Taura, Lua, Hawberry, Tiberius, me. 

Me, Tiberius, Hawberry, Lua, Taura. 

A day has passed since the cannon I heard last night, since the unexplained death of Wyatt, and I have seen his face shine in the sky, seen it disappear. A day has passed, and still it is the five of us, running around in this arena with full intent to win. 

I will admit that I'm no different. Although most of me is still sure that I am fundamentally not built to win the Hunger Games, a small bit, in the very back of my mind, assures me that if I made it this far, how hard could it be to make it just a little bit farther? I could hide out in the trees, and maybe, just maybe, everyone would kill each other off before I had to move an inch. 

It's a fruitless dream, though, because already my skin is burnt and my bones ache, and it has only been a little more than a day. My food and water supplies are holding strong but I am starving because of it, and I do not see a healthy future for myself if this is how I am to stay. 

I haven't been in the arena for long, but my clothes are loose. When I feel my face, my cheeks are hollow, lips chapped, and dirt comes back on my fingertips, small grains of the life I have been living here. 

To pass the time, I have been analyzing my competition. 

Taura is one I know well. She is calculated, yet nowhere near calm. She has a short fuse, easy to temper, and loves to have the upper hand--needs it, almost. I don't want to imagine a Taura that is losing, because I know she'd be doing absolutely anything to get her winning streak back.

Lua is more of a mystery. She's quiet, obviously, and so young. Earlier, she seemed as if she was simply following in the footsteps of Taura and Wyatt, but with her sudden disappearance, I wonder if that was an accurate perception. Really, she's a wild card--but, admittedly, not a dangerous one. However confident she may be, Lua is five years younger than me, and it shows. 

Hawberry I truly know nothing about. He's from Eleven--and that's it. I have my assumptions about the District, stigma that maybe I should've dispensed with a long time ago, and still, it lingers. He's probably good with a scythe, but then again, maybe he's not. I don't know what happens in Eleven. I probably never will, with the distance it carries from Four. 

Tiberius is almost the same, just a tad closer than Hawberry. He's from Six, and older than me, which could very well be a threat. But he, himself, does not seem too particularly dangerous, only vain. Similar to Apollo, actually. 

I don't want to think about Apollo. I'm already trying to expunge him from my mind, to wipe away all traces of his existence the same way you would clean a glass window. He is dirt on the glass, stubborn but washable all the same. 

Terra is a scratch. She dug her claws into the window of my mind and dragged, leaving a long tear in my brain matter, one that can never be wiped away. I don't even mind. Terra is a tiger, and so she has always been, and so she will stay. 

I haven't dreamed since... that. It's another thing I'm trying not to let cross my mind, because it's awful to know that my subconscious dreams of murder. Even if it's of Taura, the girl closest to my turning point, it is still murder, and it is still fundamentally wrong, and it still needs to stay far away from me. 

It's midday when another cannon sounds, accompanied by a loud, bloodcurdling, masculine scream that almost knocks me out of my tree. Thankfully, I am only startled back into my senses, sitting straight up, feet locked around the two branches I'm straddling. It takes a little bit to catch my breath, to realize that I am okay, that I am not dead. That someone else is. That either Hawberry or Tiberius has just breathed their last breaths moments ago. 

I know, deep in my heart, that Taura was responsible. And I know, not because of a feeling but more because of my logical mind, that she is not on the hunt. For who? Hawberry, Lua, the tributes who have done nothing but prove themselves weak, or me, the girl who is still weak, yet has managed to escape her captivity twice now?

I am the target. I know this for sure. 

I decide I won't move. I'll stay here--it's a good distance up the tree, far enough up that I can quickly descend, close enough to the ground that a fall probably wouldn't be fatal, if I landed the right way. My tree is thick enough that, from the outside, unless you're really looking, you wouldn't see me. 

I'll be fine. 

***

Hours pass, and nothing happens. 

While this is expected, really, I'm still on edge, waiting for the inevitable Taura jumping through the bushes, daggers raised, ready to end my life on a whim. She'll throw a blade, and it will find me through the leaves of my tree, and--

***

Eventually, she does find me. She bursts through the bushes just like I'd imagined, dagger held tightly in her hand, and once again, I almost fall from my perch, readying myself to scramble down the trunk, to run for my life. 

But, to my surprise, Taura seems to be distracted. She's glancing around hurriedly, dagger held in a white-knuckle grip, sweat sticking hair to her forehead as she pants, as if she's been running for a while. 

And then, my small moment of solace passes, and she looks up. 

Taura's expression transforms in a matter of moments, going from the closest to fear I've ever seen her to pure determination. Her dagger is in its sheath before I can say a word, and she is reaching for the first branch on the tree, furiously climbing.

I move down the opposite side, considering jumping just for a second but quickly throwing the idea out: from this distance, I'd break my leg, at the least. I would definitely not be ready to sprint with only a few seconds' break.

My bag is left behind, nothing salvaged but the daggers that were my first thought to grab: self-defense, because I will need it. With Taura, there is no doubt. 

I don't worship a god, but as I clamber down the tree, desperately searching for footholds that won't fall through at the slight press of weight, I pray to the world: to the universe, to the sky, to the space dust we are all made of. I remind it that it has given me this life, that it has brought me this far in the Games. Why do I deserve to die now?

And then my feet are on the ground and I am running, tripping on roots and barely regaining my balance as I sprint, footfalls loud in the forest filled only with the soft sounds of birdcalls and rustling leaves. I run, and I hear Taura behind me, her fast breathing, small grunts of annoyance as her dagger brushes my arm, not quite drawing blood, reminding me that she will always, always win. 

I take a quick turn and then another, with the hope of confusing her. I don't really know where I am going, but it isn't long before I end up in the very center of the arena: the cornucopia, where everything has taken place. This is where eight children lost their lives during the original bloodbath. Nicola was right in there when she died--and there, Orion and Vulcan's blood seems to glow neon, reminding me of the lives that have been lost. 

Most notably, Terra. My gaze flickers over to the island because of course it does, and right there, right there, was where she died. Right there was where I laid beside her, begging her to live, and she ignored me. The god of stardust and the universe and everything that has ever existed ignored my mourning pleas in favor of the order of life and death. 

My lungs burn and I double over, simply unable to run any longer. Taura is far behind me but not too far, emerging from the brush not long after me, lips splitting into a grin when she sees me. 

"Oh, you're dead, Four," she mutters, and steps towards me until she is standing right in front of me, not unlike my dream. 

I meet her eyes, almost surprised to find them completely human, devoid of feline features. I want to say something--to give the watchers, my legacy, a notable last few words--but my mouth is full of oxygen that seems to clog my throat as I breath in, out, in rapid succession. 

"You were right, though," she murmurs, close to my face now. I wonder where the microphones are; how people at home are hearing this, absorbing this drama with wide eyes, waiting patiently for my death. "He did come for you. But look how that ended!"

Another grin. "And look how this is gonna end. Did you really think you were gonna win, Four?"

"Daphne," I stutter, reminding her of my name, pretty much begging her to give me back some sort of humanity, at least a little bit of my personality. I won't be reduced to my district number; I am so much more than that. 

She snorts. "Like I give a fuck about your name."

I am so, so, close to headbutting her right there when her eyes widen and she falls backwards, blood seeping into the ground as, finally, Taura's life fades away.

I look up at the boy standing right behind her, scythe held loosely in his left hand, breathing hard from exertion. 

"Hawberry," I breathe.