Chapter Thirteen, Evolution

❝ i'll walk through fire ❞

❝ to save my life. ❞

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I'M RUNNING THROUGH THE WOODS, MACHETE IN HAND, NEEDING for this to be over. Days had passed, I had been possessed by pain I tried to ignore, and overcome by sudden solitude. I skimmed death a few times, nearly crossing paths with deadly tributes or having trouble dealing with the growing hunger.

I was hunting, finding hiding spots, but that was it. I forget how many of us are actually still alive, but I am going to reduce that number as much as I can. I wasn't going to become a bloodthirsty, cruel murderer, wanting to torture and humiliate their victims. But any person that came my way would never the see the sun set again.

As if on purpose, my eye catches the mobile silhouette of a tribute. A smirk tugs at my lips, and I run towards the shadow. The girl, that I don't bother to recognise, whips her body around, the sound of my sprinting having hinted to my presence. 

When she sees me, I stop in my tracks, still lightly smiling. This was a good show, in term of sponsors. I notice the silver sword that she is tightly gripping in her hand. Yet, the way she handles it tells me she doesn't have much experience. I anticipate her next move when she brings her weapon upwards.

It's a good thing I'm quicker. I lunge towards her, putting my whole body weight onto her body, like a predator locking its prey to the ground. It causes her to fall down under the unexpected force, with me straddling her. My stealth and rapidity were two advantages that put me on a pedestal.

I knock the sword off her hand with my foot, kicking it to the floor, and press the palms of my hands of her shoulders. She struggles too much under me, trying to break free. This makes me unable to make my move in one, swift, painless movement if she keeps wriggling that way. 

So, I choose to punch her in the face, blood immediately pooling out of her nose. Her face turns the side, nearly touching the ground, caused by the hit. Shock causes for her body to immobilise for a good second, and I thrust my blade into her heart without a second thought. My fifth kill. The sound of a cannon echoes in the sky.

I get up again and stare down at her lifeless body, eyes wide open and mouth slightly agape. I crouch down, and close her eyes, pulling onto her eyelids, horrified at the sight of her empty gaze, staring up at me, blaming me. 

I also wish to pay her some kind of respect, considering I was the one that ended her life. Yet, it remained the Capitol's fault. They were the real murderers.

I leave her stiff body in the middle of the woods, eager to get away. She was only a reminder of what the need for survival turned you into. 

After I deem I'm far enough, and not in any potential danger, I sit on a tree log, knife in hand, scanning my surroundings.

What have I become? I ask myself, staring at my repeatedly used knife. I am a monster. It is disconcerting to think about the fact I often feel horribly relieved when the cannon booms, and the more it shoots, the more eager I become to be the sole victor.

It's like Rue's death sparked something in me, stronger than grief. I narrow my eyes, the memory of the girl's sweet face moving me. I didn't even have it in myself to hate Marvel, her murderer, or any of the tributes in the arena. 

We are all just kids, thrusted into a perilous environment that could only bring out the worst side of humanity, our youth stolen from us.

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Another day goes by, and the number of survivor slowly shrinks. They're must be around eight of us left. Peeta and Cato were indeed still alive, along with other tributes. I continue my hike in the woods, eager to find more supplies, more food. I wipe my face, aware of the dirt accompanying my whole appearance.

My set of knives had become my best friend during my whole journey in this arena. Their land into the rabbits' eyes or the goslings' hearts becomes a repetition, allowing my stomach to be somewhat full at the end of another exhausting day.

The certain peacefulness of the last few days don't reassure me. I know this pattern, it was present in most of the previous games. The first few days are defined by a growing number of murdered tributes, blood flowing all over the arena. 

Then, the number of fallen tributes slow, most people focused on the things that happened to them, like a natural damage, or the loss of an ally. Of a friend. And then the real chaos commenced. Heartless fights between the survivors, all convinced of their victory, emotions intertwining with the jab of a sword, the thrust of a spear.

The last murders held a much deeper meaning, the tributes exhausted, and ready for anything to end the fight. To return home. To be crowned victor of the Hunger Games.

I take another step, when suddenly, I feel a force crash into me. Stumbling down, the large body of a male tribute is now apparent. He seems to be running from something. Probably a nearby Career. When his eyes land on me, he quickly puts his hands up, translating his want for peace. 

For a second, I'm certain I'll put my hands up too, not participating in a fight that could be ignored. But right before I do, a voice in my head tells me that if I don't kill him, something else will. Moreover, it was useless to let a potential obstacle run free. I mumble a sorry before I yank out a sharp blade, ready to pierce it into the air for it to jam itself into his body. 

I can tell he expects it as his eyes widen and he stumbles dramatically back against the viridescent grass. Unluckily for him, he has no weapons, and I'm too quick. My knife is thrust into the air, doing its job in less than a second, my aim impeccable.

I frown, trying not to imprint the image of my own blade stuck between the space between his two eyes in my mind too long. My sixth kill. A cannon.

Hesitantly, I advance forward, and yank my silver, sharp, lethal weapon out of his face, forcing my eyes open, to not seem weak in front of the thousand cameras. I wipe the blood onto ground, an action I've come to repeat a lot. The movement seems mechanic, robotic now, the sight of the red liquid stains not startling me anymore, as horrible as that sounded.

I continue my usual routine until the sun sets, perched onto a tree, my supplies and body kept safe thanks to the long rope I had acquired the first day. My hair tickles my neck, the wind blows at my face and I wonder if my family will ever look at me the same way again. 

Does Prim see me a cold-blooded killer when she watches through the public television screen? Does Gale suddenly regret teaching me those hunting techniques, that I've come to use on humans?

I sigh, picking at my crusty, bloody nails. They must know it's the only way for me to survive, to gain sponsors. Right?

My thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of a metal box, floating in the air, towards me. I straighten myself against the trunk of the tree, curious to open the capsule. I wasn't in any particular need, so why was I getting a sudden sponsor.

As it reaches the middle of my palms, I eagerly open the round thing. Carefully, I read out the note that accompanies the mysterious item.

A PRESENT FROM DISTRICT 11. THANK YOU.

I gasp as my fingers meet the still warm dough of tender, brown bread. In the blink of a second, I connect it to my lips, excited at the unexpected gift. Knowing there must be cameras pointing at me, listening, I whisper a grateful thank you, smiling. 

I carefully put the rest of the bread in my bag, moved by this gesture. It must have been extremely difficult for such a poor district to gain enough to be able to send something into the arena.

I think of Rue, her sweet smile, and how her family must feel. I think of her cute crush on the boy from her district, holding my hand to my chest. If it had come down to it, and I had to choose between my victory or her's, I would have chosen hers.

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I plunge my bottle into the pool, filling it up again. I undo my ponytail, cup a little of water, and apply it on my dirty, knotted strands of hair. When I'm finished, I pull out the rest of the food I managed to hunt a few days before and eat it quickly, careful not to stay in the same spot for too long.

As I stand up, I gasp at the feeling of an arm snaking around my neck, clearly attempting to choke me to the death. Thankfully, I react quickly. I take out a knife from my belt, and I can tell the person hadn't noticed the weapons sitting on my waist by the way he seems to lose his tight grip for a second. 

I plunge my knife into his thigh, blood squirting onto my hands. Driven by the suffering of my weapon, he lets go of me, but not before aggressively pushing me down to ground.

My head bumps against a rock, and I notice droplets of blood mixing with the grey tone of nature. Ignoring the torture of my head, I whip around, and thrust my knife into his neck before he gets a chance to fight back, too distracted by his leg wound. I fall back as the red liquid from his slashed artery stains minor parts of my face. 

Directly, the tribute's lively face dims, and death is announced by another cannon. I jump at the sound, this particular one seeming much louder than any other one. It echoes in my head and I wince, clutching onto my forehead desperately. My seventh kill.

Pressing the hand to my head, I apprehend what damage my forceful contact with the rock must have left. Before I have time to get back on my feet, black dots impact my vision and I feel my eyes close.

I fall in and out of consciousness for a period of time I can't recall. It feels like I am stuck in a nightmare, unable to move despite my whole body ordering me to. I pray that no tribute cross my path as I lay there, falling into unconsciousness in a constant, unbreakable loop.

Mumbling, I attempt to fight back when I feel my body levitating, two strong arms picking me up from the ground. However, I don't have time to reflect on the danger I could possibly be in, almost immediately drifting back to an abyss of blackness.