Of Victors and Tributes

Chapter 23: What of Me

I awake not where I put myself to sleep, in the hole with the floor of the forest covering me, but underneath a bush. I push my way out of the branches and leaves and struggle to remember what happened, or even where I am. Slowly, it all comes back to me. The reaping, when I was chosen after my brother was already stolen by the Games. Vestia becoming my ally, District 6 and Meadow becoming my allies. Vestia being stabbed at the bloodbath and dying, taking to the woods and killing Briar, then happening upon Meadow. Bonding with her so tightly and quickly, being saved from a crazed tribute by District 6. Our alliance in the mountains that ended with destroying the supplies of the Careers and Fairlie dying, Axel leaving us. Meadow and I wandering about, being wounded and chased by mutts, killing District Nine. Leaving Meadow in the night because I wanted so badly to win, but returning at the sound of her pain. She died in my arms, and Axel took me away. Now he's gone, too.

It's late afternoon. I must have slept at least twelve hours and I would say without rousing once, but apparently I awoke in a state of stupor and dragged myself somewhere else. I ought to get my bearings and then buckle down. If I haven't missed a cannon, there's only five of us left. A terrifying but delightful thought, I guess. I don't know, my head is still foggy. I feel like I'm drunk, though I've never been.

I get up and wander a bit until I come across a stream, which I follow towards the grassy field. As I walk it begins to rain, and I take a break to look back towards the mountains. The clouds are darker, rougher there. Suddenly, I turn on my heel and head towards there instead. I've obviously just gone through a mental break, I think I'm still going through it, and I can't be too close to Pearl right now.

I try to only think very vaguely, but multiple times I see them in my head. Weaver, Vestia, Briar, Fairlie, District Nine, Meadow. Even Dad, whose death I had come to some sort of peace with. I sit down quite suddenly, landing hard on my injured hand. I bite my lip, then look over it, but when I do, I can only see the shredded remains of my father's arms.

He died when I was twelve. I had just started taking shifts at the factory, and had just put my name in the Reaping. Weaver was sixteen and had worked hard to arrange for us to work close to each other, me sorting clothes while he checked to make sure there were no issues with the clothing. Mom and Dad, on the other hand, worked in the depths of the factories, pushing clothing through giant, dangerous, hideous machines. It must have been about three months into work when there came yelling and commotion that meant someone had been wounded. I went diligently back to work, as Weaver had taught me to, but he stared into the factory wildly.

"What?" I asked, continuing to work in case I got yelled at.

"That's Mom and Dad's corner," he trailed off. Plenty of people had gotten hurt around there, of course, but he had a habit of making sure our parents were okay. Once or twice he had earned a good smacking from our superiors for not working, but never a whipping.

"Did something hap–?" I had stopped mid sentence, because out came a stretcher with a man whose arms were just about non-existent. Bleeding red, torn to tatters, horrific. And chasing after him was a woman who was none other than my mother, and her screams caused both Weaver and I to run towards them.

Lacey and Twine, being watched by Jean's mother, were not allowed to see our father until he was dead. He was taken to a makeshift hospital for the injured in the factories, but I'd barely call it a doctor's office. If people survived, it was out of sheer luck or the fact that their wounds could be easily and quickly closed up. Dad, of course, did not make it. Us kids received no last words from him, no kind look from his eyes or small smile from his lips. Mom said he had passed out after they pulled him out of the machine, and he never woke again.