Let's Have a Toast

And I always find, yeah, I always find something wrong
You been putting up with my shit just way too long
I'm so gifted at finding what I don't like the most
So I think it's time for us to have a toast

Even though you were dying when Charas Harp dealt that blow to your leg, you were not done yet. You had to deal with her attacking ruthlessly. At first you put your arms up over your face, trying to protect it, but eventually that failed you. The pounding continued long after you were able to feel it, long past the time when every bone in your face was broken, long past you cared anymore. The beating to your face had not killed you, but you wish it did. When she finally stopped, you tried to claw away, to die peacefully, away from the mayhem that you were so in love with just mere seconds ago.

Even though she gets off you, the beating is only temporarily done. The next thing you can sense is her shoving something into your stomach and forcing it in every-which way. You know it is happening, for some reason you can sense it, even though the only senses you have are smell and hearing. She then moves onto your head, this you can only tell from the blood that drips down your face into your mouth. And before this even registers, you lose all hearing. You cannot tell for sure, but based on feeling, it seems as a lake of blood is building up around your head, presumably from having your ears cut off. No wonder this girl got a twelve in training, she is a bloody psychopath. You have no idea what could make anyone so crazy. As if she already hadn't done enough, the psychopath cuts a X across your face and finally steps away, looking at the carnage she has caused.

Let's have a toast for the douchebags
Let's have a toast for the assholes
Let's have a toast for the scumbags
Every one of them that I know

Everyone back home in District One will be solemn, they watched their District self-distruct within minutes of the games starting. This has been a bad day for the best district in Panem, the worst one in a while. It is practically the laughing stalk of Panem now, with their tributes killing each other. That is not how it should be, but you could not help yourself. The girl was just too frustrating to you, taking away the spotlight that was rightfully yours. So you killed her. How fricking logical. And in turn, it brought your end.

Even your parents must think you are an idiot. Yes, they told you not to ally with your district partner, and they were the ones who made you hate this girl. They never cared about you, they only wanted the riches from you winning, nothing else. Their only preoccupation was having you win, not letting their son have a childhood. Thinking about it, doesn't it seem a little bit screwed up to you? Life never really was enjoyable for you, Michael Smith; it was just a bunch of working for your death, which has finally come. They will probably be out talking to people, saying how their son went crazy. Grieving only to keep up their image. Only in death have you realized they never cared, not for anyone but themselves.

Let's have a toast for the jerk-offs
That'll never take work off
Baby, I got a plan
Runaway fast as you can

Finally regaining what is left of your wits, you attempt to push away from the fighting ever so slowly. Any traction you might have gotten is gone, all you can feel is the growing pile of blood around you. Even though the cannon signifying your death will not sound until after the fighting has ended, you know your passing will happen long before. It is only a matter of minutes before you fade out, before you see the light and God takes you away, to a better place, right? That is what they have always told you, that dying is a celebration, your soul goes to a great place, unless you have committed sins. But you should have noting to worry about. Right? You never did anything you did not have to do. Even killing Sapphire Ross was mandatory, it was just part of staying alive. Thou shall not kill was not written with the Hunger Games in mind, God surely will forgive you.

But what if he doesn't? An eternity in hell, an eternity of torture. Surely God would not do that to you. He must know that you were never loved on earth, that you never knew any differently then to kill. If anything, it is your parents fault that you ended up like this. He must realize this, he must know it with his omnipotence. He must know everything, he must be for the force letting you stay alive to think about your life. Nothing was done wrong, you have nothing to worry about you try to convince yourself, but this is not true. In earnest, you just have no willpower to repent, you cannot come to the realization that even killing in the Hunger Games is wrong.

See, I could have me a good girl
And still be addicted to them hood rats
And I just blame everything on you
At least you know that's what I'm good at

Slipping away. Grasping for air. Each of your breaths become harder and harder. This would be the time where most would admit they did something awful, or that they loved someone. But not you. Even if you wanted to you would not be able to. Nobody was ever loved by you, you were too self obsessed. How could anyone ever have been as good as you were, Michael Smith? Slipping away. Grasping for air. You try so hard to cling onto that strand of life, but your fingers, covered in blood not completely your own, cannot hold on much longer. Slipping. Grasping. Passing. Falling.

A beat.

Another.

One last labored attempt at life.

Nothing.

Runaway from me, baby
Runaway, runaway from me, baby
Runaway I'm about to get crazy, then runaway
Use the thug plan, runaway as fast as you can

Baby I got a plan
Runaway as fast as you can