Defying the Odds (The 4th Quarter Quell) [The Hunger Games Fanfiction]

Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Asher

I remember her soft hands, combing through my hair, lulling me to sleep. I remember her sweet voice, promising to wake me if there’s any sign of danger. I remember the peaceful, forgotten feeling of sleep.

And then the peace is gone.

My body jerks at the feeling of my insides being ripped apart. My eyes are wide in surprise, in horror, as I take in the spear plunged into my stomach. My ears are filled with screams, my screams, before I can even comprehend the pain. But when I finally feel it, God, does it hurt like hell. My shaking hands rise to pull the spear from my insides, but my fingers slip and prevent me from getting a good grip. I try again, but the second my fingers brush against the handle of the spear, I can feel the movement all the way down in my stomach. I can feel the spear killing me with every movement, it’s sharp edges slicing my organs.

I scream against the pain.

And I try again. But my hands slip. I let out a cry of frustration laced with agony. I’m too weak. My shirt is dampening quickly and I don’t need to look down to figure out what’s the source. I look down anyway. And a wave of dizziness overcomes my senses at the sight of all the blood gushing from my wound and pooling on the ground beside me. My blood is on my hands, on the spear, on my shirt…everywhere.

A sound I wasn’t sure I could make slips from my lips, forcing everyone around to hear my pain. I don’t stop trying to pull the wretched thing from my body. No giving up, Asher. Not now.

I glance up for a split second. My heart sinks in my throat as I watch Layla fighting with Ember. I can’t be sure who’s winning. They’re too evenly matched. My eyes scan the floor around me and don’t stop until they land on our pack of weapons a few feet away from me. I can reach those!

Slowly, I try to inch my body closer to the pack. The slightest movement stings and I know I need to get the spear out of my body before it kills me for good. My left hand claws at the ground working to pull me closer to what I need, while my right hand attempts to pull the bloody spear out of me.

Nothing seems to be working.

Because I’ve only moved an inch and I’m no closer to getting the spear out than before. All the blood I’ve lost is making it near impossible to even move, let alone gain the strength for this.

The thought surfaces in my mind before I have time to shoot it down.

I’m going to die.

No. Not after everything that has happened. No. Not after Layla. I try to convince myself that I won’t—I can’t—die. But honestly…I’m not doing such a good job of convincing myself. These are the games. This is what the games are all about.

This all goes through my head in a second, though it feels like longer. I look up just in time to see Ember fall to the ground, an ax lodged into her stomach, as a cannon booms throughout the arena.

My eyes shift to Layla, glancing over her body, checking for any sort of injuries. Relief floods my body as I see her stand without difficulty.

“Layla,” I make out, though my voice is weak, forced. The effort leaves me even weaker than before and I really just want to give in, stop fighting.

It would be easier.

I watch Layla square her shoulders, bracing herself. A tribute—Brennan, I think—stands mere feet away from her, threatening her. I can’t rely on my sight, though. My vision blurs and then clears. Blurs, then clears. A product of my increasing weakness, no doubt.