Writer Games | Death Wish & 51

Task Seven: The Last Midnight /SF - Wesley Redding

The thought struck him  as he hobbled along in the forest, his legs screaming in protest as he  dragged them along. He was chewing on his shirt collar, his face closed  in a grimace, when a seemingly obvious realization came to mind.

Wesley was dying. Not by  another tribute, no, but by the stunningly beautiful arena surrounding  him. The pain was unreal, and Wesley dared think that it would be better  if he was found and killed before brutal agony consumed him.

It isn't the dying that  scares Wesley; it's the pain. Every ounce of him wished he had the nerve  to swing his body off the top of a tree. To eat as many poisonous  berries as he could find. To take the knife in his hand and slice away  the pain.

Does it feel that your life's become a catastrophe? All the greenery is comin' down, boy.

Wesley couldn't place  his finger on why this was happening. Since the hallucination,  everything had been out of whack. He's exhausted, warm sweat dripping  down his back and kicks to his stomach frequently bringing him to his  knees, and utterly tired.

They have him beat. The  pain was deep within him, stinging and burning, almost as if his insides  were smoldering. The Gamemakers couldn't take away his fight, but they  sure could take away his ability to.

The fire within his eyes  has been snuffed away. He moved them more slowly now, like they're  heavy, an effort to move. Behind these soft eyes played images and  memories of Sammy. He refused to cry tears because of the pain, but he  cried many tears for her.

Who's to blame if you're not around? You never see what you want to see.

Wesley remembered the  hallucination. Maybe the horrible illness rooted inside him was trying  to rip the memory out, but it was failing. What he saw was exactly what  the Gamemakers had planned out.

He couldn't win. No  scenario could arise that would make the Gamemakers change their mind.  He was mud underneath their shoes - it was only a matter of him before  they scraped him away.

Sammy could and would never be his. She didn't want this weakling of a man, choosing to lay on the ground rather than press on.

Cos you're the joke of the neighborhood. Oh, calamity, is there no way out?

Insanity stole his mind  like a deranged thief, taking what was important to him and adding  dangerous new ideas to replace them. A distorted reality rooted into his  brain, forming an inescapable maze with no exit.

Wesley's breathing  became ragged and warm blood sprayed onto his shirt. He spat the rest  out, his eyes wild and trodden with anger. They took everything, ripping  out what he believed was safe and morphing his memories like clay in  their hands.

Wesley pulled himself  closer to the cool water and he stared into his reflection. Once his  eyes settled upon his face, his chest suddenly constricted, and his  breathing hastened.

When you look through the years and see what you could've been oh, what might've been, if you've had more time.

The irony of the  situation was gripping. Wesley laughed, water seeping inside his lungs.  None of this was his choice; he never wanted any of this. However, he  wouldn't let the Gamemakers have the final laugh.

Death would be his  decision. He stared into the crystal water, a small smile on his face as  the colorful fish swam around him. They were so beautiful, so unaware  of what was going on just above the water.

They wouldn't judge him.  His heart hammering against his ribs, his mind on the singsong girl he  loved and lost, Wesley let the cold water rush in, all illusions of his  survival disappearing. He would have to wait for the divers to retrieve  his body and return him to his loved ones.

You took the long way home. You took the long way home....