ACT I, CHAPTER ELEVEN ❛fear is familiar, never-ending and cold❜ content:blood/gore/injury, general angst, dissociation.
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The uncanny silence of District 6's streets is shattered by the hammering footfalls of two individuals: one is the hunter, the other the hunted. They're the final two alive, and each of them want to get home desperately, eager to finish the Game once and for all. The predator, a faceless boy, is gaining ground on the prey. Her movements are sluggish, like she's wading through a pond of molasses. With a glance back, she sees his knives flash silver from the moonlight, his pace swift and meaningful.
Madaket knows that her stamina is dwindling. She has been running her whole life. This boy, the one intent on driving his knife into her chest, has trained for years to outrun little girls like her. It's only a matter of time before he catches up to her. She's only delaying the inevitable.
Deep down, she knows how useless it is to run away from something as inevitable as destiny. The second her name was drawn from the Reaping bowl, this was the path set before her. Either she fights, or she dies. But she's afraid. She doesn't want to fight, to kill. It's not fair, her eyes are wet with tears. Fear keeps her clumsy, slow feet moving. But it's just not enough.
The chase ends when she feels his presence looming near and she stops completely, turning around. She uses the three seconds it takes for the boy to reach her to bend her knees, hiking in a breath. He is smiling.
He raises the knife in a stabbing motion and swings it at Madaket's shoulder. She sees his every movement frame-by-frame. It's like he's moving in slow motion. She easily ducks out of the way and sends a kick to the wrist of his knife hand. There is a crack! and his hand falls limp, the knife clattering to the ground. The boy wails in pain.
While he's distracted, Madaket fumbles for the knife. The handle is warm and familiar, perfectly molded around her fingers as if it was meant to be wielded by her, the whole time. She turns on the boy who is still clutching his broken wrist and jabs it through his chest.
She hits him at such an angle that she can feel the blade slide into his ribcage. His breath escapes his mouth in a rush as steel bites through lung tissue. As she yanks it out, she feels his rib grate against the metal, a splash of hot blood spraying on her face. He lets out a breath and falls to the cobblestone streets like a sack of potatoes. She hovers above him, the knife dripping red onto the stones beneath her.
When she looks at him, he's clutching the wound and moaning in pain. Then, she blinks, and his face is suddenly Byatt's. Byatt's eyebrows are screwed up in agony, blood trickling from the side of her mouth as she struggles to rake in breaths to her deflated lungs.
Madaket's knees give out and the knife slips from in between her fingers. A whimper escapes her lips as she collapses on the ground near Byatt. Her trembling hands go to apply pressure to the stab wound, but Byatt cries out as soon as Madaket touches it. It's too painful. If she tries to help, it will only hurt Byatt further. She wraps her hand around the back of Byatt's neck to force her best friend to look at her. Already, she can see the consciousness fading from her glistening black eyes.
