THE LAKES,
PROLOGUE

"MAY I PRESENT...THE VICTOR OF THE 67TH ANNUAL HUNGER GAMES!"

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HUFFING OUT DESPERATE breaths in the form of agonisingly taut heaves, a fifteen-year-old Astrid Cadell forced herself to just keep running, somber calls of regretful "sorry's!" hoarsely ripping through her throat as she didn't dare look back at the tribute's neck she had just sliced with her machete only seconds prior—her neighbour's—neck.

Even a young Astrid knew that blocking out every death she had caused in this godforsaken arena wouldn't last forever, and the gurgling, traumatising sounds of her neighbour choking on his own blood was enough night-terror fuel to last her a lifetime, but all she had to keep her going right now was blind hope. Hope for her survival. Hope for her family's safety. Hope for this hell to finally end.

The shrill sound of the tribute's final pained, broken scream was now replaced by both Astrid's own panting breaths and a faint ringing sound that tantalisingly grew louder and louder with each thump of her tainted heartbeat.

Thoughts of the five tributes that she had viciously killed out of pure self-defence began to torment her circulating thoughts, and before they could unwillingly take over, Astrid just gritted out a tortured yell through her gritted teeth, choosing to fight through the sharp pain now coursing through her entire body, the harsh tugs that pulled at her heart at every single life lost—even extending past the lives that she, herself, had taken—, and the grief that was already seeping through her bones.

Pure adrenaline overtook her body as she continued to bolt forward, seeking some form of alleviation in the large clearing she was swiftly approaching.

The familiar cannonball sounded just in time for the young girl to hear it before any other sound in the arena went numb, the noise fuzzy and replaced by the growing chorus of the roaring cheers and rejoicing applause that she knew the delusional audience watching were most definitely engaging in.

No matter the excruciating pain that was now coursing through her entire body, manifesting itself into firm strains within every muscle she was utilising, Astrid was somehow unable to stop herself from sprinting until she knew—for certain—that she had become the victor.

With the sound of the final cannonball echoing through the arena, and the image of the tribute she had just murdered appearing in the sky in front of her, every single one of Astrid's conflicting thoughts suddenly fell deafeningly silent.

She won. She survived the Games.

As if feeling every single emotion she had forcefully pushed down the past few, impossible-to-comprehend weeks, Astrid just collapsed to the mossy ground, legs buckling and knees aching as they hit the damp, grassy manufactured forest floor beneath her.

Choking out a somber cry, albeit there was an undertone of immense relief accompanying the sound, Astrid couldn't prevent the pool of heartbroken, salty tears from suddenly flooding out of her crystal blue eyes at the realisation of the dystopian feeling of the 67th Annual Hunger Games finally concluding.

Life didn't feel real.

Astrid felt so, incredibly fragile, and while most viewed this exact situation as a conclusive win, all that Astrid could feel was a deep-rooted sense of melancholic defeat.

Face covered in the warm, maroon blood that had spurted from the final fallen tribute's throat, Astrid's heavy breaths tightly strained against her bruised rib cage with a heightened sense of urgency, the metallic taste only reminding her of what she had done to survive, every life that she had taken, just to entertain the world, the Capitol—President Snow.

It was horrifically sadistic, and as Astrid's breathing ever-so-gradually returned to its normal state, her pounding heartbeat eventually finding its usual rhythm amidst it shattering in her chest, the sound of the victory anthem boomed across the arena, signifying her bittersweet victory.

Astrid knew that the entire world had been anxiously waiting for this exact moment. She pictured the audience's reactions, some biting their nails in pure anticipation, some laughing in satisfaction and joy at her win, others sobbing in pain for their lost loved ones, and her brother and father, who would be overtaken with pure relief, however simultaneously crying at the notion of their sister and daughter carrying this burden, this trauma, for the rest of her life.

Tears staining her pale cheeks, Astrid's head hung low, and she squeezed her eyes shut tightly as she just waited to feel the relief she knew she should be feeling, though it never came.

Instead, the memories of each and every death she both directly caused and witnessed replayed in front of her as if they were on a continual loop on a television screen.

"May I present...the Victor of the 67th Annual Hunger Games!" A booming voice theatrically echoed through the dome's loudspeaker, causing Astrid's eyes to snap open.

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© voidvaleska