tightly in it, feeling his mysteriously abundant warmth comfort me.
"Thanks." I say, smiling.
He pulls a small blade from his pocket and begins to fidget, flicking the blade around the dirt. His hair is tousled, and his clothes are tattered and matted with blood. I can't help but wonder what he's been through today, but I'm guessing it was in some way therapeutic to him. I inhale the frosty air, gladly finding the smell of blood has vanished. I listen closely to the night. It's completely silent, other than the loud, throaty snores arising from the other Careers.
"They're gonna wake the dead snoring like that." I say, again trying to initiate cordial conversation.
Cato chuckles. "I think it's Clove."
"It can't be," I say, listening to the jack-hammer like sound. "She seems too feeble."
"It has to be. That sound kept waking me up back at the Capitol, it was so damn loud in the other room."
I look over at Clove, whose dark hair is bedraggled, her mouth agape. We both childishly chuckle at her. It feels so refreshing to be able to laugh at something, no matter how small. I can't even remember the last time I laughed. Cato yawns, leaning against the tree on the other side. Soon, the slight sound of his metal blade in the soil ceases, and he begins to fade hazily to sleep, leaving me with the duty of keeping guard. I inhale the scent of his jacket. It smells like the cologne from the Capitol mingled with nicotine. It's a sultry and musky scent, like the cologne men would wear in Twelve to accompany a formal occasion. It smells exactly like the kind my father gave me a squirt of for the Reaping. I turn my head to look at the other side of the tree trunk. The silver moon illuminates Cato as he sleeps silently against the tree before me. His muscular chest is vulnerably rising and falling, trusting me to refrain from taking his life. I close my eyes and smile to myself, because somehow it really assures me that he trusts me.