Timber

Chapter Fifty-Six: Broken Boughs

The downpour slowed, the lightning ceased, and the thunder faded. Eventually, the storm cleared completely, leaving behind soggy earth in the dark hues of the early morning. Despite the storm's relenting, the smell of rain, mud, and iron hung in the atmosphere. Without the thrum of rainfall, the arena became quiet outside of Hazel's sobs.

She gulped in rapid mouthfuls of the dewy morning air, sputtering as if she were drowning in the forest. Her airway was scorched, and her chest was being crushed under the weight of profound loss. No matter how hard she tried, it was as if she couldn't get enough oxygen. The growing warmth of the coming day did little to stop her bone-deep shivering. A grief-stricken sob broke through her lips; it sounded distant like it hadn't come from her own mouth. None of it seemed real, yet at the same time, reality was suffocating her. This wasn't supposed to happen. It was supposed to be me.

Biting her lip, she willed her breathing to calm and the ache in her heart to lessen, but neither obeyed. Thick streams of tears poured down her face, dripping off her chin and soaking into Silus' matted shirt. His body vibrated as she sobbed over him, her ear pressed against his chest. She didn't dare move, hoping to hear the thud of his heart restart. Come on, Silus.

"You can't do this to me," she murmured into his chest, salty tears sliding down her lips. The taste made everything more tangible. She was truly here, falling apart next to her brother's lifeless body.

Her personal bubble of hell shattered when a flinty, disembodied voice rang out above her, "And we have our winner of this year's Hunger Games! District Seven, Hazel Marlowe!"

The overwhelming silence that followed would have been laughable if it wasn't the most devastating statement she had ever heard. Another round of sobs shook her, and a sound that was neither a scream nor a cry escaped her lips, crafted from guttural, soul-crushing anguish.

Balling her fists in Silus's shirt, she pulled herself closer to him. For what seemed like hours, she remained there, hunched over her brother's body, oscillating between sobbing uncontrollably and staring blankly in an unnatural silence.

The sun had nearly reached its peak in the sky when the crunch of footsteps through the underbrush met her ears. It started soft but grew louder and closer, like numerous pairs of boots weaving through the devastated forest. They are coming for me.

Hazel buried her head in the mud-stained fabric of Silus' shirt. The rich smell of rain-soaked earth and pine and the unique scent of Silus burned her sinuses. She willed herself to memorize it.

"Miss Marlowe," a foreign feminine voice called out to her. It was high-pitched yet carried an authority she recognized. Hazel didn't need to see the person to know a Peacekeeper when she heard one. She didn't move to acknowledge them, instead squeezing her eyelids shut.

Whispers followed slow, deliberate steps. Boots crunched closer until a heavy grip landed on her shoulder. Hazel's eyes snapped open, and she whirled around, shoving the offensive hand away, leaving a dirty imprint on her pristine uniform sleeve.

"Don't touch me," she hissed, her green irises wild. The young Peacekeeper's wide brown eyes met hers, and she retracted her arm as if nearly bitten by a snake. She backed away with her palms raised, staring at Hazel like a rabid raccoon.

Hazel's bright, shimmering emerald eyes were rimmed with harsh red, filled with both sadness and anger. Her ginger tresses were matted and wild, the ends coated in various shades of earth. Her clothing was tattered and stiff, stained with the dark tan of crusted mud and splashes of crimson. Her entire body trembled, and her left palm sported a thick, ugly black and brown scab. Hints of dull pink peeked out from the collar of her shirt and her left calf. She internally scoffed. Given what she had endured over the past few days, she thought she probably resembled a wild animal more than a tribute.