CAP - THE FINAL BATTLE (Dylan)

It is the day before the finale, and guilt is running through me as quickly as the worry for the result. I sit in the chair next to the hospital bed, which is empty and readily made. On the bedside cabinet there's a sheet of paper with a pen on top. It's the self discharge form. I think to myself of how Kyanite was able to sign herself out of the hospital and leave, even though she was perhaps not in the best shape. I have a choice to make and nobody is around to help me with it this time. I grip the pen in hand, twisting it in my fingers until I can make the decision. On the one hand, there's the choice of leaving now and coming back afterward. The second choice, brooding in this room until I get better - missing the fight and having to wait for the news.

I sign the paper.

As quickly as I did sign it, I am out of the door - hand on the railing for support, again. I go straight to the reception desk and hand it through the panel - she takes it, and moves me on. I'm out. Finally, after two weeks, I am out. I take in a deep breath, the likes of which are rarely so satisfying. The only thing that compares is the breath taken whilst aiming a bow, bending the string. I take in the smell but all I get is freshness. Since there is a possibility that I may be light headed and such, they give me crutches. I am reluctant, but contrary to career standards, I've had them before as my ankles are prone to seizing up if they get injured.

I arrive home, and everything is quiet. My parents aren't home, nor is Alex - my brother. In a way, this is good. I won't have to explain why I am here early. I take to the kitchen, taking an apple and trying the stairs for wear. Getting up is easier than I thought, though we have a railing. The smell of home reminds me of everything I love in the District. It brings back memories that I have missed, and joys that I haven't felt in a while. I'm in the bathroom, looking straight into the mirror, my loose hospital-given white t-shirt hanging on me like a rag. The trousers are thankfully my own, but they are worn and have been worn for the whole week. I feel disgusted. I open the cupboard which is also the mirror, and suddenly I am plugging in the hair clippers. Front to back, side to top. My hair is now reasonably short - but not bald. It had overgrown during my time in the hospital, as had my facial hair. I shave, and take off the rag of a shirt and throw it into the bin. That's when I notice them.

The scars.

Left side of my neck - huge cut from jawbone to collarbone. Right side of my neck - exactly the same but opposite. I lift my head, feeling them with a finger and thumb. Pride. It runs through me. These are battle scars. The arm that I use to feel it is my right - and I notice the scar upon there too. Wrist to elbow, a huge line. I feel it with my left hand. This is war paint. I turn, and look over my shoulder a slight. And that's when I see that my back has one huge scar right through my tattoo. The tattoo was large, a vulture with capitol symbols pasted over it like banners, carrying all of the districts in it's claws. Right through it's eye, a spear-struck scar now lies. This is liberation.

I awaken and I feel revitalized. Everything painful has become light, and everything light has become ready to see this battle take place. I step out of my door, my parents and Alex still not home - they must have been staying at our relatives, a common thing. I walk straight to the arena, where I can hear the cries of the crowd.

In through the front door, I get some very suspicious looks. Some people glare while others aren't aware of me. "That's... I thought he was dead..." I hear in the recesses of the whispers. Finally, I reach the door to the arena crowd itself. I open it and everything is already in motion - the fight, the cheering. It is a lot to handle but I can endure it. I have to. I hold the door open with one crutch, and walk my way to a spare seat.

I watch, and I wait.