[ready to LIVE] -- cassandra hearsh

They sure had done a smashing job with her, hadn't they?

Cassandra, body in all sorts of disarray, refused to let them kill her. Those cruel eyes, those bloodthirsty grins. They didn't deserve to see her pass. They didn't deserve to hear her last words, see her draw in her last breath. They didn't deserve anything. But death. Yet that didn't seem exactly right, did it? Of course not. No one deserved death. No one but the Capitol. For forcing teenagers, mere children, to do the dirty work they didn't feel like doing. For pitting them against each other, for changing their attitudes, for altering their minds, for twisting their entire being. Turning them into monsters.

A trail of crimson would show the others where she had gone, where she had forced herself to go. Where she had died. Maybe they would show her die on television, where her parents would be watching, her old flame. Maybe they would feel guilty over what they had done to her, how they had pushed her over the edge like this. Or would they? Her old boyfriend, the one whose face was even now growing hazy, might not even love her. Surely he wouldn't miss her? He had broken her heart so easily, writing how he felt over note instead of confronting her face to face like any man would have. Would it be that easy to watch her die? To watch her suffer at the hands of others just like her?

Her blood was everywhere. On her face, on her torso, on her back. There were wounds on every inch of her body, or so it felt. The pain was terrible, but glazed over by a sudden drowsiness. It would flare up here and there, her mind tricking her into feeling the cold edge of a blade on her flesh, more cuts, more bruises, more attacks. She would scream, using up more and more energy to toss and turn, rolling in the snow until a fine layer coated the dark mane of hair on her petite head. Her heart beat quickened, with both the promise of death and random flashes of terror, caused by sudden hallucinations of tributes approaching her, jamming a knife between her ribs, cutting her at the throat, removing her head, more limbs. Dammit, if only she had her leg. If that bastard hadn't taken it off, she might have been able to grab a weapon and run from the damned place before things had gotten so bad.

The cold helped with the pain too.

Tears wouldn't stop. Pain wouldn't stop. Shame wouldn't stop. Tears. Pain. Shame. Tears. Pain. Shame. Tears, Pain, Shame. Tearspainshametearspainshame. It all became a blur, fighting for her immediate attention. She refused to give in, however. Doing so would mean defeat. Defeat wasn't good. Defeat brought death. More pain. Less pain?

She wanted to give in. Oh, dear lord she wanted to give in so bad. Exhaustion and pain warred. Exhaustion begging her to give in to the insistent pull of eternal slumber. Pain forcing her to keep holding on, if only for another moment.

Pain won.

Life didn't flash before her eyes like it was told to happen in old stories. In fact, Cassandra wasn't really sure she wanted to see her life again. It hadn't been exactly terrible, but it hadn't been rewarding either. Disappointed parents, tormented love life. The only joy she had ever felt was training for what she was participating in right now. And even in that, she had managed to fail.

Mother and Father, who insisted on blaming anything and everything that happened to their daughter on something else, would tell their friends that the only reason their daughter hadn't exceeded their expectancy was because of the weapon she had received. "She would have done so much better if she had gotten her hands on a knife or a blade of some sorts," they would say. They would brag that she wasn't the first to die, that she had somehow survived until the end of the Bloodbath, which was more than they could say for some of the others. They would blame her death on the supposed prior training acquired by the alliance that had slaughtered her. They would blame blameblameblame. But they would never point their fingers at Cassandra. That was something unheard of.

Maybe they would be right. Maybe the tribute from District Three would have done better if she had gotten that falchion. Or maybe if she had gotten a bow, she could have put more distance between herself and her foes. But she would never push the blame off on anyone but herself. She was to blame for her own failure. All of it.

Giggling, she felt herself slowly slipping away. The pain was gone, completely erased from her system by the looming grace of departure. She tilted her head slightly, getting a better view of the remaining tributes. All from that same damn alliance. The same one that killed her. She carefully stuck up her middle finger and raised her voice to a barely audible whisper. "Fuck you all."

Cassandra Hearsh of District Three let herself go, slipping to a place where she could wallow in her shame, guilt, and pain for the rest of eternity.