The Hunger Games: The Violent Hour

:The Hunger Games: The Violent Hour: (8) Healed

Chapter Eight.

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**Iris’s Point of View*

                “Mom, mom, come on get up!”

                “Please you can’t leave us now!”

                “Mom?” I say, shaking her arm. Blood begins to dribble onto her shoulders. “Mom!” I yell one more time, patting her cheek roughly. Nothing. All I get is a blank stare.

                “Do you think they’re both gone?” my brother asks next to me.

                “Rye, I – no. They are not going to leave us right now.” I say with a surprisingly strong voice.

                “Move,” Haymitch says roughly, pushing my brother and me aside.

                I watch as my mother responds to Haymitch, but my vision becomes increasingly clouded with tears. The only thing I hear is the frantic pounding of my heartbeat. I have to go. I turn to run down the hallway and jump as the closet my father was encased in gave one last scream of agony. I have to get away from the sound. I begin running blindly, running into everything. I don’t see tables until I am on top of them, on the floor, bloody from the glass shards of the last table I knocked over.

                I don’t know how I manage to find my room. But the next thing I know, I reach the door and begin clawing at it. I see blood marks in the shape of hands on the door, but whose is it? Right. It’s mine.

                Might as well get used to seeing it.

                The door opens in an aggravatingly slow motion and I knock over a few more things before I reach my bed. I must have left a path of destruction. They will easily find me, and I do not want to be found right now. “Secure door from any intruders,” I say, and the computer in my room beeps in confirmation, the lock clicking shut. I tear the sheets off my bed and burrow myself into it, not bothering to kick off my shoes. My thoughts are beginning to blur as well. What is happening with me? These symptoms aren’t from any sort of stress. I am on the verge of sleep when my thoughts click together.

                It’s Nightlock.

                ***

                It’s eerily quiet.  I open my eyes and take in the afternoon lights in my room. The dust motes dancing. The pools of blood on my bed, still moist from my new movement. One of my wounds on my arm is stuck to the linens, the blood dry. There is an uncomfortable pinching in my leg and I address it, doing my best not to scream when I see a large chunk of glass embedded into my calf. My face feels parched; my salty tears must have dried it.

My hand finds the glass and before I think better of it, I yank the thing from my leg. I startled gasp escaped my lips and I begin wailing. I feel a river going down my leg from my wound, down the white carpet. The same hand that pulled the glass out goes to it and comes away drenched in blood.