Fly Away, Sweet Bird of Prey {Fangor Redtail; Oneshot}

The fear that had arisen the previous night had now dissipated. Thinking about the reaping and the chance of being chosen had caused a panic to bubble up in side of me, but now that I was safe for another year, it was gone. Some other innocent souls had been selected for what was almost certainly a death sentence. Twenty-four children would be going into an unforgiving arena with only one returning alive.

The likelihood of a victor arising from District Nine was very unlikely most of the time, and I began to wonder if this year would be different. At least one child from my home district would be murdered this year, though, regardless of whether or not we have a victor. It's the time of the seventy-third annual Hunger Games, and I am safe for now. Years to come, however, could be different. Will I be forced to shield myself against those who wish to kill me in order to return home in a coming year? Will I have to fight in the seventy-fourth Hunger Games? What about the Quarter Quell, the seventy-fifth Hunger Games?

I currently live on my own, wherever I can find shelter after being abandoned by my so-called family. I know how to survive on my own, but not necessarily if I had to look over my shoulder all the time, being weary of the fact that my death is almost imminent. A positive death sentence is not something most people like to have to think about having.

It had been another year without the Games. I had made it without being picked in the reaping, which meant I would have at least another year to live. Was that a good thing, though, with the way I was living my life? Perhaps, but perhaps not. I live a life of solitude, mostly shutting myself away from others. I don't interact with those that I don't have to or don't want to, and I'm not much help to anyone. Perhaps it wouldn't matter if I died in the Games. Regardless of whether it would matter if I died or not, it wouldn't be this year that my death would come.

Was I already frightened of next year's reaping? Of course I was. I don't think I've ever known anyone who wasn't terrified of being picked for the Games if they live in District Nine. We aren't the Capitol's lapdog, and we don't train for the Games. Therefore, we wouldn't be nearly as prepared as those in the 'career' districts such as one, two and four. Just about anyone in District Nine that got chosen in the reaping assumed they wouldn't be coming back alive.

How often is it that you hear someone excited about a fight to the death? I doubt it's very often unless the person has a rather sick conscience. Fear is the thing that's imbedded in the mind of just about anyone who hears that they have to fight to the death. I've seen enough death over the course of my life to know that I don't want to face it myself. It would terrify me, no matter how strong I think that I am.

I lost both of my parents to death, and I've been abandoned by the remainder of my relatives. They care nothing for me, and I doubt they would even know where to find me after they left me out on the street all of those years ago. Now, I am alone. I don't think about the wellbeing of others, and I simply take care of myself.

With the reaping having happened yesterday, I felt a lot safer going out and about to get myself some things that I needed today. I ventured off toward an open market that I could purchase or trade for a few things, and then headed back to where I'd been residing with a small, brown, paper bag tucked under my left arm. As I walked, I passed by a lot of people, still deep in conversation about yesterday's events. I hadn't known either of the innocents who had been chosen, so I had no reason to converse with anyone about it.

When I arrived at my place of residence once more, I noticed something odd. There was what appeared to be a bird of prey, lying on the ground outside of the old shack with its right wing crumpled under it. Quickly, I went over to it. I've always had a fascination with birds, especially birds of prey. I continued to hold onto the bag of food and goods that I had in one arm, and scooped the bird up with the other once I had opened the door to the run-down shack that I called home.

Walking inside, I kicked the door shut behind me and set down my bag, then turning on the light. I rushed over to the small table I had near the center of the room, carefully laying down the injured bird. I was cautious not to lay it down in a position that would injure its wing any worse than it already had been.

After a few days of giving the hawk some care and nursing it back to health, it was back to feeling better. It was true, however, that there was no way it would be able to fly properly again. I'm not entirely sure at this point what injured its wing so bad, but my assumption is that someone was trying to hunt it for food.

Now, days later, the hawk has refused to leave me, and lives in my shack with me. I bring it dead mice and rats that I manage to kill with a small knife that I have in order to keep it fed, and it's like a companion to me.

Deciding to name the hawk Tobias, he's practically the one other living being that I like to be around. He's my closest friend, even if we don't speak the same language. An interspecies friendship can be a good one when you don't quite get along with other humans.