The Hunger Games: The Luxury Of Death

CHAPTER 36 - THE WEAPON

When Elizabeth opened her eyes for the first time in two days, the rush of fresh air filling her lungs brought unimaginable pain. Her entire body felt weighed down, as if carrying the burden of her sins. She was almost paralyzed, unable even to lift a finger. The moment she tried to sit up, a cry of agony escaped her lips. She decided to remain still, unwilling to endure even the slightest twinge of pain. Her gaze fixed on the white, almost moldy ceiling.

Elizabeth struggled to recall what had happened in the arena of the Quarter Quell. Finnick was dead. She had given up, ceased fighting, hoping to finally find peace. Yet, just as she thought she had escaped her nightmare, she found herself once again enclosed by four dark walls. There was no way she would endure more violence, accusations, hatred, or grief. At that thought, she could no longer hold back her tears. Each tear traced a path down her cheeks, finally resting on her lips, tasting of bitterness and despair. Her sobs only made the sharp stinging pains more intense.

Beth slowly turned her head to the left, where a small table stood. The movement made her groan in pain, and a dark thought crossed her mind: what if her spine had been damaged, and she would never walk again? But when she caught sight of the metallic object on the table, that thought vanished. It was the last thing she had held onto in the arena, the last link she had to Finnick. She longed to be with him, but they had cruelly pulled her back from the edge of death. If she had to force fate, she would.

With a surge of either bravery or cowardice, she gritted her teeth and stretched her fingers towards the small metal plaque. Once it was in her hands, everything else seemed insignificant.

"You're still a person."

She stared at the engraved words for a few moments. And then, she thought she understood her path to redemption. For so long, she had believed that after taking Asher's life, she had to keep living so his death wouldn't be in vain. She had slaughtered men and women for that sole purpose. But the consequences had become too grave, and the guilt too heavy to bear. Beth no longer wanted to take any lives. Not one more. Except her own.

Rage and fear had consumed her. She was the only one who could end it. The edges of the metal plaque were sharp enough to serve as a tool. All she had to do was slide it along her veins. The only problem was that it would take strength, strength she no longer had. Desperately, Elizabeth tried to pierce the skin, but it was as if life itself forbade her from leaving this world. It wasn't her time.

"So, we drag you out of the arena, and this is how you thank us?"

Haymitch entered the room, his expression hardening the moment his eyes landed on Elizabeth. He stood at the threshold, unwilling to take another step. She was sprawled across the bed, barely alive. The sight of her made his stomach churn. She was a painful reminder of everything he despised—everything he could've become.

To anyone else, Elizabeth might have seemed broken, fragile even. But Haymitch saw through the bruises and the scars. She wasn't just a victim; she was the aftermath of the Games, the embodiment of what happened when you let the violence seep too deep into your bones. She had survived, but at what cost? There was no fight left in her, only the twisted comfort of death that she so desperately sought.

Elizabeth didn't even look at him as he stood there. She was everything Haymitch hated about the Games: not just the killing, but the way they hollowed you out, leaving you numb to the world, to other people's pain, and to your own.

For a brief moment, he wondered if this was how others had seen him after his own Games. Lost. Reckless. Bitter. He had been younger then, but no less full of anger—angry at the Capitol, at the world, at himself. Elizabeth, though, she had taken it further. She wasn't just angry; she had embraced the violence, let it fuel her, and now it had eaten her alive.