𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐬. ᵗʰᵉ ʰᵘⁿᵍᵉʳ ᵍᵃᵐᵉˢ

𝟏.𝟏 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐨𝐥𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞

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❝𝐚𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐧𝐚 𝐢𝐮𝐯𝐚𝐭❞

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I was born only two days after the district's tributes of the 13th Hunger Games were slaughtered. There was no connection between their lives and my family's; they were raised in the Trading Post, shipping meat packages to the Capitol. They never had a chance.

I remember the night my cousin Angus told me he still saw them running in his nightmares—the looks of fear frozen on their faces as the careers came out of the trees. He crawled into my bed and whispered their names, making me swear never to repeat them. At twenty-one, his hands were calloused and rough. He held my hand, still soft, as he told me of the violence I had been born into. I saw her—heard the cannon go off in my ear. The little girl's legs were cut off at the knee. When she closed her eyes, I wondered if she felt like she was home again, the blood underneath her warm like District 10's sun. She never let go of her partner's hand. He died quickly, all limbs attached. We laid beside each other, just like they did, with enough limbs to spare. I didn't close my eyes that night, listening to the heavy breathing of my siblings and cousins around me. I wondered which one of us would have our legs cut off first.

Even after Angus fell asleep, his words stayed in my ear. His golden eyes stayed in my head,  glowing in the dark. Even now, where I am buried in the dirt, I still see his eyes. I remember his promise: You have to run. Promise me, you'll run when they call your name. They won't find you in the desert: promise, Mae.

I promise (An empty promise).

In my first year in the reaping, another twelve-year-old girl took my place. I wouldn't think of Angus' words for years after; his voice drowned out in the relief of being spared. The girl cried as she walked up the steps, but her mother cried louder when the girl came back without a head. She didn't run fast enough. They never run fast enough.

Glued to my side, Angus fell asleep with his head on my shoulder and his hand over my lifeline. Nobody said anything. I wasn't the one chosen, and that was enough.

You have to run. You have to run—Run.

He muttered the word in his sleep, his leg jerking underneath the blankets. I knew they caught him when he went silent, his leg stilling. It was quick. His eyes rolled back in his head, stuck staring up at his forehead until the morning. The sleepovers finally stopped when the girl died on the third day, crushed until her head popped.

Angus never repeated what he said to me. He didn't have to; I hadn't stopped running since.

. . .

The ground blurred beneath Mae's feet. With each step, she let out a harsh breath, but the continuous slap of her feet against the ground kept her going. There was a rhythm she could get lost in; she needed to get lost in it. Sweat dripped down the back of her neck, and sand was getting kicked into her face. She couldn't stop. If she slowed down, she would lose, and Mae Ferric never lost. Spitting to the side, she choked through the dust and kicked back twice as much.

The buck-teeth boy's steps slowed, and his hacking sent an instantaneous flood of satisfaction through Mae—I didn't care about him then, so why would I call him anything different—the sand hit its target. That was all she cared about.