circle up, head count 'OPEN'

Noah Ripley.

I watched him die today—as one of our tributes—and I can't find a way to say good-bye to a boy I did not know as anything other than the "Snake King" or "That Ripley Boy". Saying farewell to someone you don't know is ten times harder than saying good-bye to people you love or, I think it is. I've never left the people I love in this world. Not like those 24 tributes who left everything, everyone, all at once. I take it back; I have no idea how hard it is to leave a loved one.
The thought makes my stomach hurt as I sit in front of the screen, watching recaps and staying up to date on who's left and who isn't. But I can't get over this boy who has just died in the feast on day six. He had a golden crown made of snakes.
Virdian died, too. He shouldn't have, but he did. I liked him, that boy from District 1, far more than I appreciated his sister in the 61st Hunger Games. She'd been a harder pill to swallow, even after Fitz had killed her. Fitz Ripley. The name loops me back to Noah's fresh corpse making its way back to its rightful place back in District 4, where it will probably be put to rest beside his brother's familiar headstone. But that's wrong. His death doesn't belong here; his life does. Everything he was before the Games—before his ocean no longer swelled with saltwater, but breathed with an army of snakes under his command—belonged in District 4. The district was his home. It was not his tomb like the towering golden pyramids of the 63rd Hunger Games.
Sometimes, I can't help but think it would be better if the Capitol kept the bodies of their victims. If they kept them away from their families, the deaths might not ruin what little peace they can find at home. Maybe, just maybe, it would be easier to move on without having that reminder that their child lived and was buried in their district. They wouldn't linger around their graves, breaking down as they talk to a body that will never answer.

Had Noah ever visited Fitz's grave? Penelope's? I'd have never known if he had. My travels often consist of avoiding the cemetery. The people who visit it, who lay fresh flowers by the stone labels, are none of my concern. I have no right to intrude on such a sacred ritual as mourning. They are not my loved ones who have died. I leave those broken souls, who watched someone they loved be torn apart by the Games, to heal. Alone. I'm often too afraid to even look the family members of the fallen in the eye. Perhaps that's why I never knew Noah Ripley, too chicken to look up and maybe find Fitz somewhere in his gaze.
And that's why I can't grasp my sudden inability to let Noah go. I did not know the tribute. He is dead already, but for some reason, I still feel this hollow, untameable desire to cheer for him. I can only blame that unspoken loyalty every spectator has to their district's tributes. We all wanted him to come back. He had a golden crown made of snakes.

Pulling my sights away from the screen, away from the slow motion replay of River Destin splitting the skull of yet another tribute (now she's killed that crazy girl from 9 who terrifies me), I make my way towards the door. The sound of the last District 4 tribute's voice—River's voice—calling for Noah, fades as I leave behind the feast and all its victims. Seeing them die once was enough.

The light is beginning to fade from the sky as the sand of the ocean's boundaries shifts beneath my feet. Salt tightens and dries my skin as the wind allows the spray of the crashing wave's to coat my flesh. It is all too much. The days spent watching the Games on the screen—days wasted—have rotted my thoughts as though they were festering carrion in the midst of a summer sun. There is no escaping the faces and names. Like flies for the carcass, the deaths cumulate far faster than I could have ever imagined. You've seen the Games before. Why this year? Why chose this year to care? I don't know. Because he had a golden crown made of snakes.
Darkness is eating away at my day and I realize I don't want to be in the shadows. I don't want to lose the light, but I do welcome the night. That's when people do most of their mourning, in the embrace of darkness, and maybe that's what I'll do. A midnight vigil for the District 4 tribute who was a king. A farewell to those lost. A burning hope for our last tribute to come home.

Collecting rocks isn't hard. There are quite a few small ones, sea-worn and smooth as they rest along the sand in a small pocket near the beginning of a rocky cove. It's like a separate graveyard in the earth's crust, a resting place for broken pieces of slab that come in all shapes and sizes. The round, smooth ones are easiest to pick up. Slowly, I gather the fallen tributes in my arms. One stone. Axel. Another. Ashby. A third rock settles into the nest in my arms. Sampson. Plucking them from the sand, the deceased grow heavy in my arms before I lay them down again and begin my circle. Meela settles into the partially completed ring when I realize I've run out of the smaller stones. Nine tributes down, but my circle is incomplete. My fingers dig into the sand for further down rocks, unearthing them from the layers. They're heavier, jagged on some parts. It takes longer to organize these ones into the loop. William. Essence. I remember their faces, too. Ezra. Emerald. Their names do not leave my mind, do not give me peace, but it isn't until I dig into the sand for Benat Izar's stone do they actually, physically hurt me.
The stone's edges cut into my flesh and I can't do anything but feel my blood run out. He's still fighting, that's why he has cut me. "No...no..no," I begin to mumble, attempting to wipe away the blood that has soiled the rock. "You saw enough blood. You all did. Stop. You can stop now." The liquid smears across the surface and I know it's useless. Sand morphs the pain of the cut into a sting, but I fail to realize how much it hurts as I stare at Benat. "I'm sorry," I apologize as if I'm the one who killed him, as if it wasn't that crazy girl from 9 and the other one from 5 that wears her fingernails like a necklace, "I'm so sorry." The image of his broken bleeding body, crimson liquid glinting like gold in the sunlight resurfaces in my mind. Gold. I remember Noah. He had a golden crown made of snakes. My shaking hands finally let Benat settle down beside Emerald. He deserved to rest. They all did.
Fourteen fit in the circle, but I know I must make room for the final three that died today. Hands combing through the sand, they fail to meet the newest members of the fallen. Cut throbbing and arms tired from sifting through grit and recovering stones, I still refuse to let them stay there. I refuse to leave behind Ivy, Virdian, or Noah. They are mine to find, mine to see off to whatever destination awaits them beyond this world. And find them I do.

Scraping the tips of my fingers into the thicker layers of sand, each inch colder and more compacted than the last, I finally find my last three. They're heavy, the heaviest my tired arms have yet to carry. But I pull them from their graves just the same. All three of them rise from the cold hollows in the beach and fall into place with the others.
The night is black by the time I have found them all. Only the moon and its stars offer me the light I need to finally begin my vigil. Normally, if one had money, they'd ignite some candles and just watch the darkness. My substitute for candles, which I do not lack simply because I haven't a single coin to my name, but also because a few candles won't do it. 17 have died already. Candles will not do. So I place the few sticks I can find within my circle of fallen tributes, of small stones and larger ones. A bonfire will be enough. A bonfire says something bigger has happened, that the small glow of a single flame needed to be replaced with the blazing inferno of a raging fire pit. It's a signal fire. Come one, come all.
My sparks finally light after a few tries of constant friction between two sticks. This skill, one I was so hesitant to learn, I have only mastered because of my father's belief that "every proper fisherman should know how to signal for help." The flames pick up, illuminating and warming the 17 stones huddled around it.

With the pit complete, I linger by the fireside as if I am a ghost, as if I have left the realm of the living along with the 17 dead children.