Chapter 20, Bloody Smile

❝ i believe in the lone survivor, ❞

❝ night sky. ❞

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

MY STEPS ECHO THROUGH THE chilling air, and my chestnut hair freely flows in the cool wind, my eyes narrowed and gaze firm. 

I attempt to appreciate the heaps of nature presenting themselves to me, acknowledging the fact that I was possibly seconds away from confronting two deadly tributes, and that everything could go extremely wrong, extremely quickly. 

I drape my fingers over the pricky wood on the trees, breathing in the messes of various smells, nostalgia twindling at my heart.

Nevertheless, I continue my path, stubbornness and dedication embedded in my skin and cursing in my veins. My breath makes small, white clouds as it hits the atmosphere, and I wonder if the Game makers have done something to freeze the arena, it being undeniably cold. 

Moreover, it would make the feast all the more terrifying, creating an effect of foreshadowing on the approaching event. There's a discreet voice in my head telling me that blood would in fact spread tonight.

As my eyes dart from different aspects of the landscape, I realise that the woods have always appeared leeringly different at night. The nature's colours have been stomped out, replaced by ominous swirls of darkness.

I've noticed this in my own district as well, my body being engulfed by a complete void, spreading over an infinity of time. There was something about the consuming darkness that was alluring to me, reeling my body in.

I continue to my way through the quiet forest, my boots crunching against the dried up leaves, and not a puff air can be seen from around me. I follow the similar path I have completed numerous times in the arena, using the stream as a guide, leading me through the night's obsidian veil.

It surprises me that no other tribute can be perceived, and I know only a few more hours are left until the sun rises up again, its rays bright and exposing any lurking figures. Yet, the arena has already lightened enough for me to decipher effectively my close surroundings. 

Not a single soul can be caught by my wide iris'.

When I know I've arrived to my destination, I directly hide my body behind a camouflaging bush, crouching down to take in the view. The Cornucopia is currently contoured by the sun's light, until there's a sudden disturbance in the plain.

The ground before the mouth of the horn splits in two and a round table with a stony round cloth progressively rises into the arena. 

On the table sit four backpacks, cheating my expectations. There are two large ones, the number 2 visibly engrained, a medium sized one with the number 11, and, finally, a tiny green one that's marked with a 12.

I'm surprised at the fact that there are different backpacks for District Two, and the realisation that I will have to carry two bags, if not more, dawns on me. 

I unconsciously scrunch my nose, and a killing tension ripples though the arena's claustrophobic bubble. I already know that Tresh and Clove must equally be holding their breath, waiting for something to happen, for one of us to crawl out of our spot and start it all.

My expectations are soon answered by the appearance of a darting figure, sprinting towards the Cornucopia at a halting speed. Tresh. 

For a second, I latch my hands onto my knives, ready to attempt my kill. Yet, I soon stop myself and realise how incredibly stupid that would be. Clove could use to her own advantage my distraction, my focus on Tresh, and plant another one of her shiny blades in my back.

Moreover, Tresh is carrying a gleaming sword in his hand, his muscles glowing in the light. He snatches the bag with the number 11 marked on it, whipping his head to search for upcoming tributes, and then runs off, leaving me and Clove as a perplexed audience.

I soon realise he's got us trapped, because no one dares to chase him down, not while their own pack sits so vulnerably at the table. He must have purposefully only grabbed his pack, knowing it would have otherwise brought him a deadly pursuer, and evidently confront the rest of the tributes to an undeniable fight. 

Everyone was unaware of Cato's injury, and probably expects him to also be lingering in the shadows, waiting to make his move.

This has cost me time, because now it's clear that I must get to the table next. Anyone who beats me to it could easily scoop my pack up and be gone in a second. Without hesitation, I sprint for the table, a smirk etching my features, and I can sense the emergence of near danger as soon as I am out in the open. Clove Kentwell.

Her first knife comes whizzing in on my right side, and my ears quirk up at the sound. I yank out a blade of my belt, targeting the girl's heart. She turns just enough to avoid a fatal hit, but the end punctures her upper left arm, enough to slow her down for a moment.

I yank out my machete, waiting for the girl to leap at me, letting me kill her in a second. However, she slides out a lengthy sword of her belt, steadily walking towards me. Once again, I am confronted with an obstacle, having expectations differing from this reality.

Never would I have predicted Clove offering for us to participate in a deadly dance, slow and extremely suspenseful, instead of simply trying to hit me with her knives, piercing them in the air. It was most probably for the Capitol, and my blood boils at the fact she believes she can come out as the winner of our altercation.

We both leap at each other, our sword strongly clinking, blade meeting blade. Our respective strengths are confronted, both our teeth grinding in anger, our burning stares not escaping each other's.

"So, where's Cato?" Clove asks, coking her head to the side menacingly.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" I reply, a smirk still present on my face. "Since you ask so nicely, I'll tell you. He's getting ready to kill you when the time comes" the words then drop off my tongue slowly, a venom lacing itself in my sentence.

I can tell by her audible gulp this statement has made Clove faulter for a moment, letting me apply my right palm onto the borders of her sharp blade. I wince as blood pools out of the newly made cut and droplets of the maroon liquid sprinkle my opponent's sword. Using all the force possible, I grunt as I pull the blade towards her, the blow strong enough to let the girl stumble backwards. I wipe my bloody hands onto my shirt, ignoring the excruciating suffering the action has caused.

Yet, soon enough, Clove's back on her feet, speeding towards my body. Our knives meet again and again, our movements aggressive, perilous, and somewhat beautiful. Both of us are undeniably very talented in the skill, and our fight is surely watched with batted breath. I can picture the whole of the population, biting their nails, eagerly watching this pan out.

"What? Is that all you got?" I taunt, watching Clove's eyes turn lethal, as I swerve her upcoming jab, my body folding under her blade. Obviously dizzy, the next moments appear to be in slow motion, the lack of food and water impacting my state of mind. She then manages to kick me in my knee, sending me to the ground. Thankfully, my grip finds the hilt of a new blade on my belt, that had previously been jammed in Cato's body, and I know exactly what to do next.

I plunge it in the lower part of her own leg, watching her squirm under the sudden pain. She's now at my eye level, letting my knee fist her chin rapidly, before she can collect what's happening to her. A pang reverberates in the air as she falls backwards onto the ground, her sword leaving her loosened grip. I don't hesitate to catch it, and peer at Clove's body twirling under the pain I inflicted, cascades of blood running down on her face.

"Recognise this, Clove? Isn't it your own knife? Pretty ironic, right?" I mock, toying with her blade as she visibly attempts to unlock her brain from the blurry haze it has entered. I lunge towards the tribute, pinning her to the ground.

"Don't" she mumbles, her own knife sitting threateningly on the skin of her throat, goosebumps surrounding it.

"Is that an order, Kentwell?" I voice, letting the knife travel around her pale skin, fear now being the prominent emotion in her eyes.

"Please..." she finally chokes, a tear trickling down her bloody face, and it's clear she knows that she has lost. She has lost against my blade. She has lost at completing the Hunger Games. She has lost the possibility of going back home.

With my weapon still firmly pressed against her throat, I realise how manipulative these games are. She's a child, just like I am. Despite the boiling hatred I feel towards the brunette, we both just want the same thing: to leave the arena. And, for me to do that, I have to kill her, because we are all pawns to a cruel and ruthless game.

In one swift move, I swipe the blade across her artery, and blood splashes out. Her eyes and body lose all signs of life and become stiff under my own. An expected cannon blows off in the sky, and I close my eyelids, an abyss replacing my vision. I hope that Cato knows the striking cannon is translating my victory, and not my death.

I sigh as I get up, peering down at Clove's immobile self, laying between the spikes of grass. I catch all three remaining bags, and inspect the view in front of me, making sure Tresh hasn't decided to come back and fuel another duel, my expression bloody and body pleading for rest.

As quickly as I manage to, I run back towards the forest, my feet dipping into the hard-packed earth. Only one thing calms down my heightening nerves: it was now two against one. Cato and I against Tresh.

Somehow, I make it back to the cave rapidly enough, squeezing through the various rocks sitting at the entry, hiding it from a certain tribute. In the dappled light, I throw the bags onto the floor. My hands go to my head on then drop to my lap, slick with blood as I sit down.

At first, I have trouble formulating any kind of sentence, and feel unable to respond to any of Cato's inquiries, as he shakes me, trying to bring me back to reality and swoop me out of my bloody faze.

I had underestimated what role murder truly played at one's mind. It was consuming, ripping pieces of my soul, transforming me into someone I was never meant to be. I'm not a killer. I'm not a warrior. But I still prioritise killing, finding relief when a cannon goes off or when my knife enters one's heart.

This all felt like ongoing torture, never ending. Why was it that I got to live, and other's didn't? Was it my fault? Was I monster?

Did I like being one?

My fighting skills put me on a pedestal, and I wanted to kill anyone slowing my victory. I was exactly like Clove Kentwell. Exactly like Cato Hadley. Showing no mercy, prioritising my own gain, willing to cut anyone's neck.

My memory becomes a fuzzy mess, and all I can sense is my body fighting off Cato's, my voice transforming itself into a high pitched scream, my motions controlled by consuming thoughts. I've never felt such weakness intertwining with my heart. 

I feel a boy's arm circling themselves around my body, pressing me tightly against his figure. I continue to shriek, trying to fight off the tribute, my vision becoming drowned by cascades of blood. 

I shake my head, trying to fight it off, but all I see is RED. 

RED. 

RED. 

RED.

I feel my body being brought to the cave's ground slowly, someone's head in the crook of my neck, yelling orders I couldn't make out. Vermillion haunts my eyes. RED. RED. RED.

I am being laid onto someone's lap, and I notice Clove, curiously peering at me, eeringly smiling... Suddenly, her entire body jolts, and blood trickles down her face. Her eyes become a shade of red. So does her hair. So does her heart.

RED.

RED.

RED.

I scream in horror, trying to grab onto one of my knives, to pierce it right through her bleeding heart. Instead, I feel my eyelids weighing down, until I can no longer see Clove's skeleton.

I have become Snow's puppet.

I am Snow's product.

𝖆𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗'𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖊

I'm sorry, this chapter is more about the impact the games are having on Jade than her relationship with Cato ....

It was fun to write though :)