Pyromania | The 60th Hunger Games

NINETEEN

The more I lose my grip and choose the wrong footholds on the avalanche path, the more grateful I am for having grown up in district Two and the sun having set already.

    With the sound of Martial scrambling up the mountainside after me, I could try and trick myself into thinking that I was climbing where we weren’t supposed to with my best friend reluctantly coming along so I didn’t accidentally kill myself. But, now my best friend was following reluctantly because he wanted to kill me.

    It was pure adrenaline that fuelled my survival instincts, that made me pause when I held one ledge and change to the other so I wouldn’t plummet to my death. It was the will to live that I didn’t think I had when I volunteered that confirmed that I wouldn’t go down without a fight.

    Martial’s machete buries into my ankle as I climb over a ledge instead of moving around it. I can’t help the scream and whimper that follows it from echoing around us when he yanks it free and continues to climb towards me. His movements are clumsy, trying to hold the blade in a way that allows him to climb easier. With my ankle gushing blood from the wound, he takes his time cleaning it on his shirt and securing the blade beneath his arm.

    When he looks up at me again, only a hint of remorse suggesting he was still the boy I grew up with, I take a handful of gravel and throw it in his face.

    He reels back with a yell, skidding down the slope as he loses purchase.

    The anthem plays and, instead of watching Gemma, Sly and Chip’s faces look down on us, I use the extra light to look up the mountain.

    A crooked tree juts out of the path, half buried and a few feet from a boulder. I don’t think, letting my arms drag me up and letting myself yell at the pain in my ankle. Martial swipes for me again, jumping on the ledge and effectively swiping my hip.

    White hot pain flashes through me and, pulling myself up just slightly clouds my vision with flashes of colourful light and an incapacitating numbness. But, I’m too close to give up. Gritting my teeth, I claw my way to the boulder, yelling at the pain of each movement.

    And, despite the hindrance, I was behind the boulder long before Martial could try another hit.

    Leaning against the grave, I braced my feet on the boulder, one hand clinging to my injured hip while the other found purchase on the ground. I put all of my wait into uprooting the boulder with a relieved yell when it gave away. I watched as it rolled towards Martial, flattening blood-stained stones in its path. He tried to dodge it, flinging his body sideways, but the boulder clipped his arm with a sickening crack that forced him to release the machete.

    I dragged myself towards the tree, watching him through my exhausted eyes, my head spinning with blood loss, heat stroke and dehydration.

    “Terra!” He screamed, his voice hoarse as he clung to the mountainside with one arm. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed, burying his face in the ground as the mountain trembled when the boulder thudded to a halt and another, smaller, avalanche barrelled towards us. The flow rattles the tree, as if trying to shake me from the mountainside like a pest. Martial, caught on the edge of its path, screamed when the rush hit his injured arm and dragged him towards the ledge jutting off the ledge. He was trying to stay up, trying to climb through the onslaught.

    I took out the blow gun, aiming as best I could for the spot where his uninjured hand had gotten a decent grip. The dart bounced off the rock and dropped in front of him. It was enough for him to let go in shock and be carried over the ledge.

    I sat in the tree, curled in on myself, bleeding and tired as the avalanche rocked the tree and slowed to a pause.

    “Terra,” his faint voice carried up the mountain. He was crying, making no other sound and I considered the possibility of him trapped under the avalanche, unable to move and at my mercy for killing.

    But I didn’t want to kill him. Sure, if it came down to it, I could kill him. I know I’m capable of it; and why shouldn’t I? He wouldn’t hesitate with me, the gashes in my ankle and hip are testament to that. But, his low wails, the pitiful sobs that escaped his mouth, they were the noise of my best friend. The one person I had trusted the most but could no longer trust. He knows everything, every secret, every quirk. What he knows about me, I know about him and, yet, I couldn’t bring myself to be merciful enough to end his suffering while mine continued.

    I skid down the loose path to the ledge that was nearly fully covered. Lying on my stomach, I peer over the edge expecting to see him buried up to his chest, or even his neck. But, instead, he’s skewered on his own weapon.

    The machete, held firmly in the ground by compact rock, poked through his chest where his black vest was damp and dark with blood.

    A gag forced its way up my throat and I clamp a hand over my mouth as sobs begin to wrack my body. I should go to him. His mother would want that, Flo would want that, for him to not be alone. But I can’t bring myself to move. I should go to him, dash his head in with a rock or press against his throat until the air abandons him with his life, but I can’t.

    And it’s not cowardice or malice that keeps me rooted where I am. Not the pain wracking my body with a constant tremble or the heat of the sun hammering at my head and blurring my vision. I don’t sit and stare at him because the reality of what we have done to each other is setting in, although I’m sure it will give me pause in time. I slump helplessly against the ledge and watch him because of my own selfish desire to remain in the arena.

    Even if millions of people watched me let my best friend die a long death, I was still here. Away from the glittering lights of the Capitol, the criticisms of my grandfather and peacekeepers keeping us fenced in. And, if they were going to snatch me away from him as soon as the cannon goes off, I’ll make them sit and watch him die too.

    “Terra…” his voice is quiet, strained and full of pain. He whines, a breathy wheezing kind of whine, and I can’t look at him anymore. “Tez… please…” I slump down on the ledge, turning onto my back and shutting my eyes. “Kill me,” he begs quietly but already he is so far away, “Terra,” he whines, wailing like an injured dog, “KILL ME!”

    The strain on his voice, spending the last of his energy to make me listen, makes me squeeze my eyes tighter.

    Maybe if I go to sleep, this will be over soon. We could both sleep, pretend we’re out under the stars, on top of a stranger’s house watching the sunrise.

    The pain in my ankle is because I accidentally hit it on the building while climbing. My hip? Bumped into the table at home and now it’s bruised. My head is spinning because I forgot to eat breakfast and I haven’t had a sip of water in days because Martial was busy at the academy and hadn’t been able to remind me. But the blood…

    I couldn’t explain the blood away. Or why he was crying softly like a child.

    “Just go to sleep…” I said to the air, wincing as a breeze kicked dirt onto my injuries. A tear rolled down my cheek, and another, running down my neck and mingling with the stale sweat that had begun to settle on my body like a second skin.

    I could feel the dark hold of exhaustion grasping at my consciousness, Martial’s cries fading to nothing although I wondered if that was because he no longer had the energy for that either. If the tilting of my head in the heat and the exhaustion pulled me under, I wonder if I’ll die too. Perhaps we’ll both die on this mountain, at the same time so that they’ll have no choice but to fire two cannons and accept that there will be no victor.

    The bittersweet taste of hope pricked at my tongue as I picture the anger on the faces of Atticus Coupe and President Snow when they realise they can’t save either of us.

    And, knowing their embarrassment came from mine and Martial’s undoing was a sweet enough thought to let sleep overwhelm me.