Chapter 22: Choices
After a few more seconds of sitting still, I decide it's time to get moving. I can think about what I'm going to do now that I'm alone once I'm out of the open. I decide that it's best to go to the mouth of the Cornucopia. Someone could be hiding there, but with everything that just happened, I have a hard time imagining anyone would have stuck around. I force myself to my feet. Well, foot. There's a light tingling sensation where the rash is, but other than that it remains completely numb. I have to drag it behind me as I walk. Gingerly, I round the front of the Cornucopia, knife at the ready. There's nothing inside, not even empty crates or racks. I frown, but it means that no one can hide here, and so I stumble through the opening, sliding down against the nearest wall.
Somehow, I still have the backpack with me, which means water and the wire for the snare. That's unfortunate for…Cato.
What happened to him? Is he dead? I don't think so, because I don't remember hearing a cannon, but I was so distracted that I don't know if I would have. Even if he is alive right now, who knows what will happen to him. He could be dying, or he could be perfectly fine. I can't decide which I would rather. I tell the guilt nagging at my brain to give it a rest already. If he's dead or dying, there's nothing I can do about it.
It's the first time I've been alone in the arena, really alone, I mean. Except for the first few hours of the first arena and right after Barden died, I've always had someone with me. It's not like it's that much different. I'll still have to be just as careful. I'll still have to survive the day. But it seems a lot more daunting now that I'm by myself. I tell myself to suck it up. It's not like I haven't been alone before. I can deal with it. I have to.
My left leg remains numb as I sit there, but I can feel a dull pain begin to move up from my hip, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake. I glare down at the rash, wishing it would disappear. No such luck. I bet Mabel is crying, or at least, trying not to. In some weird way the thought gives me a little more energy. I know that she cares about me. She's always been obvious about that.
I broke my hand once; when we were eight. We were racing back home and a Peacekeeper stepped in my way, unhappy with us being happy. I tripped and fell, the crack of the bone audible to anyone around. She cried for days then, not because she thought she was at fault, but because she knew I was in pain. Her innocence is nice, but it makes her unable to watch people suffer. It's unfortunate for her, because there isn't much else to see in District Twelve. Or in here. It makes me feel bad for putting her through this.
The sound of beeping draws my attention to the open space outside the Cornucopia. My eyes widen when a small, gray parachute floats down to me. I yank it out of the air and hastily open it, pulling a canister from within. A little white piece of paper sits on top.
This going to hurt. Be smart. –H
I toss it to the side with a roll of my eyes . Like I didn't already know that last part. I pick the canister up from where I left it, my eyebrows furrowing when I see what's inside. It's filled with a strange odorless orange goo, and there are no directions to go with it. It must be for my leg though, considering that's the only thing really wrong with me at the moment. I'm a little hesitant due to the first part of the note, but it's not like Haymitch is trying to kill me. Scooping a generous amount with my fingers, I apply it to the rash on my thigh. I don't feel anything for the first few minutes, so I think about how I must have gotten it. The legs of the spider were probably coated in some type of poison, not that it matters now. So long as this stuff works.
I don't give it much though after that because I smell something burning. Then the rash begins to sizzle. White-hot pain shoots through my leg and up the left side of my body. I feel like I'm being burned apart from the inside out, and I have to bite down on my cheek to keep from crying out, but a whimper still bubbles past my lips. Tears spring to my eyes and my bite doesn't lessen even though I can taste blood filling my mouth. And then the burning and the pain stops. I spit the blood to the side and wheeze in a few deep breaths, trying to calm my heart rate. I pull the ripped piece of the pant leg aside, seeing nothing of the previous rash. There's nothing but clean skin, not even so much as a scab.
I say a quiet thank you to the air, my voice coming out weak and croaky. My mouth feels like sandpaper, and the dryness of my throat won't let me focus on anything but water. I take a long pull from the bottle, relishing the cool relief. I don't know how long or how far I ran, and the heat of the arena only exacerbates the problem, making it nearly impossible to tell. All I know is that I can't stay here. There's probably a reason for it being empty and even if there's not, I don't want to stick around for when the other tributes stumble their way over here.
It's a tough debate though. If Cato and I are right and the storm hits on the fourth day, it would be smart to stay here and take cover. It's already getting dark outside and I know that tomorrow will arrive soon enough. And I'm exhausted. There's no clear benefit to me wandering around in the middle of the night trying to find shelter and not die. And then there's the matter of Cato. How did I lose him? Do I try to find him? Is he even alive?
In the end, I decide to stay at the Cornucopia for the night, and my questions about Cato are answered when the anthem comes and goes without a single face appearing. My body can't decide what it wants to feel in that moment. I think it's some combination of fear, disappointment, and relief, which doesn't really make sense. I didn't think you could feel all those things at once, but it wouldn't be the first time I was wrong. It doesn't matter though, because Cato's not here and I don't know how I would find him anyway. So for the time being, I'm alone and therefore these feelings are useless. Haymitch said to be smart, and so that's what I'm going to do, I think, as sleep finally pulls me under.
I jerk wake, the images of my nightmare fading. I glare at the leather on my wrist, suddenly hating the constant reminder. I was free of this nightmare—the desert and the blood and the pain—for days and now it's back. It's like my mind's form of a sick joke. I'm finally free of Cato physically and he just pops back into my mind.
With a grumble, I pull myself up and walk to the opening to inspect the day. The sky is gray again, but it's hard to see anyway. The wind whistles loudly against the metal of the Cornucopia, and I know that we were right about the storm. I know I should leave. There's a pit of uncertainty deep in my stomach telling me to go. So when one last loop around the inside Cornucopia confirms that there's nothing here, I head out. The only problem now is which way to go. I glance from side to side, trying to figure out which path to take. I know that Cato and I were on the west side originally, but after seeing what it's like there, I don't know if I want to go back. Especially if Mace and Nerissa are still hanging around over there. On the other hand, the east side could be just as dangerous. Or worse. They look exactly the same, but that doesn't mean they are.
The Gamemakers must know that I'm having trouble deciding, because thunder cracks above and I no longer have a choice. The path to the west begins to shake and rest of the Cornucopia follows. I sprint to the other side, stumbling as the path shakes beneath me. I step on solid ground and turn just in time to watch the entire structure of the Cornucopia drop down into the canyon. I blink in surprise, unsure of what to do, but then there's a flash of lightning and the rain begins. I have nowhere to go I realize, and I can't risk getting caught in the storm again. I look around frantically, trying to decide on a direction, but all I see is a canyon and trees.
I suddenly know what my best option is. I scramble forward to the base of a tree, praying that it's not coated in something that will kill me. It takes me a long time to reach a suitable branch. I wasn't exaggerating when I told any of them that I'm not very good at climbing, and with the addition of the wind and the water, I slip and nearly fall more times than I can count. When I'm finally stable, I wrap my arms around the trunk of the tree, close my eyes, and hold on for dear life. I'm like that for minutes, maybe hours, the water soaking me to bone and making me shiver. It's not until I hear the familiar sound of wood snapping and then a swoosh, that I open my eyes.
About 100 feet from me, water begins to rush over the edge of the canyon, carrying trees with it. The far side is a mirror image as that too floods into the canyon below. When the storm ends and the sky clears, the land mass holding the Cornucopia rises back up as if nothing happened. I don't immediately make my way down. Instead, I stay right where I am, leaning my head against the trunk of the tree, and praying that I can make it to the end of this.
I spend two whole days without seeing anyone. Without seeing anything, really. I wander around aimlessly despite how much I protested the idea with Cato. I can't help it. The knots in my stomach feel like they're expanding every second, threatening to consume me. It makes it impossible to stay in one spot because a sense of dread comes over me every time I stop. Walking is the only thing that calms me. At least then I feel like I'm doing something. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realize that it's not any actual progress, but I ignore it as long as it makes me feel better.
I try to keep my mind busy as I walk under the scorching sun, trying to pretend that I don't feel the burn on my neck or the sweat on my back. It's the only way to make sure that I don't go crazy from the paranoia. I study the plants and insects, naming them as I go, reciting their symptoms. It's hardest when I run out of energy to do that because then I get stuck thinking about home. But that's not an option because it's just depressing. I usually end up counting the minutes or the days. 1, 2, 3…9. Nine days since I entered the arena. Nine days and thirteen tributes gone. Which leaves nine, or is it ten more? Ultimately I decide that it's nine, because who knows what's going on with Cato. I'm certainly not about to track him down and find out, which means I don't plan on killing him either. It's the only thought I give him because it just reminds me of how lonely and scared I am, and that only makes me mad because I shouldn't have to convince myself that it's better to be lonely than to be with Cato.
I don't get to keep counting today because the voice of Claudius Templesmith suddenly blares through the air.
"Attention. Attention, tributes."
My eyes snap to the sky even though there's nothing to see.
"As you have made it this far, we thought it was time to provide you with a special announcement. The quell stipulation allowing for a single alliance to win still stands. However, should your partner perish, the remaining tribute will receive double the benefits. That is all. Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor."
His voice fades but I don't tear my eyes from the sky. Double the benefits. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what that means—double the reason to kill your partner. I want to scream in frustration because this can't be happening. I should have known they would pull something like this. They never wanted two victors, not after last year. There's only five of us left from outlying districts, from a district that needs those extra winnings. Every partnership is made up of at least one of us, except for Mace and Nerissa. Are they expecting us to try and claim those winnings? It would be suicide. I couldn't even if I wanted to because Cato isn't here. The thought pulls a breath of relief from my lungs. He probably would have killed me if we were together, not that he or his district needs the money or the food shipments.
District Twelve does, though. How many people could I help with this? The answer is the whole district. But that means that I have to kill Cato and I don't know if I can do that. Unless he forces me to, I don't think I can betray someone like that. Even him. Not when we can both live. If he gets himself killed though, that's a different story. I can't feel guilty about that, I reason. I have no reason to. I can't…
I sigh in frustration. I can't think about this. It doesn't matter right now because Cato isn't here, and I already know that chances are any decision I come to now will only be questioned later. So I wipe the sweat building on my forehead and keep walking and counting.
That afternoon I camp around a lagoon that I stumble upon. It's still bright out, but I can't fight the exhaustion anymore. There are a lot of trees around the water, but I don't worry about them. Despite the physical similarities between the two sides of the Cornucopia, they're actually somewhat different. The leaves aren't sharp, but there's more poison and these pits of sand that I've learned to avoid after watching a squirrel slowly sink into one.
The lagoon is much nicer than the swamp. It doesn't smell. And it's beautiful, and that means it's dangerous. It's probably not the best place to rest. I have to remind myself every few hours of Haymitch's note. 'Be smart,' it said. At the time I thought it was ridiculous, but now I get why he sent it. When you're the only one left to check your actions, you do a lot of stupid things.
The bright side to all of this is that I'm in good shape—physically, at least. I only have a couple scrapes and bruises from left from the flood, and barely any cuts from after. That has to look good to sponsors. Or at least I hope it does. There's no way of knowing what shape anyone else is in though. But I'm alive and that's all that really matters to me. Exhaustion, however, is commonplace, and now that I'm alone, I have to be particularly careful about where I sleep. Tonight, I settle for between three large rocks that make a sort of alcove against the side of the lagoon. It only takes me a few minutes to fall asleep, but I'm no better at ignoring the nightmares.
Everything is a dull color when I wake up. I can't see more than five feet in front of me. It must be some type of fog, but I can't actually make out any mist. It only looks to be getting darker by the minute. The edges of my vision are tainted with darkness, the circle of light getting smaller and smaller. At first I think it's only the fog, but fear shoots up my spine because I should be able to see something. I furiously rub the heel of my hands into my eyes, but nothing changes. I shouldn't move because it's impossible to tell what I'll run into. But that same bout of restlessness pulls at my limbs, begging me to go. I can't resist the pull. I reach for the rock beside me and pull myself up, the last of the light fading. Everything is black and I know that there wasn't any fog.
I'm not unconscious, at least I don't think I am, and the thought terrifies me. My pulse races and my legs ache as I try to decide if I should stay still or keep moving. It doesn't matter what my brain says though. My body refuses to remain in one place. The panic builds in my chest as I rub at my eyes and stumble forward. I feel like I'm suffocating on my panic. I frantically search my mind, trying to remember everything I ate or touched in the last twenty-four hours. Nothing stands out. I flinch when I hear the sound of shallow breathing, but then I realize it belongs to me.
I stumble forward another step, but there's no solid ground. My foot sinks down, and I'm in free fall for a second. Then water splashes around me, swallowing me whole. I frantically kick my feet to raise my head, gasping in air when I reach the surface. The fear of what could be lurking in the water pushes me forward. I'm a weak swimmer, my mother only gave me a few lessons before she passed, and there wasn't really a time or place to do it after that. But somehow I manage to struggle my way to solid ground. The leaves crunch beneath my feet and I have to force myself to slow down. I can't let the panic control me. That's a surefire to get myself killed.
Cool water soaks my clothes, rolling across my skin and sending a shiver down my spine despite the warmth of the day. Or is it night? The uncertainty causes a new wave of panic to wash over me. I trip over something hard. My arms shoot out instinctively, catching on the rough bark of a tree. I lean against it for a second, trying to figure out what to do. The air around me cools quickly, and my teeth begin to chatter from both the chill and the fear. I can't stand it. I just want to go home, but it feels increasingly less likely. I can't be any more vulnerable than I am right now. Anyone or anything could come to attack me and I wouldn't be able to see a thing. I wonder what would happen if I gave up now, if I just collapsed on the ground and waited for someone to come for me. It would be so easy.
And it would be weak. What am I thinking? I can't do that, not after everything I've promised. Not after I decided that I really don't want to die. The wetness of my clothing causes Amelia's bracelet to press into my skin, and I curse myself for even thinking such a thing. But I can't win blind. I have no chance. What if it's permanent? A thick lump forms in my throat, choking me and stopping the sob from leaving my mouth. I have to move. I'll breakdown if I don't.
I slowly move forward, dragging my hand along trees as I go. If I were any less afraid, I'd probably be mortified by how this looks. I'm tripping left and right, panic no doubt evident on my face. There is not a single person in Panem who can't see how weak I am right now. How vulnerable I am. I feel like it's tearing me apart—the panic—building and building until it's ripping straight through me. I wish there was someone, anyone here. They couldn't possibly do anything for me, but I'm terrified, and I don't want to be alone anymore.
I blink a few times to rid my eyes of the ache, and when I open them again, there's little dots of hazy light. They morph into silhouettes, and then it's like nothing ever happened. It's dark outside, but it's like everything is too bright. I feel dizzy, but that might be from relief. I blink rapidly, trying to sharpen the distorted images. Red lingers in the corner of my vision, turning from hazy to distinct. I look to the source, and my vision is met with a field of red. Filling the space between the trees, pressed up against every piece of bark or rock sits hundreds, maybe thousands of poppies. I take a step back and let my eyes trail over them, my lips tugging down. The flowers are closed now that it's dark. I don't remember blindness as a standard side-affect to being exposed to the flower, but I know that anything is possible in the Games.
When I've sucked enough air in to calm myself down, I leave the place behind, making a loop to the far side of the lagoon, where there were no poppies. My clothes are nearly dry, I note as I walk around the water, and I can't be anything but extremely relieved that nothing attacked me when I fell into the water. I could have easily drowned. The thought somehow manages to make me more exhausted than I was before. I never realized the toll panic could take on me not only mentally, but physically as well. I collapse against a tree in the middle of the forest, and I'm out in seconds.
I don't waste time in setting off again after waking and eating, trying to push the remaining exhaustion out of my mind. The sky remains sunny, and the unusualness of it makes me uneasy. This is the fourth day since the last storm, meaning that there should be another today. But there are no signs of bad weather. It's not a relief though, because I have little doubt that the Gamemakers have something worse in store. I don't let my mind wander to what that could be. Although it would be a distraction from the rest of my incoherent and paranoid thoughts, it would only make me worry more.
There's the boom of a cannon, and I flush in relief. Hopefully that will tide them over for the time being. I doubt it, I think bitterly, but I can hope. I keep wandering, knife gripped tightly in my hand, trying to stay as alert as possible.
It's probably the only reason I see it—a piece of black cloth sticking out from behind a tree. I squint my eyes, trying to make out the shape of it. Gingerly, I walk forward, my head swiveling left to right. There's a surge of thankfulness over the fact that I can still see, but it doesn't make me any more relaxed.
A few steps reveal that it's a backpack. It's wide open, and further inspection reveals that it's completely empty. I toss it back to the ground in frustration, but my eye catches something a few feet away.
The jacket shines brightly in the sun, but the boy lays motionless on the ground. His skin has a strange blue hue, every vein visible beneath the discolored flesh. I have no question of whether or not he's dead.
I should leave. The cannon must been for him and that means the hovercraft will be coming soon. But when I realize who he is, I stick around. Zeppina's partner is—was—an averaged sized boy from Eight. I barely remember anything about him. I let my eyes trail over him, trying to find the source of whatever killed him. There is no blood on the body, except for the small trickle coming from his nose and the corner of his mouth. It hasn't even dried yet, so he couldn't have died long ago. It's easy to tell that he was killed by poison; the veiny, blue flesh is a distinct feature of kennelspur. It's one of the most poison plants out there, but it's unmistakable—even to those with little knowledge of plants. His bloodshot eyes stare at me from the ground, and I can practically feel the excruciating death. It takes two days to kill, but the moment it's in your system, you know. Your blood begins to thin as your throat closes and your lungs stop working.
I can't bear to look at his eyes a moment down, I slide them shut, but my hand freezes when I see his neck. The underside of the flesh is just as blue as the rest of his skin, but there's a small puncture mark rimmed nearly black. It's clear that it's the source, and I immediately pull my hand back to avoid touching any remnants of the poison. I don't know what could do that. A stinger, maybe? There's no time to think about it further though because the sound of the aircraft reaches my ears and I know it's time to go.
The only other thought I have before leaving the area is of what happened to Zeppina. My eyes land on the empty backpack. I shake my head and keep moving. Wherever she is, I hope it's not close. I really want to go home, but I don't want to be the one to kill her.
The rest of the day follows without incident, but when I wake in the morning, I feel even lonelier than before. It's too quiet, even with the sounds of the forest. I've never had a problem with silence before. It's something I've gotten used to over the years. Without Amelia and my mother, the house is always quiet. My father and I are rarely there at the same time, and even if we are, I try to avoid conversation with him. That's how it's been for my entire life, and he doesn't make much of an effort to change that. And after I started working with Mr. Fairbain, and Mabel and I drifted apart, I became used to passing the time in silence no matter where I was.
I used to relish the solitude, in being able to pretend for at least a little while that everything was normal. But I know that the silence will never feel the same to me again. Every sound that breaks the quiet will make me panic and my mind will be filled with images of what I've seen and done. It will only remind me of how alone I really am, how alone the Games have made me. I hate that the Capitol has taken this from me too.
It's one of the worst things I've ever experienced—the feeling of not being safe in my own head. I didn't think I'd ever be in the position of envying Careers, but I was wrong. I'm constantly wrong. For a brief moment, I wish I were just like them. I wish that I could kill people without caring, that I didn't feel guilty or scared or paranoid. I wish I didn't feel so weak, because really that's all I felt these last few days. Weak and alone.
But I can't let myself feel like that if I want to win. And I do.
I repeat the thought to myself as I walk. I have enough food left over from the morning, so I don't bother stopping. I need to find some type of cover though because the heat is sweltering today, and I've seen more animals wandering around than any of the previous days. Maybe a part of me thinks that finding shelter will make me feel more secure. Less vulnerable. So that's what I do all morning and into the early afternoon.
I stumble into them, really—a line of caves about a half-mile from the lagoon. There are three of them sitting on the cliff that overlooks the area. Standing on top of the rocks, I can see down to the forest below, the trees thinner and the brush more sparse. Behind the rocks is a different story though. The forest is too thick to see through, and it looks like no light touches it. I turn back to the caves, realizing that only one of them is really feasible as shelter. It's dark and a bit humid inside the rocky area, but it's well hidden from the outside, which is the best thing I can get. I won't stay more than a day though, I decide. It's playing it too safe, and I know it would only make me a target. I let out a small sigh as I lean back against the rock wall, praying that this will be over soon.
I wake far sooner than I'd like. Still delirious with sleep, I frown at the noises coming from outside the cave. A loud crack echoes around the area, the whole thing practically shaking with the force. I blink lazily at the hard sounds resounding throughout the arena. It's raining, I realize when I've cleared enough of the sleep away. Wind howls all around me. I'm glad I decided to take shelter, and I wish more than anything that I could just stay here and wait the Games out. Maybe if I weren't so paranoid I would try. It doesn't matter, I think, as my eyes slide shut again. Here or anywhere else: I'm always in danger.
Silence meets my ears when I wake a second time. When I step out of the cave, I feel a wave of frustration. The dark forest looks closer— bigger—than before. But even though the Gamemakers can control the arena, I don't think they can do that, which means that I'm really just that paranoid.
The forest below is a disaster. There's a crack in the ground, trees collapsed on top of one another and strewn about. In the end, I decide to head to the dark forest, even though the knots in my stomach twist painfully at the thought. The area below looks impossible to navigate, so I don't think I have much of a choice.
I set off towards the thick forest behind the caves, but it's difficult. The ground is nothing but mud. I sink in with every step, and it takes a lot of my energy just to make it to the tree line. I half expect to be swallowed whole. Of course, the thought actually causes me to freak out, because it's a real possibility.
My mouth is like sandpaper after no more than an hour, and I completely regret coming here. The vines are nowhere in sight. The only noticeable water source in this place is the drops of sweat dripping from my forehead and down my neck. But I need something to drink, and so I find myself struggling up another tree. It's embarrassing how long it takes me to get to the top, and I'm only met with disappointment when I do. I see no water when I scan over the area. I'm so frustrated by the time I reach the ground, that I barely pay attention to anything around me. It's not until a knife whizzes past my head and lodges itself in a tree that I'm aware of my surroundings. I stumble back into the trunk, frantically searching for the source. It isn't hard to find.
I stand there dumbly, trying to understand what I'm seeing. Two people slash away at each other, their grunts filling the air. One boy swings a sword wildly, and I snap out of my trance, but I still don't move.
It's Cato, I know it is, but he doesn't look like himself. He stumbles to the side when the boy jabs a trident towards him, barely dodging the attack. He is nothing like the boy I saw on the arena footage or in the training center. He's slow and off balance, red dripping from somewhere on his chest, and it's clear that something is wrong with him. I still don't move, struggling between running away from here or stepping in to help. I could die, and there's the rule change to think about. He can handle himself—even with something wrong.
I see a shift from the corner of my eye and my gaze snaps to the left. There's a boy stepping through the trees and then a flash of a spear, and a surge of something in me. I don't understand the feelings that overcome me when I see what's happening. Being alone for days on end has left me unguarded in this moment, not thinking straight and unprepared for this. I hear a clash of metal and it's almost overwhelming—the thoughts of alone and home, the accompanying swell of desperation and anger. My pulse thrums heavily along with the beat of my heart, and my feet are moving before my head comprehends my actions. It's not until I collide with something solid, a resounding oomph filling the air that I realize I've made my decision.
We fall to the ground in a tangle of limbs. He thrashes beneath me, throwing me to the side. I roll away to stand, but he grabs my foot, sending me back down. I kick my free leg out, and he cries out in pain. I scramble away from him, and then were both on our feet facing each other. He throws a glance to the spear he was holding. It's at least ten feet away—too far for him to get.
He's has a knife just like I do. Both of us grip it tightly, watching the other warily. There's a grunt of pain somewhere to my right and my eyes flicker for just a second before I catch myself, but it's too late. The boy runs at me, and I fall onto my back. It's the perfect opportunity to attack, but he isn't smart. He moves towards the spear beside me, and I reach over, stabbing the knife into his calf. He cries out, and I get back up as he stumbles against the tree.
I have to kill him. It's the only thought in my head. He's distracted enough by the stab wound in his leg for me to look over to the other fight. I look just in time to see Cato stab the boy in the shoulder. The boy I'm fighting straightens, and I turn my gaze back. He's bigger than me by about a half foot, and definitely stronger. I strengthen the grip on my knife, raising it up. The longer this fight goes on, the less chance I have.
He lunges for me and I let the knife fly. He stops moving and gasps before falling down. The knife sticks out from his chest, lodged within the flesh. I stare blankly as he falls back against the tree, gasping. I walk forward as he pulls it out, red blooming across his beige shirt. It's obvious that he'll die from the wound. I think I've hit a lung, because he's coughing, blood leaking from his mouth.
I kneel next to him, picking up the discarded knife. I'm more disgusted, more horrified with death, and the Games, and myself than I've ever been. I plunge the knife forward. It is a thousand times harder than the previous ones, and yet I do it with less hesitation than before.
I am a monster. But for right now, I pretend it's bravery. I pretend that everything about this isn't wrong.
I have to.
A cannon booms for him, and I stumble back, pushing myself away from the body. I forget where I am for a second as I try to calm my breathing. The air is filled with silence, and I jolt to my feet, frantically searching for Cato. He's easy to spot, leaning heavily against a tree not too far away. The boy with the trident is gone, so there's no one but us and the boy I killed. I take a step towards Cato, and his arms shoots up in response. The sword wavers in his grip, and even from this distance, I can tell that his eyes are unfocused. His shirt is torn and soaked in his own blood. I can already tell that he's losing too much. I take a few steps closer, raising my hands up in a gesture of submission.
"It's me, Cato," I say.
For a second I don't think he hears me, but then he stumbles a step forward. The sword drops and then he brings it up again.
"What did you say?" he asks. I think he's going for threatening, but his voice is scratchy, like he's having trouble getting air in his lungs.
"It's me. Briar."
"Twelve?" he asks, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"Yes," I say, taking another step closer.
"What…" he stops speaking, swaying on the spot. "What are you doing here?"
I ignore his question, glancing down at the blood soaking his clothing. I don't step any closer though, not while he has the sword. "What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing," he tells me just as he sways again and begins coughing, falling back against the tree. His sword drops from his hand, and I advance quickly as he starts sinking to the ground.
"Cato?"
He looks in my direction, but his eyes are hazy. This close to him, I notice what I didn't before. His skin has a blueish tint to it, and I know it's bad. Whether or not it's from the blood loss or the poison, Cato is dying.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Oh NO! NOT CATO, but yes, Cato. What's Briar going to do now? How did Cato end up like this?
SylviaHunterOfArtemis: Spiders are the worst, which is why I picked them. And thanks! I've finished up now, so hopefully no more interruptions.
WhiteEevee: haha, they're always super grossed out about her cooking, that's for sure. I'm glad you liked the section on Tilver! It took me a while to figure out how to show that side of his character, but I'm glad it turned out okay.
FriendlyNeighborhoodHufflepuff: I understand, Cato is very polarizing and we all know where Briar tends to fall on that spectrum. The only question is what will she do now?
Thanks again guys. I really, really appreciate all the reviews because they make all the effort worth it. Let me know what you guys think!