" 𝔦'𝔪 𝔞 𝔰𝔲𝔯𝔳𝔦𝔳𝔬𝔯 "
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
In an attempt to save her sister, and survive
the Hunger Games, Rowan Everdeen meets
Cato Hadley, the murderous boy from
District 2 who might be just what she
...
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" you're not alone "
rowan's view
𝔗he very first thing I registered upon consciousness was how cold I felt. The bones in my fingers cracked with the effort of movement, and it felt as if a blanket of ice had been laid upon me, numbing all of my nerves until I was paralyzed. Reason suggested I had been administered a paralysis drug, or had been unconscious for several days, but fear dictated my mind. Perhaps I was dead.
When I opened my eyes, I was met with blinding white so bright I had to blink rapidly to adjust. A light was positioned just above me, emitting cool light with a faint sound indicating its efforts. Air flooded my lungs, spots dancing behind my vision as it did so. I managed to twist my head to the side, averting my eyes from the light.
As soon as I saw the heart monitor, I was made aware of the steady sound indicating that I was, in fact, alive. I stared at the line representing the rhythm of my heart, watching as it repeated the same sequence with hardly any change. I allowed myself to be momentarily lost in it, grateful that I hadn't died on that field.
The realization was startling when it appeared, and it made me sit right up on the surgical bed, even though it made my head spin and vomit rise in my throat.
I was not dead, nor was I in the arena, which meant... I won. My chest shook as I exhaled, and I raised my hand to cover the sound. I began to work backwards in my memory, starting with the overwhelming pain I could remember before everything had gone dark. I carefully lifted my hospital dress, examining the proof of the battle I had won: a scar twisting from my right hip bone up to just behind the shoulder blade. I traced the length of it with my index finger, examining the perfect stitching with the knowledge that no manner of treatment would stop the scarring.
Further up on my right arm was a precise laceration, courtesy of the muttations I remembered were made of pure flame. I squeezed my eyes shut as they filled my mind, the fire so hot I could almost feel it still.
Finally, my fingers reached up to brush the line across my cheekbone. It had healed nicely, but like all of my wounds, it would scar and remain for years to come. I could hardly stand the thought of my family seeing those scars and remembering what had happened to me, and what I had done. They would be constant, visible reminders of what had gone on in that arena.
It was then that my mind wandered, and conjured the sensation of a jacket being clutched in my hands before I had fallen unconscious. The medical room was empty, so there was no one to stop me from ripping out the needles stuck in the crook of my elbow, and swinging my legs over the side. Supporting my weight was difficult, but necessary if I was going to find Cato. He wasn't dead - the cannon hadn't gone before the victory song played - this, I knew. I could recall the rise and fall of his chest, even as I had crawled towards him.
