The Author Games: Literature

Katelyn 'Kate' Dodger's Tornado

Katelyn Dodger was alone.

The floorboards creaked. They echoed. Throughout the house, the walls seemed to reverberate the sound of her footsteps. It was obviously empty, the girl knew that much – why else would her breathing sound like a thunderclap in her ears, or specks of dust settle upon the ageing windowsill, long depraved of human touch? Yet, at the same time, the simple wooden house was not abandoned – oh no, far from it. There were reminisces of who once lived here, of what had happened here – all the laughter and tears and joy and pain. Like ripples in the pond, they spread, and as her feet led her to the room she had been transported in only several hours ago, she knew that those ripples would never stop.

She could still see her young self, kneeling on the bloodstained floor of the dining room, cradling her mother's motionless body and she had turned towards her and screamed, "You're a murderer!" Even now, as she stood looking down at the spot where Catherine Dodger's body had laid, the memories of what she did flashed before her eyes, prompting her to squeeze them shut and engulf herself in the beautiful darkness, the everlasting black. For that was what she was, when the ring had possessed her. Every child's nightmare. The monster that came to play when the lights were turned off. Darkness. Blackness. Shadow.

Perhaps that's why there was an odd sense of calmness inside of her when the wind started to howl outside, when the sunlight was sucked from the sky. She knew that she could not be touched. All the evil combined in the world could not overthrow her from her throne, for Katelyn Dodger had committed the vilest crime of all. The woman whose skull she had cracked open had not a fault; she was the purest of pure, the mother of all good deeds. What kind of demon could have murdered her in cold blood, when she had never laid a finger on any human being that walked upon this Earth? And what could be worse when the killer is revealed to be the woman's own daughter?

The windows shattered; glass was sprayed across the room. The floorboards groaned beneath her once again, but this time it was not because of her footsteps. The twister had snuck unto her like a cat stalking its prey – or perhaps, it had been there the whole time, roaring and hissing and howling, and she had simply blocked it out. Isn't that what murderers did? Blocked out the cries and pleas and shrieks of their victims, coldhearted and unmoving as they executed the killing blow? The entire house jerked and she fell to her feet – there was a sudden burst of pain in her leg as glass impaled her skin, and droplets of scarlet dripped to the floor. Though she wanted to do nothing and let her body be whisked away, instinct took over, and one hand reached out to grasp the stone foundation of the fireplace beside her. Chairs slid. Doors slammed. Picture frames and painting crashed to the ground. There was screaming in her ears as the house was lifted into the heart of the tornado – relentless screaming of the wind and herself combined. But her screams were not of fear.

They were of anger.

Anger at the ring for corrupting her heart and leading her astray, turning her into a maniac. Anger at the Gamemakers who deviously designed the nightmare she was trapped in. Anger at the entity of Panem for cheering as they watched her wither away, breaking in her heart like a stallion as they put her through one hell to the next. And lastly, there was anger directed at herself for giving in to their wishes, for crumbling underneath their torture and destroying everything that she loved. As the house was tossed about by the sheer power of the mighty wind, Katelyn Dodger managed to stumble to her feet. Leaning heavily on the wall, she looked up, and saw the tendrils of woven gray through the broken window. She saw the debris flying in an everlasting circle, saw the cracks spread along the plaster of the ceiling. But that was not what made her heart leapt and breathing hitch in her throat.

No, Katelyn Dodger saw more than that.

The images were brief, quick – so quick that at first she thought they were naught but an apparition. There was the kindly, worn face of her father – a man who loved her as equally as her mother, yet was often overlooked by his only daughter. There were the sweet, pretty faces of her best friends, Hayley and Zoe – two girls she had shared secrets and jokes, but had been forgotten as she struggled to stay alive through the Games. Her fingers wrapped the jagged edge of the windowsill to maintain her balance as she stared, ignoring the sharp jolts of pain in the palm of her hands. That did not matter to her. She knew she was going insane but could do nothing as she watched the images of her friends faded away, only to be replaced by another image. Another picture. Another person she had hurt.

Her mother.

The face of Catherine Dodger looked more alive, more beautiful, more young and more free than Kate had ever seen her. Wind-tossed sandy hair was swept back over her shoulder, blue eyes so bright and clear that it seemed almost impossible that the image was woven by the gray winds of the twister. It was another one of the Gamemaker's tricks, she knew, another road they had placed her on which led to nothing but ruin. Perhaps she had gone too far down that path already to turn back, but whatever madness that dwelled inside of her was not enough to stop her eyes from burning with tears, from her heart to swell with love and guilt and regret. "Mom," she whispered, her lower lip trembling. "Mom."

She did not expect anything to occur, but something did. It was as if her voice had triggered some kind of reaction, for the image flickered for a second or two, before Catherine Dodger turned towards where her daughter was watching and replied, in a voice that was as deep as the ocean and as light as a feather, "Daughter." There was a brief pause, before her mother's lips curled upwards into that familiar, warm smile, "Come with me." A hand appeared, reached out towards her, beckoning her to take it, to follow.

Almost instinctively, Kate reached out a bloody hand to grasp her mother's, eyes caught in Catherine's piercing gaze, but something stopped her. Something she hated and relied on stopped her from obeying her mother, from attempting to set her wrongs right. It was hesitation, but she did not want to hesitate – nonetheless, the girl received no chance to reply, for the projection of her mother spoke once more, this time with a little sharpness to her voice, "Come with me, Katelyn, or do you want to continue on down the path you are on?"

"No, Mama," she replied, as a diamond tear slipped down her cheek. "Because I don't know where I'm going." This time, there was a pause from her side, before she added in grim realization, "But I don't think I'm coming home."

"Come with me," Catherine Dodger repeated, and once more, the hand hovered before her, begging her to take it in her own. "We can be alone together, Kate," there was a sparkle in her mother's eye, a chuckle hidden in her voice. "You can stay young forever. We can go away to a place where no one will ever hurt us again."

The wind seemed to die away. The tornado seemed to disperse. All that was left was Katelyn Dodger and her mother, standing only a few feet away from each other, a girl with a torn heart and tarnished soul pondering a perfect offer of salvation. There was nothing she wanted move then to take that hand, then to leave behind all the death and blood and violence of the arena. This was her chance to make it all better. This was her chance to run away. This was her chance to be free.

And there was nothing that Katelyn Dodger wanted more than to be free.

But she withdrew her hand and let it fall limply to her side. She stepped back into the damaged dining room of her house, away from the window, away from the image of her mother. Because that was all that Catherine Dodger was – an image. "My real mother would've never offered me something like that," she called, in a voice hoarse and shaking. "She would never offer to run away with me. You know what she would've told me?" Without giving the mutt – or whatever it was – any time to answer, Kate hurried on, letting the words tumble out of her mouth, never holding back, "She would tell me to be brave. She would tell me to fight. She would tell me that I would make it."

At her defiant words the eyes of the mutt hardened, and it spat out its reply with all the venom and malice it could contain, "You'll never make it, Katelyn Dodger." It began to fade, and simultaneously, the tornado began to appear once more. "One day you'll wake up and find yourself dead. You're just a girl. You'll die afraid. You'll die alone."

"That may be right," the floor beneath her feet gave a mighty shudder as the wind picked up once more, and she grasped the built-in shelves on the walls. "I am a girl. I might die afraid. I might die alone."

She let out a breath.

"But at least I'll die fighting motherfuckers like you."

Katelyn Dodger was not a genius.

Katelyn Dodger was just a girl.

And a girl was going to fight to the very end.