Windgrass (A Hunger Games Fan Fiction)

Thirteen: Spill

Élysée always knows what to do. And Maize, too. After my… adventure to Élysée’s house, using an old sickle shaft as a crutch, I collapsed in a chair. She was sleeping, but I’ve dropped by enough after nights out that this doesn’t surprise her anymore. Of course, if I’m inside the house it means trouble of some sort. In this case, my illness. Normally I’d leave a note saying I dropped by, and a small package of oatmeal cookies (the only thing I can cook without burning or undercooking). Today, I had to go inside.

Mind clouded with fever, delirious, and on the verge of tears, I allowed her to take care of me. She asked to see my hand, and I showed the slightly festering wound. I haven’t had time to clean it properly, being so busy with school and work.

I told her about Percival.

She told me a little bit about Farro, the Tribute from the 69th Hunger Games.

Tragic. That’s all I could think of to describe what she told me… tragic. Her crying, screaming, fighting to get back Farro… Him, sullen, grim, somehow broken as he walked up to the stage with the girl Tribute.

The 69 lashes she recieved in return for fighting for her love… the same number as the Hunger Games’ year.

All of it lingers in my brain, slightly enhanced and distorted by my delirium.

The name was called. A hush fell over the crowd. Even the wind seemed to stop. Slowly, slowly… he started to take a step forward.

“NO!!” she screamed, grabbing his arm with such force that he staggered a bit. “No, I won’t let you go!!”

“Élysée, don’t,” he said. “I have to go.”

“No, Farro, please! Don’t go! Don’t leave me!!” she screamed, holding onto him with all her might. “You can’t leave me here!!”

Then the Peacekeepers came. Not even their brute strength could pry the two apart. The girl clung to Farro fiercely, and vice versa. After what seemed like decades, the two were separated. She kicked and screamed, fought back with everything she had. Farro thrust out a hand desperately; she reached for it. Their hands met for only a moment, fingers clawing at one another before one Peacekeeper struck the girl, sending her to the ground. It took two just to restrain her, keeping her on her knees in the crowd. Two more ushered the boy forward, where the girl Tribute just stood and stared.

“Let this be a warning to all who try to oppose the Capitol,” the Head Peacekeeper announced.

The girl was dragged onto the stage, her mouth bleeding. She was thrown to the floor and two Peacekeepers grabbed her arms, her back facing the crowd.

“No!” Farro shrieked as a whip was raised. “No, don’t!!”

The whip cracked viciously. Blood sprayed from the beneath the slit shirt. Farro, now, had to be restrained, help back by a pair of Peacekeepers.

68 more times, her back was struck. Two other Peacekeepers had joined in, three whips marking her back. When the 69th lash had been given, she was released and fell to the ground, unmoving, bleeding badly. Dr. Alois hurried up to the stage and proceeded to carry her off to his medical clinic, since there were no official hospitals in the Districts.

I stood there, watching, as the girl was brought past me, broken, bleeding, crying inconsolably. I could see the torn skin… what was left of her skin… on her back. It was then that my stomach turned weak. I vomited on the spot.

Élysée told me that I was strong. That I was fierce. I had to trust her; who else can I trust? Most of Nine dislikes me.

Maize interrupted then, and I was carried to Dr. Alois’.

I’m going to sign up for as many tesserae as possible when I’m better. I have to take Élysée’s words to heart.