Alexander Thwaite, 17
District 7 Male
"I do it for my fuckin' family."
When his mother died, it was slow.
In District Seven, they were only good at healing the wounds they could see. Broken bones got splints. Cuts were stitched closed. Crushed limbs were amputated. In lumber, injuries were common. Everyone knew someone missing a foot or a leg. It was just the way of things.
But you couldn't see cancer. You couldn't see cells turning on each other and tearing themselves apart. You could only watch the body crumble from the outside, powerless to stop it. By the time his mother found the lump in her chest, it was too late, even if the Thwaites had the money to do anything about it, which they didn't. She died cell by cell, each moment a small death of its own, until she was gone. Alexander was nine.
His childhood went with her. Her death was what made him a man. He grew up overnight; he started chopping wood, hunting small game, filling in the gaps his father couldn't fill. His siblings started to regard him differently after that. They looked to him to tuck them in at night and to answer homework questions. And since his father was fading into long shifts and shut doors, he did it without complaint. He was a man now. Men didn't complain.
Standing on his pedestal, though, it was like he was still a child.
His legs were shaking. His hands, curled into fists, trembled. The air here was charged and he breathed it too quickly. The death that would come here was not the same as the kind in his mother's sickbed. This was broken bones. Cuts. Crushed limbs.
He had been so strong for eight years. He could be strong again today.
In a flash, the tributes were sprinting from their podiums. The orange landscape quickly became chaos. He ran too, the world blurring around him. He could see the pile of weapons, glimmering under multicolored light, in the center of the Cornucopia. He needed one if he wanted to make it out of this.
He was at the mouth of the Cornucopia- he could see an ax blade glinting gold, its handle within reach-
BAM!
He crashed into something- no, someone, a tall blonde sneering someone- and bounced back, barely staying upright.
"No you don't," the girl said. She held a wicked-looking spear in one hand, which she leveled at him now. Career. She was a fucking Career.
He could feel her eyes on him, expecting him to back down, cower, lay down and die. She thought he'd be weak.
NO.
Alexander snarled, throwing himself forward. The Career girl frowned, twisting her spear, but he was past its range. He ducked under her arms and reached for the ax, wrapping his hand around its handle. The wood was comfortable against his calloused palms.
Strength. Be strong. Have strength.
Pain exploded across his back as the girl drove her elbow into his spine. He gasped, nearly losing hold of his ax, and tried to stagger back. The girl took the chance to sock him across the jaw. His head snapped back, but he refused to acquiesce- he started swinging as hard as he could, seeking flesh with metal, faster harder stronger stronger stronger-
-until metal met skin.
He froze. His eyes popped open, and he looked down, to where the Career had run her weapon straight through his ribs. His mouth filled with blood, and he coughed.
The girl braced herself, then tore the weapon back out. He dropped his ax. It was red, red everywhere, and his chest felt hot sticky wet. He looked down. His chest was a mess, blood and bones and uneven lumps of torn skin.
He could already feel his body shutting down. Dying, cell by cell.
This was something being strong couldn't fix.
The girl shoved him down, unsmiling but satisfied. She poised the spearhead above his throat. He couldn't do anything, say anything. He was powerless.
She brought the weapon down.
His mother died slowly. At least the Career girl made it quick.
Alexander Thwaite placed 23rd at 00:00:29. Killed by Violane Montague.