Chapter 11: Fault Lines

I remember the day Amelia died with burning clarity. It was a school day, the warm sun beating down on District Twelve, but there were no children taking advantage of the good weather. No one plays outside during the Games. Instead, we all sat packed in one of the tiny classrooms during lunch, our eyes trained on the TV. It was suffocating in that room, the humid air surrounding me in an uncomfortable blanket of moisture and warmth, but I didn't dare leave. I couldn't take my eyes off her.

I idolized Amelia. She was strong and beautiful, and she cared so much for everyone. She was selfless in a place where selfishness was a way of life, a means of survival. But above all, she was innocent. She had the ability to see beauty and worth in everything and everyone. I admired that so much about her. It took me years to realize that that was her downfall.

I was proud of her when she saved the boy from Two, and when she joined the alliance with the Careers. All the other kids telling me how great she must be if they want her. My nine year-old self was still too young, too naïve to understand the pitying looks adults sent me. She was with the Careers; there was no way she was going to lose.

She was in the final five. It had been years since someone from Twelve made it farther than the top eight, but she had done it without having to kill a single person. She was smart. She knew exactly what to do and when to do it, and so I just assumed that when it came the Careers, she'd be right again.

She had worked out a deal with the two remaining tributes from Two. If the alliance were still intact when five tributes remained, they would give her a day's head start to get away. There was nothing to fear: not for her and not for me. She'd be able to get away and hide while the rest of the tributes went after each other. She could come home. It's amazing how quickly that changed over the course of a few minutes spent in that tiny, suffocating classroom.

Any hope I'd have of her coming back to me were shattered in an instant⎯ completely destroyed by the hushed whispers of the boy and girl from Two. I sat trembling in my seat, color draining from my face and tears stinging my eyes, watching helplessly as they planned my sister's death.

"We should make it painful. I could gut her, make a nice⎯"

"Do it now," he says, he voice low and commanding.

His partner pouts. "But she's sleeping. That's no fun."

He rolls his eyes. "Just make it quick. Give her a little mercy."

The girl eyes him curiously as he walks away, but she doesn't argue with his demand. She gets up and walks towards Amelia, a sick smile lighting her features.

Mabel grabbed my hand and squeezed tightly, but I barely felt it. The only thing I noticed was the tightness in my chest as my watery eyes watched the swipe of the knife across her throat, the spray of red on the sand. I flinched at the sound of the cannon, jumping to my feet and running out the door before anyone could stop me.

I sat in the meadow all day, crying until I didn't think there were any more tears, and then crying some more. The sun continued to shine brightly in the sky when I cried out, when Mabel found me and offered her silent comfort, when I dragged myself through the street filled with pitying looks to an empty house. I was a mess, but the sun shone brightly, oblivious or indifferent to my loss⎯just like the Capitol.

…

This day feels the same. The farther I move from the Cornucopia, the bluer the sky becomes. It is clear and bright, the rays of light illuminating the snow and making the entire arena glow as if it were the sun itself. The events of minutes⎯hours?⎯earlier already forgotten by the Gamemakers. They are happy with today's bloodshed. It is enough entertainment for now.

I continue to run as fast as my legs will carry me, but I know I will have to stop soon. The lake isn't far, and I'm exhausted. But I can't bring myself to slow down. I know what will happen when I do. I've been through this before. So I keep going, the image of Barden on his knees driving me forward.

I run out of land too quickly. I pull to a stop at the edge of the water, my lungs burning and my heart pounding. The sound of my blood rushing is not enough to drown out the word my mind keeps repeating. I have nothing to distract me now that I am no longer running for my life. The area is empty, and I am left with nothing but my thoughts.

Dead.

I suddenly feel like my chest is caving in on itself, all the air catching in my lungs as I struggle for air. My head aches and my throat constricts painfully as images of Barden flash through my mind. I squeeze my eyes shut as a hiccup lodges itself in my throat, trying to block out everything. But I know that reality will not let me escape. He is dead, and I am alone.

My heart feels like a useless weight, and the medicine feels like lead in my pocket. Your fault, your fault, your fault. I did this. He was only there because of me, trying to get medicine because I needed it. He'd still be alive if it weren't for me. My fault, my fault, my fault. I put him in that situation, and they killed him. The guilt is crushing, making my chest collapse even deeper in on itself.

But I know that there is nothing I could have done to save him. I may as well have been back in that stuffy classroom. I was helpless, just like I was six years ago. It's like history repeating itself. The image of red mixing with white clouds my vision. My lip trembles and my throat tightens even further. I feel like I'm suffocating, but I don't care.

Barden had been so charming with his bright smile and stupid jokes. I knew the minute I met him that his innocence would be the end of him, just as it had been for Amelia. Innocence cannot survive in the arena. The Capitol makes sure to destroy every last shred of happiness, and youth, and hope. Barden and Amelia were too good for these Games. They deserved so much more than to die before they ever got the chance to live. My eyes prickle with tears, and I clench my teeth down as a few of them leak from the corners. I wipe them away quickly. I'm tired of crying and showing them weakness. I won't give them the satisfaction of seeing me break. I have to keep it together for the people I made promises to. I won't disappoint them.

Anger surges through me, my skin burning and my throat aching with the urge to scream. I hate this. I hate this feeling, I hate the Games, but more than anything, I hate the Capitol. He was at the Cornucopia because of me, but they did this. They killed them with their injustice and their cruelty. They are the ones who have turned children into murderers, who have destroyed countless families with their sick Games. They're to blame for everything.

Mr. Fairbain's words ring in my head, "Don't let them take anything else away from you." I remember the small girl from Eleven, the one that Katniss had wrapped in beds of flowers to show that she mattered⎯that her death, no matter how inconsequential it seemed to the Capitol, mattered. I can't do that with Barden, but there are other ways to show them. There are other ways to let them know that they will not win; that they can't take everything. They're the ones who put us here, who have given us all a death sentence, but I won't let them destroy me. They can throw whatever they want in my direction, but they will not win. They don't get to take my life from me.

I feel heavy and lonely, but I force myself to pull it together, setting my face into a look of determination before taking off. I don't bother running, instead choosing to walk slowly to the area Zeppina and I had camped the first night. My body aches too much for the strain, and I have my knife at the ready in case anyone comes near me. It'll be their funeral; I'm looking for anything to take my anger out on.

The medicine clanks together in my pocket. The absence of adrenaline forces me to feel all the effects of my infection, but I do not stop to apply the salve. With the storm cleared out, I am too out in the open to perform such a distracting task. It should only take me two hours to get to the mountainside, and I doubt I'll die by then. Maybe it's masochistic, but I almost enjoy the pain. It reminds me of what's happened, what these Games are doing to me and everyone else in here, and so it drives me forward.

I wonder if Zeppina is already at the spot. I think there's a good chance. She took off from the Cornucopia long before I did. She's got a lock on self-preservation.

I walk until it gets dark, and even after that. I'm extra cautious, remembering the flashlights and the night-goggles that I had seen in the Cornucopia. The Careers will begin hunting in full force soon, if they haven't begun already, and I'm weak and injured. I ignore the way my joints protest every movement I make, eager to be as far away from them as I can get. Heat flares in my veins when I think of them, but I'm not stupid. I'd have a hard time defeating anyone in my state. I can tell that my fever is getting worse, but I ignore it and continue on.

The anthem begins to play just as I enter the familiar area. The first face to appear is the girl from Four, the one that was reaped. I don't remember her name. Then comes Barden. There are no more deaths, and so the sky fades to black and the arena is silent once again. That means my wild swinging didn't kill the boy from One, not that that comes as a surprise to me. But it's a disappointment all the same.

"It's a shame," Zeppina says from behind me.

I nearly jump out of my skin. I hadn't even heard her approaching me. Maybe she was hoping that she could scare me to death. I slowly turn to face her, but her eyes are still trained on the sky.

"But at least now we don't have to kill him."

My fist clenches at her easy statement, but I don't respond. It is a harsh truth, but she doesn't need to say it so casually. Or at all. But I know that she's right. It brings me a sad sort of relief. At least he will not die directly by my hand. I don't think I could live with myself if that happened. I'm having a hard enough time with the guilt as it is.

That, of course, does not go for the other twenty-seven tributes that must die for me to return home. There are twenty-nine of us now, which means that only five people stand between me and my return to the Capitol. The odds keep getting better.

Everything would move much quicker if the Careers weren't allied together. I wonder what they're doing right now. All of the ones who were out scouting for other tributes have no doubt been told about us stealing from them. The fact that they're now down one more person is probably a pretty big indicator as well. I should be more worried than I am. The boy from One knew who I was, so I have no doubt he's let them all know just who was responsible for their depletion in supplies.

If all the glares I received from them in the Training Center weren't a clear enough sign to express how much they hate me, then One's statement about Nerissa claiming me as her kill was certainly enough to drive the point home. They're probably even more eager to kill me now that I've stolen from them. I made them look foolish by getting away with it. I wouldn't be surprised if they were all fighting over who gets to kill me. Their separation of supplies in the Cornucopia proved that they're organized. Maybe they've even made a list of who gets a go and when. It's too bad they haven't channeled all that anger into something productive, like killing each other. Maybe that'll start now that the first arena is almost over. That would be nice. Maybe Cato and Mace will take each other out. They'd certainly be doing us all a favor.

Neither Zeppina nor I try to continue the conversation. I'm thankful because the pain radiating from my arm is excruciating, and tremors wrack my body from the fever. Slowly, I ease myself to the ground. I don't know how I managed to run all the way from the Cornucopia, because even the motion of sitting down is incredibly difficult. I can feel Zeppina's eyes on me, but she doesn't offer any help. I'm glad she doesn't; I don't want or need it right now.

I take the medicine and bandages out of my pocket and place them beside me, then turn to unwrap the cloth from my wound. The putrid smell hits me before the material is fully removed, and I fight down the urge to vomit. It smells exactly like when we leave the meat out too long in the hot weather and it begins to decay. The gashes are much worse than they had been this morning. The surrounding skin is discolored and inflamed, and the foul smelling pus continues to ooze out of it. I curse the Gamemakers for doing this to me. I am confident that this infection would have killed me. Bitterly, I reach over for the containers of medicine. I hesitate for a moment, my brows furrowing as I look down at them. I took two from the Cornucopia because I didn't know what they would do, or which would help treat infections. And seeing how that fact hasn't changed in the last few hours, I'm still at a loss.

"Do you know anything about Capitol medicine?" I call over to Zeppina.

She looks up at me from her place against the mountainside and shakes her head. "No. It's all high-tech though. I'm sure anything would work."

I frown at her answer, because I don't think she really believes that. I wonder if she really knows nothing about it, or if she's trying to trick me. She hasn't tried to kill me so far, unless you count almost scaring me to death, but Haymitch's words are ingrained in my head. Sly ones aren't to be trusted, and with the way she booked it out of the Cornucopia, I know that she is not all too concerned about whether I live or die.

Sighing, I inspect the containers. It's no use. Their labels contain descriptions that mean nothing to me. We have nothing like this in District Twelve, not even Mayor Undersee could afford this stuff. We have to make do with homemade remedies, most of which are supplied by Mrs. Everdeen. I had to go see her a couple of years ago, when I first started working for Mr. Fairbain. I was clumsy with the knives and a moment of lost concentration resulted in me slicing my hand open. She had fixed it up with a balm made from some herbs bought in the Hob and some painful stitches. Everything healed fine though, and she became my go-to healer whenever there was an emergency, though those were few and far between. As I got older, the injuries became less frequent, and I haven't had a need to see her in a long time. Not that she really seemed up to it. But I wish that I had, because maybe then I could at least take an educated guess as to which I should use.

I pop open the lid to each container, taking in the contents. They're both filled with some type of gel, one purplish and the other yellow, so color doesn't help solve my problem. I internally groan. Everyone's watching as I make a fool of myself. I'm practically⎯ definitely⎯ dying from infection, and I can't figure out which stupid container to use. I lift the yellow gel up and sniff it. I look like an idiot. I gag, my nose scrunching up as the scent fills my nostrils. It smells awful, like the grease and dust my father tracks in from the mines. I grab the purple one, hoping that it smells at least a little better.

It does. The scent is earthy, and I am reminded of the balm that Mrs. Everdeen made. I know it's not the same though. This is high-tech stuff, made in some lab in Capitol. I glance between the two, ultimately deciding to use the purple one in my hand. I scoop some gel onto my fingers, but go back for a more generous amount when I glance at the infected slashes. I moan when it touches my skin. The relief is instantaneous, cooling the irritated area and immediately lessening the pain. I eagerly spread more over the wound, relishing in the relief it brings. Just to be safe, I rub the balm over the cuts I got today, but I make sure to save someone of the gel in case I need to apply more tomorrow. I struggle to wrap my arm in the clean white bandages from the Cornucopia. It's difficult to do one-handed, but I refuse to ask Zeppina for help. Not that I think she'd be willing to do it anyway. I don't need to look incompetent on top of everything else. Eventually I finish and pack everything away in my backpack.

There is no conversation between Zeppina and I. It feels similar to the first day in the arena, when we had sat awkwardly while we waited for Barden to come join us, hoping that he wasn't dead. But we both know that he isn't coming now. The tension in the air is making me uncomfortable. I am positive that she liked Barden more than me⎯I'm not actually sure she ever liked me⎯ and this alliance between the two of us, as Haymitch put it, is tenuous at best. We made it this far because we both trusted Barden, but there is almost no trust between Zeppina and me. While I am slightly alarmed by—and envious of, if I'm being completely honest —her sense of self-preservation, I know that it can't spell anything good for me. I don't think she'd outright attack me; she seems more like the type to poison my food or something. Either way, I'll have to be careful around her from here on out.

The sound of chiming distracts me from my thoughts. I look up to see a small silver parachute floating down, a large twelve emblazoned on the side. Sponsors.

Sponsors! For me! Someone out there actually cares. Someone out there wants me to win.

I grab the pot out of the air before it has time to hit the ground. Eagerly, I open the top. Inside sits a small canister with a spoon, a roll, and a tiny slip of paper. I pull the container out and place it on the ground next to me, reading the note.

You're still in this. Keep your head up. - H

I bite my lip as I read the note over once more. So Haymitch has been watching this whole time. I can't help the surge of frustration that runs through me. If he's been paying attention, why couldn't he have just sent me some medicine before? Then Barden would still be alive. I glare down at the tiny piece of paper in my hand, but the expression softens when my eyes drift towards the pot on the ground. There are people out there who want me to have this: People that have spent their money on this gift so that I'll have a better shot of making it out of the arena. And as mad as I am with Haymitch, I understand what he's trying to tell me. He doesn't want me to give up. I need to keep fighting.

I'm overcome with gratitude at the gesture of those supporting me, and even for my mentor for encouraging me not to give in. Just knowing that people actually believe that I can do this is enough to push me through another day.

I'm positive that there is a camera on me right now. Unless there is a fight going on, they are sure to show me receiving a gift from a sponsor. My lips tug up into a soft smile and I give a quietly spoken thank you, hoping that whoever sent this understands how much this means to me right now.

The sound of a zipper opening reminds me that Zeppina is still here. I frown slightly as I watch her fiddle with something in her pack. We haven't eaten since this morning, and while the infection has made my appetite basically non-existent, she must be hungry right now. I bite my lip and debate what to do. I could leave her to fend for herself, I'm sure she grabbed something from the Cornucopia, but we are in an alliance.

Sighing, I pick up the small roll. "Hey, Zeppina."

Her head snaps up, and I toss her the bread. She catches it easily, but I can tell that she's confused. Her eyebrows are drawn together and her lips are pressed into a thin line. "What's this for?"

"Dinner," is the only reply I give. She mumbles a thank you and bites into the roll.

I grab the canister from its spot in the snow and pop the lid open. The smell of soup floats up through the air. I inhale deeply, only now becoming aware of the hunger in my stomach. The Capitol medicine must be working because I feel astronomically better than before. I eat the soup slowly, trying the savor the taste as much as I can. I think it's beef, but I'm not sure. It certainly doesn't taste like anything we have back in Twelve. No, this food comes straight from the Capitol, which means it was expensive. It makes me even more grateful.

My ally and I eat in silence. I'm too busy enjoying my soup to notice the cold air biting at my skin. When I finish, I lay out my sleeping bag and crawl into it. I focus on the warmth that fills me, trying not to think about Barden. I don't want to get upset again, so I let my mind drift towards the Careers, and focus on the anger that fills me. I fully intend on keeping my promise to Cato. I won't hesitate to kill him or anyone else in the arena if I get the chance.

I think of the promises I made to Mabel and Mr. Fairbain, promises I made to myself. I can't keep trying to convince myself that everything is going to be okay. I know that it won't be. I don't bother hoping that I will be fine, or that things are going to get better. You can't win these Games without becoming someone else. I've wasted too much time pretending that this won't change me, thinking that there was any other way out of here, because there isn't. Nothing is okay, and now that I know that, there is no going back. I'll keep my head up like Haymitch said, and I'm going to win this whole damn thing.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

So there's the next chapter! I know this was a little shorter and more of a filler, but alas, I couldn't cut it. It was originally a part of the previous chapter, but it felt too long and I wanted to make Barden's death more poignant. Anyway... I hope you guys liked it. The next chapter will be up Friday!

Reviews:

lovewords: Please never never ever apologize for writing reviews! They are never irritating. It seriously means so much to me that you took a chance on this story and that you are enjoying this much! gahhh! Any who, I'm so happy you like Briar. I've obviously very attached to her and it makes me so excited to see people enjoying her character. And Barde, ahhhh. I tried to make him as precious as possible so that it would be hard not to like him. Am I mean? Karn and Cato are definitely intended to have some parallels which you'll be seeing more of soon (hint hint). As you can tell from this chapter, Tilver is sadly still alive, as are Mace and Nerissa. You'll be seeing more of them all soon enough.

WhiteEevee: I'm sorry...I know how much you love Barden. But yeah, he had no sense of self preservation, whereas Zeppina... It's part of the reason I wrote all three characters as I did and put them together. Barden with none, Zeppina with a lot and Briar somewhere in the middle (depends on how much she likes you). Ah, the musings. They're really my favorite parts to write, partly because they come the most naturally to me and partly because I'm really fascinated by how an individual's mind works, and well, Briar's mind is always turned up to 11. The organization of the Careers is sort of a holder for this idea that I have of Cato being sort of OCD. I know the books always portray him as impulsive, and I would never deny that he is, but the idea always sticks in my head. And it's not a hugely important point, the organization, so I thought, why not?

SylviaHunterOfArtemis: BARDENNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN! Yup, that pretty much sums up the chapter (and how I felt writing it as well)

Mely-the-Mockingjay: Sadly, you are correct, only a few can survive... DUN DUN DUN. Who will it be? Cato will be making a reappearance with a vengeance soon and he won't be going anywhere anytime soon (am I giving too much away? Oh well)

Til Friday!