Pyromania | The 60th Hunger Games

EIGHTEEN

Chip slept until the early morning, when the sun was only just reaching the face of the lake. I had taken the silence of the night to venture into the trees to scavenge for anything that could be useful in the final hours of the games.

    At this point, I can only imagine interest starting to dwindle at the lack of excitement.

    I had searched the trees for their hidden cameras on my small adventure but I likely would not have seen them even if they were staring me in the face. To distract myself from the growing anxiety and anticipation of the last of us being at each other’s throats, I would picture my face blown up on the big screens in the reaping square back home. Perhaps they would flick between me and Martial for district Two, teasing the parents that there can only be one winner.

    Every scab, every flake of skin, every blemish of my face would be broadcast to Panem as I traipsed the forest floor and sniffed at strange substances on my hands.

    It’s been over a week now, since the reaping. The days are hard to keep track of; but, if I close my eyes tight enough and run through everything that has happened, I can estimate that at least a week in the arena has passed.

    Nonetheless, after each consideration of how long has it been? and how much longer? The conclusion is always: it doesn’t matter.

    It’s likely that it matters to Chip and Martial how long we’ve been here, hell, Gemma and Sly probably want to get out of here as soon as they can. But, to my complete and utter surprise as I’m laying a few precautionary foundations near the net, I can imagine myself getting lost in these trees for the rest of my life. Of course, there’s the issue of food and the four other people who would hunt me. But- after. After they’re all gone, after the games, it would be a dream to be left alone in a forest. To climb trees and spend my days scavenging for food. To be completely alone for once.

I was barely back in my tree, ducking into the canopy, when I first heard them.

    For the first time since the games started, Gemma was silent. From my vantage point I could see the frown etched onto her face, the deep set visage of determination overwhelming every other aspect of her personality. I’d seen it before in other games- the wild, excitable career humbled into brooding silence as their own mortality dangled before their eyes. And, despite the fear fuelling her void, she stormed ahead of Sly and Martial.

    She barely watched her feet as she stepped onto the net, but the trip wire only triggered once Sly had hit it. Through her screams of shock, thrashing in the net and dropping her blowgun, I watched Chip hesitate in the canopy.

    “Sly!” Her voice was shrill and sharp, absorbed by the trees and bouncing off the lake as I silently made my way to the forest floor. Her district partner was panicking, yelling her name and beginning to run for her. I held the lighter to the trail I had made this morning, watching it catch fire and spread faster than I had imagined it could, creating a barrier between the boys and their trapped ally. The net, woven to the point that there was very little space to see through, twisted as she wriggled to see who approached. “Terra?” Her voice was small, quiet, barely a whimper as she pried apart two stems to see me, “What are you-” I held the flame to the hair and dry grass poking from the net silently, stepping away when it caught.

    I turned away as she started to yell, scream, cry, any noise a dying animal would make.

    Through the fire, a wall so high and constantly raging I can only imagine the game makers were breathing life into it, Sly and Martial leapt through. The latter stumbled, eyes wild and unwilling to look at the writhing net where Gemma’s screams had devolved into low wails of pain. His eyes settled on me and, for the first time in our lives, I saw pure rage on his face.