The 53rd Hunger Games- Two Words

43. Off Kilter

Off kilter. That implies that my world has slipped sideways, that up and down have swapped.

What am I now? I was a volunteer. A starlet. A target. An ally.

I decided earlier that I am lost. Misplaced in this misaligned world.

I stare up at the shades of blue across the sky. I don’t want to look at myself. There are bruises that mottle my skin, cuts that will leave ugly scars. My unitard is torn, with large chunks missing. The arena has left its mark. The Capitol residents must gasp at my appearance. Never a day in their life have they been unpolished, unmade-up.  Yet here I am, my bruised, battered, bleeding form filmed for all to see.

My hands lay at my sides. Idle. There is an emptiness. Hadrian’s hand moulded themselves to mine. Now there is no one to fill the gaps.

Now. Then. After. Before. The Hunger Games divide my life in two. Before the arena. After the arena. But even my trip here has been divided. Before Hadrian’s death. After Hadrian’s death.

What have these Games done to me?

How long has it been since the last night? Days. The anthem is still played once a day, even though it is not dark. The seal is not visible. I count the days by counting the anthems. How many anthems since this endless day began? Four. That I was awake for, at least.

In a way, daylight provides relief. I can see attackers clearly in daylight. The nocturnal animals that screech and howl haven’t made an appearance. But there are other things.

Sometimes I send myself off into a restless sleep. That’s when the fits come.

They come when I am only half-conscious. Some of them feel like dreams. It’s almost like being in third person when they happen; I can hear shrill screaming, but I cannot stop it. I am aware of hands, curled into claw shapes, grasping, only I cannot stop them either.

I am aware of the tears. Those I am definitely unable to stop.

I eat plants that I know are safe. Cautiously, I pick them, examine them, before hunger gets the better of me and I shove them in my mouth. The Gamemakers will take advantage of this. It would be easy to mimic leaves and nuts, and make their copies toxic.

I’ve tried to make fishing hooks. They are too weak, or never attract fish. I can fully appreciate the talents that District Four hold now; even a halfway-decent hook is just about impossible to craft.

Most of the time I am hungry. Nothing has been sent to me since the silver box with the bread and vegetables inside. The day after Hadrian died.

Drinkable water is easily retrievable from the lake. I don’t lie on the shore down there anymore.

I wait for death in my tree. I’m not sure what kind of tree it is, only that it is tall and leafy, and that it hides me. It is not my death I’m waiting for.

Gladius must die. I will act once he is dead. He is my district partner. There is an unspoken rule; I am not allowed to kill him.

The arena has been awfully quiet. The Gamemakers will grow bored soon. Who knows what trap they will spring? They seem to like the idea of ‘off-kilter’ too. The tidal wave, in which the water rose higher than it should. The mist, which showed us awful visions, made us hallucinate. Sickly smelling black rain, that clung to my body. Jabberjays, who would reflect voices, though perhaps this one is not so much of a threat. Canine-feline mutts, who blend with their surroundings. Adding to the smoke and flames of the Career’s fire, choking and disorientating us.

Disorientated. Another good word for me.

Backwards is forwards and forwards is backwards. Up is down and down is up.