The 53rd Hunger Games- Two Words

22. Fear

Fear has taken over.

With shaking hands, bloodied hands, I lower myself down to where I was sitting before. I don’t trust myself to stay high in the trees. It might give me cover, sight, but I’m too afraid. I’m afraid of everything. The mutts, the tributes, being discovered. My biggest fear is death. Not only the physical pain.

So afraid.

Sunlight reflects off the glassy lake. It’d be beautiful, if I hadn’t seen how blood made the water red, a washed out crimson. There could be all sorts of hidden dangers in the lake. Did I ever consider the possibility of mutts? Of course not; I was too busy trying to survive. Not everyone survives. The boy is dead. Other tributes, from the Cornucopia, from the outline districts, are dead. How long until I join them?

My eyes hurt. My throat hurts. They both burn, feel sore, from the number of times I’ve had to blink back tears.

I don’t bother tying myself to the tree. If I fall out, so be it. Besides, if I anchor myself here, what will I do when I need to escape quickly? In the arena, I don’t have time to fumble with a knot.

My life has never been so precious. And it has never meant anything to anyone outside my small circle of friends or my family. Now half the Capitol has thousands of dollars riding on me.

One of my laces has come undone. I try to tie it back up, but only manage to on the third attempt. My fingers drop the laces, tie the wrong knots. I find myself chewing on my lip, a habit I thought I had long abolished.

To my relief, the forest is anything but quiet. Animals call out, and most of the calls I’ve never heard before. They’re not the calls of mutts; that much I’m able to guess. A brightly coloured bird with bright red and blue feathers lands on a branch not too far away from me. Its beak is wickedly curved, as well as its talons. It has excellent weapons grafted onto its body, but isn’t a threat.

Hadrian.

I want to hit myself. Why does everything come back to him? Everything is able to relate back to him. I’ve never quite understood addiction; addiction to morphling, addiction to alcohol. I’ve seen them repeatedly, and never understood why they keep coming back to their addiction, why they couldn’t stay away.

I understand now. It’s impossible to not to come back to it.

The pain of sitting still is excruciating. I’m not waiting for anything, but I’m not exactly mobile. My cuts hurt, I’m stiff, and my whole body seems to be stained black and blue. My eyes itch, and I realise that I didn’t really get all that much sleep last night.

I need to stay awake. At night, I’m hidden from the other tributes. During the day, I’m all too visible. If I fall asleep, I’m as good as dead. Any of the tributes would be able to see me.

As I think this, I’m already dreaming.

“Eunia.”

It’s Hadrian. I turn around, and see that the landscape has changed again. It’s gone from dry and sultry to an icy white terrain. Like the arena might look in winter. It’s a comfortable temperature, though, not cold at all. I’ve changed clothes again. I’m in a thick blue dress that hangs to my ankles, to my wrists. It’s a dream; it can’t be anything but a dream.

But it’s so real.

“Hadrian,” I say, running towards him. He’s already appeared several times. Each time, I haven’t been able to reach him. Now I slam into him, a mass of warmth. He’s holding me, he’s tangible, he’ll never let go. I want to believe all of this.

“Hadrian,” I repeat, in a quieter, lower voice. “I miss you.”

Even though I’m in his arms, my heart aches. It hurts worse than anything else, worse than my cuts, my bruises, my wants. Because, deep down, I know this is my imagination.