Grain & Blood | A Hunger Games collection

System Overload: Chapter Twenty-One

⚠Tw: Self Harm, so just skip the chapter or something. It isn't that important anyway. also, when u see the ⚠ symbol before a paragraph, it might be triggering. 

"You let the bombs drop, you let them fall on me. You tried to f*cking kill me, did nothing to stop it, actively promoted my death." I've been screaming at Pablo for a while, after my speech I found him with a glass of wine in the dining area of the Justice Building.

"Not my fault or my problem, little girl," he smugly reaches for the bottle to pour himself another glass.

"Except it is" I snarl, snatching the bottle out of his hand and throwing it to the ground, watching as the little pieces of dark green glass lay across the hostile red liquid that soaks into what once was a white rug.

"In what way is it my fault?" Pablo trawls, his voice cold.

"In every way. Look at this scar on my arm," I snap, rolling up my sleeve, "Look at the burn on my ankle. Look at the scar on my cheek, look at all the scars on my face. Look at the scar on the side of my head," I hiss, parting my hair, "and the scars inside, that not even the Capitol can fix. Every single one is your fault. Each and every one."

Pablo shrugs and signals for another bottle.

"Don't you f*cking dare."

He laughs. He has the audacity to laugh. "You're the one who volunteered."

I stand there, frozen, eyes unfocused and hands clenched into fists. The next thing I know and I'm punching him, he's trying to fight me off, somebody is dragging me from behind. It's all a mess. I screw my eyes tightly shut and keep flailing my fists, trying to hit somebody, anybody.

The next thing I'm aware of is somebody gently brushing my left arm. I'm lying on something soft and comfortable, presumably a bed, with my left sleeve rolled up, a warm hand caressing my wrist.

My left arm. Sh*t.

I sit up, pulling the sleeve down, covering my forearm.

⚠Kamalyn lays down on the bed next to me. "So what are the cuts on your arm?" She doesn't sound accusatory, only calm.

"Arena scars," I mutter.

⚠"Iris, those aren't arena scars, they're fresh cuts."

"They're arena scars!" I shout.

"They aren't." Kamalyn doesn't even raise her voice.

After a long moment of silence, I curl up with my head buried in Kamalyn's side, knees tucked to my chin. "I'm sorry," I whisper, barely audibly.

She places her arm around my shoulders, and we lie in silence for a while, the muted hubbub from the window as the only sound to fill however long the two of us lie still for.

I'm beginning to think that Kamalyn has fallen asleep until she says, "Give me your knife," It's not a question, it's an order.

I slide off the bed and reach for my bag. It hasn't got much in it, my notebook, felt pens, a couple of books, and hidden right at the bottom, my knife, the one with the engraved handle from Jonen. As I give it to Kamalyn, she stares down at it for a moment, then back up at me. I'm pretty sure we've got the same scene flashing through our heads right now.

She launches at me, thumping me onto the floor. Her hazel eyes are glowing with hate and bloodlust. Lust for my blood. She wants me dead, as revenge for killing Benedict. She wants me to die in pain, begging for mercy. I won't let her.

She has me pinned down in every way possible, removes the knives from my vest, lies my tribute token across my neck. All niceties she would have removed if she didn't hate me as much. If she didn't want me to feel the pain.

The first cut is slices into my chin, and sends my eyes watering and gives my nervous system a huge jolt. She takes a chunk of skin away, making me feel like I'm going to bleed to death. The next chunk is from my cheek, then my forehead, then my nose, under my eyes, above my mouth, until there are several gaps in my face where skin and flesh should be.

A dark pit is beginning to open beneath me, and I guess that pit is death. A sweet release from life.

I begin to laugh, laughing for my life and for the sickened look on Kamalyn's face. The black cloud above is sending winds blowing my fragile figure to the pit.

I laugh again, laughing at my killer and her hazel eyes, laughing at the darkness, pulling me down. Laughing at my life. Laughing for my family. Laughing for Jonen. Laughing at the Capitol. The darkness pulls harder, and I realise that Kamalyn has made another dent in my face. She won't get away from this with no scars.

I hunch my shoulders, stretch my arms out for one of my knives and roll out as she budges to accommodate my new form. But unfortunately for her, that's a terrible move and ends with me slicing into her leg, as close to the femoral artery as possible, Just like in training. Just how it should be.

We both stagger for a few seconds and then fall to the ground in a crumpled heap. The dark is still pulling but the laugh is gone. Just an empty silence with two girls dying from each other. Just two girls pushing against the pull of death...

An eerie echo booms and I let go.

"You can keep the knife."

Kinda embarrassed, ngl, it's been MONTHS since i last updated, and that chapter, i've been writing since fucking february. I started on a train home from london, while i was actively ⚠self harming⚠ so that was fantastic. lots has happened since then. but Last weekend i spent at a farm in nottinghamshire that inspired so much of this book :) which inspired me to write more, and i spent most of the weekend sitting on the bottom  branch of a tree that made me write the bombs chapter, even though i've been on crutches for a week and a bit, so even though i wasn't supposed to be climbing, i did. which made it worse. Yay. 

-Katherine