The Life Of A Victor

CHAPTER 9

I sat in the attic of the training center, the night after the second day. Leaning against one of the stone planters, I silently observed the city. Its captivating buildings stood tall in the darkness, a true spectacle of lights.

It hadn't been a good day. The false hope of mastering any of the weapons in the room had proven to be just that, an illusion. In a few days, I would be in the arena. In a few days, I would die with the entire country watching. The few loved ones I had left would see me die from the square of my District. Or they would wake up one morning to watch the replay.

"Everything okay?" a voice asked from behind me.

Peeta Mellark greeted me with a smile in the darkness. I managed to return the gesture as best as I could.

"No," I replied.

"Understandable," he said.

Without asking, he sat down next to me, resting his back against the stone wall, and stayed silent beside me. Neither of us spoke for several minutes, but somehow, his presence made me feel better.

"I'll never be a Victor from District 12," I muttered.

Peeta didn't respond immediately. He simply looked at me with a sad smile for a few moments.

"I had that thought too," he finally said.

"Yeah, but you were wrong," I said, gloomily.

"Maybe you're wrong too," he suggested.

"And then what?" I said. "Does Sarah die? It's not fair. I'm not afraid of dying. I don't want to, have to choose who lives and who doesn't, and at the same time be at the mercy of others. To let others decide if I die or not. It's just not fair. I don't want to die, I don't want Sarah to die. Not all those strangers, not even the Careers. And yet, I'm part of the game."

"I think I understand that feeling," he said, his gaze sad but with a half-smile. "You don't want to be a piece in their games."

I looked at my mentor. I couldn't have expressed it better myself. That was exactly what I was thinking. And now, finally, I had words for it. Peeta Mellark, the healer. I had only just begun to know him. I didn't yet know how many of his words would reach me and keep me afloat. It was like a superpower.

"That's exactly what worries me," I said. "Becoming something I'm not."

"Then don't," he said, shrugging.

"Yeah..." I said, frustrated. "But that means dying."

"Maybe not," my mentor said.

"I believe it does..." I said. "I'm not a killer, I don't want to be one, I'm incapable of not protecting those I care about, I put them before me... I can't protect both myself and Sarah at the same time. I've had anxiety attacks since my parents died. They paralyze me, when I least expect it. Being me isn't enough to get back home, Peeta. Being me just ends with my name in the sky of the arena."

I felt embarrassed. I realized I had exposed everything all at once. I had let it all out. My inability to not try to protect Sarah, my fear of really not being able to hurt anyone, even if it was just me and another tribute left. And above all, my attacks. The damn anxiety.

"Maybe some of those things are your strength," he said, calmly.

"I don't think so," I said. "No one will be impressed by a tribute who freezes in the face of danger, who can't make decisions for himself, and who can't harm another. Being second doesn't count in these games."

"Then do what you're best at," he said. "Protect Sarah, be a team."

"I promised to come home," I said.