Crippled - 74th Hunger Games fan fiction

                                                                       One

I can't breathe.

"It's okay, Otto. Hang on in there. I'm here to help." I run my tongue over my lips experimentally.

"Why?" I murmur hazily, my gasps for air noticably irregular. "I'm going to die anyway."

"No," the man states slowly, his hand still rhythmically, confidently working at my chest. "You're not. Now listen to me. It's all psychological. Can you see me?"

Wincing in pain I strain my blurry eyesight, a mess of translucent colours. I focus slightly, and giving a gasp of success I define the starch white colouring of the peacekeeper in his crisp uniform. I run my eyes over his worried face before slipping back into oblivion.

"Yes. You're a peacekeeper," I struggle, my rough words uneven.

"Very good. Are you finding it hard to speak, Otto?" he asks calmly, his fingers straying from my body and up towards my neck, pressing at it experimentally.

"Yes," I mutter.

"Go get him some water," he adresses who I presume to be the worried woman; my stylist.The clop of her heels peter away into the distance, consequentaly.

"Now, Otto. I want you to tell me what happened."

"Nothing," I croak, feeling his calloused fingers cold against my bobbing adam's apple.

"Please, Otto. I want to help," I tighten my lips and he gives a small, reluctant sight.

"Otto," his voice lowers to a whisper. "They're going to send you into the games, whatever condition you're in. You will die if I can't help you. That I can be certain of. I need to know this, so that I can help you."

"It was him," the words run from my tongue, slipping off with less difficulty.

"Who?"

"Him. Before the orphanage."

"And are you scared of him?"

I try to laugh. "More than you could imagine."

"Was it just him?"

"Him and me. When I was small. Crying."

The patter of the stilletto heels returns and icy cold water is pressed between my lips, crusty and salty with sweat.

"Why were you crying?"

"Because he hit me." I inhale slowly.

"He hurt you?"

"He crippled me."

***

I'm running.

Crusty mud scrapes at my boots as I attempt to escape.

Gasping for precious morsels of air, my crumpled chest heaving rhythmically up and down I push forward. Despite the pain.

The pain.

I stumble over a lump of wispy brown leaves, wiping a clingy sweat drenched curl from my brow.

The pain.

It's too sharp, intense. I hurdle over a log, my eyes flickering over the foilage of the scenery.

It burns.