May Death Be With You - [Blythe Day 1]

Pain. Pure pain and agony. All I can feel throughout my body is the sharp pain of air passing over my open wounds. My forehead stings and drips blood into my eyes. It is crusting in my eye lashes and eyebrows and the stench of it is reaching my flaring nostrils with every breath I take. I am breathing heavily, clenching my teeth with every step I take through the red sands of this forsaken Arena. The backpack bounces against my back as I limp run, heavily favoring my right thigh. I know I am making the most annoying sounds, not trying to hide my obvious pain from any nearby tributes. Sweat has caused sand to cling to my body like glue, and as I run, I feel its itch becoming worse and worse. I try to keep pushing on through my pain but soon find myself collapsing to my knees in the sand.

I breath deeply, catching my breath as best I can and praying I am far enough away from the others that they do not notice my presence. I look around, but do to my still blurry vision I cannot see much past the plain of what seems to be never ending sand. I look through my backpack, trying to figure out what exactly I managed to gain. Three water jugs, all empty. Sunglasses, which I throw over my eyes, making an attempt to block the sun from my view. Some string and netting. Obviously a flail, which I throw aside, pissed at myself for using it. And 3 matches, which I am sure will be of great use to me later. Sadly, I find all my items gained to be completely worthless. I wipe away the blood on my forehead in frustration. I feel so helpless. This hell has only just begun and already I am battered and feeble.

Now would be a great time for a nice long drag from a cigarette or some long swig of alcohol. I swallow, realizing that I taste blood. I must've bit my tongue sometime during my fight. I spit in the sand, finding that the colors match. Blood red sand and blood red spit alike. Suddenly, I find myself looking over my wounds, trying as best as I can to rid myself of the pain, but with nearly nothing to work with my attempts seem futile. I rip the top half of each of my tube socks off, leaving them only ankle height and wrap one on my forehead and one on my thigh. They seem enough to stop the bleeding for now. I look down at my arm, trying to figure out what I should use to close it up. I end up cutting a little strip of my jumpsuit off and wrapping it around my arm. I feel so makeshift, so terribly mended. But I guess I am used to pain that never leaves.

- - - - - - - - - -

I find myself crying. The tears are hot on my cheeks but the air of the room chills me. A shiver runs down my spine and tiny sobs rack my body. Blood is plastered across my shirt and hands and somehow it has made its way over my lips. I don't know how, I can't quite recall, but I am sure it is hers. They haven't even bothered to wash me up before sitting me here, cuffed at the wrists and ankles shackled. I'm trying to get a hold of myself, trying to be ready to tell the police who killed her but I can't. I just can't. She is gone. I want to condole myself but all the leaves my lips are whispers of denial. No. No. No. I want to wail, but I keep it inside, only letting my lip quiver. It is hard to catch my breath, but when they walk into the room I make sure to breath deep. I try to wipe away tears but everytime I try more reappear almost immediately. The man is large, eyes sending me no condolences. Dumb bastard doesn't care and I know it, but I am too distraught to do anything about it. We sit, minutes passing, me still weeping. He shows me some pictures which I end up pushing away and then more pictures which I end up trying to tear apart. The man looks at me, straight in the eyes, unblinking and unmoved by my poor state. "I don't much care about who you are or who this dead girl is but I swear if you don't tell me who done this, I will have you shipped to the Capitol for rape and murder." I sit, face down, raging. I don't think I will answer him. "You hear me boy? Tell me who the hell done it or I swear -" "You better care." "Excuse me?" "You should care who she is." I find myself slowly rising, anger welling inside me. "Because I swear if you don't, I will kill you. You hear me -Boy?"

- - - - - - - - -

My mind sets itself back in the present. The District 8 tributes sit in my head. The boy. He ... No matter what the Capitol said about alliances he didn't seem frightened to what they might do. That fist he threw at me seemed so futile, so small and useless. But I think to me I felt something else. That boy, who I think goes by the name Shrol, saved his sister. Tears well up in my eyes. I know I shouldn't let that happen, but this boy has done what I couldn't have done. He is so young, so small, so like me 3 years ago. Except his sister is still alive because he didn't shy away from a fight, no matter how big and mighty the opponent looked. He was strong enough. Stronger than me. And sadly, I was the monster I promised I would never be. Single tears roll down my dirtied cheeks from underneath my glasses and I wipe them away.

"Shit."

I reach into my pocket, pulling out my token. I clip it around my neck, letting it dangle on the outside of my clothing. I no longer care about appearances. Who the hell cares if I wear a girl necklace? Who the hell cares about me anymore? I stand, wincing at the pain that is still present in my muscles. I sling my backpack over my shoulders and bend over to pick up my flail. I keep in locked in my fist, vowing to never harm the boy. Not the girl, although I know who she reminds me of, but the boy. I will never take another swing at the boy, Shrol. I don't care if I encounter him again and he tries to kill me, I will not attack him. I can't. Because when I look at him all I see is a young boy, tears in his eyes, bloodied hands and face.

All I see when I look at him is me.


{{Blythe leaves 'Falling Sand' with a flail, water bottle x3, length of string, sunglasses, fishing net, backpack, amd 3 matches. He uses First-Aid and brings his damage to 21.}}