into the unknown | 83rd finale

Back to the aimless wandering but now every step I take, sends an ache that I should have been carrying everyday since the bloodbath. Luck is finally beginning to fade away, everything that I deserved eight days ago is finally catching up to me. Vargen may be slain but he has left his mark on me.

I dump my ass onto the chilled turf, moisture quickly soaking my pantaloons. If only I carried a mirror, maybe I could see the extent of the wound on my face or figure out a way to seal it up. Confidence retracts the idea of using the needle and thread on my cheek, except its use lies on my leg wound and the bandages are reserved for my arms. Blood no longer drips from my wounds; infection is my new enemy now and hopefully the antibiotic plant will keep any microscopic intruders at bay. That is something I learnt at the first aid station. Who knew tiny tiny creatures were out to kill humans too? We really are an enemy to this shitstorm of a world, everything exists just to see our death.

My body relishes in the moment of peace, finally accumulating some energy to get me through these final days. All I need is just one night of rest and all my levels will be restored and hopefully the consistency that I carried this morning too.

Now all that swarms my mind is What must Uncle Tom be thinking? Maybe he is pooping his pants with fear that I will be stood at his door in a few days’ time, ready and armed to smash another window. I won’t be running into his arms with a warm welcome back. I bet my uncle has found a way to arm my next opponent with some powerful automatic weapon like what the peacekeepers carry. It is not a surprising act for a corrupt man like him.

It is hard battle with my eyes as I lay flat on the floor, a perfect view of the anticipated anthem except it is likely my body will have fallen asleep before the show can begin…

...fuck… There is a rawr from the sky, I must have drifted away for a few seconds…or maybe minutes (hours even?). The show reel begins and seeing the face of a career girl gives me some relief but there clearly is two more out there as the final faces are the boys that I have battled with. So, it is just me, two career girls…and handless? Honestly what luck does that girl have to still be wandering this arena.

I try my best to roll back into the sleep that I was pulled from but disturbances in the ground shakes me to my feet. I know what is happening, and I better fucking run before some shit collapses on top of me. Dragging my belongings across the earth, I half sprint the path that the gamemakers have clearly mapped out for me. ”Can you not give a guy a break? I killed that monster for you!”Every half step comes with a slight trip, the stitching in my leg wound feeling as though it is not tight enough. So, like a pig destined for the dinner table, I am being ushered to the slaughterhouse. Who will be joining me at the abattoir?

I am ushered to another foreign landscape. Rows and row of vegetables, except I guess this will not be a feast to fill our stomachs, more like a feast to cut the intestines from within us. The gamemakers do not bother to turn the thermostat up, this cloak is no shield from the icy elements as every hair follicle is raised across my arms.

They are all here.

Every face that was not projected in the sky. And they are all here to kill me.

Before spitting an ounce of venom from my lips, I quickly drop an open jar of tar from my bag, dipping my blade into my own chance to get out of here. Now is my chance to put on my own little show. They can follow my script of inferno. ”Hey handless…oh do I call you armless now?” I look down at Penelope, noticing there are more missing parts to her frame than I first thought. ”Holy fucking Ripred!” I just let the laughter flood from me, it will likely be my last chance to feel such emotion before the herd of girls gang up on me. ”How did you even get here?”

A saw penetrates my leather torso armour, ripping it away from my chest and leaving a smouldering hole in my shirt. It is Cole’s relative. ”Hailsham, what are you doing here? Cole told me the purpose of your family; children hand-reared for slaughter. Isn’t it your purpose to die anyway?”

My purpose has already been written, and it is to get out of here with all my limbs and a heart still beating in my chest.

"Penelope, do you have a limb to spare?"

I have a story to tell.

Of a young girl born in the dirt — who taught herself to dance in the air, to walk on her hands, to twist her body into any shape imaginable. A girl that was proud, and wild, and who only wanted to live. So much that she ran from her home and her family; so much that she set fire to her shelter and lost herself in the woods.

And she found herself there, too.

I did.

I was more than this, once. More than my broken limbs and bruised eyes, more than the blood in my hair and the paleness of my face. I was a star, in her jewels and her satin, and now I'm this. I'm the dying girl that wants to be a survivor. I'm the girl who has been torn from herself, stripped of her identity.

Parts of me are rotting in the snow — memories and fears and dreams. Beautiful things and terrible things, I have always had both. Now I have an axe shoved into my left arm, a log splitter in the right — and in the stump of my leg, a spear. My wounds are black, burnt and forced into healing; and I'm standing. I focus on that last part.

I try to forget the pain, the sound of my screams.

How they swallowed everything.

And in the haze, there is a bird. She has been with me for days now, coming and going and always overhead. This creature does not belong to me, but she remains at my side. I have stopped asking her why. She is flying, and I'm fighting, and we're both trying to stay alive. I try to ignore that she is all I have left, that all my allies are dead.

But I can't.

I remember them staring down at me.

Their faces are in my mind when the world begins to shift, when the snow turns violent and the trees rise from their roots. When the bird finally leaves, rising above the wind and the sound and the ruin around me. I stumble along the path created, a girl and her weapons and her desperate hunger to stay. To remain.

When I break through the storm, the land is quiet and still. But there are figures in the distance — all familiar, and all marching to the same hallowed ground. And I know what this means, I feel it churning in my stomach and aching in my wounds. This is the end, the finale battle, and now is when I truly long for the feeling of my fingers.

The sharpness of my nails.

I want to dig them into my life, to hold on viciously — but I am left broken, and afraid, and alone. Alone with my blades and my desperation. And perhaps that is all I need, but the sadness still drives itself into me. It sinks into me like a black stone, echoing through the emptiness. But I'm not. I'm not empty.

I'm an actress, and I am playing the victor.

"You won't get a damn thing from me, Reyes."

I spit the words at him, bracing myself against his sword and his flames and his words — and I never lose my footing, never scream. I pull the pain into myself, the pain I am constantly in, and I hold it between my teeth until I am silenced by the sting. I refuse to be seen as less than I am, even when I am not whole.

"How did I get here? Surprised to see me?" I laugh, coldly and sharply — I am a fucking war story. I'm the thing they want to forget from this place. "I've killed four people, I've survived impossible things." I am bleeding, and I'm tripping over myself, but I still move forward. I want them to see me.

"I earned that fucking crown."

Ridley Le Roux speaks of honor, of longing for the end — but I am selfish, and I am foolish. I want to stay in this agony, to lose as many pieces of myself as it takes to stay alive. But I will humor her this, I will help her be that much closer to the crowning. "When you die, Reyes, I hope you are whole. I want you to feel everything."

"Honor? Honor means nothing when you're dead, Ridley."

Bell lashed out hard and fast, striking down Reyes Calvo with such force that Ridley cringed. There would be no recovering from a blow like that. Perhaps she was right, and honor would mean nothing to Reyes now that he was dying, but Ridley still silently dipped her head in acknowledgement of the loss of another brave soul. When she raised her gaze again her chest felt empty and broken. Fear was worming its way in, cold and unwelcome, as she recognized herself as the next likely target.

And if Reyes hadn't been able to fight hard enough to save himself, who was to say she would be able to?

Frost-coated breaths panting out into the silence, Ridley thought of all the others who she'd managed to outlive. She thought of Charisma's fighting spirit and Torren's strange quest for freedom and Milo's selflessness and Delaney's strength and Efram's courage. The truth, she realized, was that she hadn't deserved to beat any of them. Neither had Bell. Neither had Penelope. Winning the Games wasn't something any of them deserved. It was something that was being forced upon them, an illusion of a desire manufactured by the Capitol and the Gamemakers.

And in this world, so intricately and artfully designed, they were supposed to believe that honor didn't matter. Friendship didn't matter. Truth didn't matter. Promises didn't matter. All that was supposed to matter to them was the crown, life, a mercifully granted existence in the Capitol's domain. They couldn't force her to believe any of it, though. Stick to your virtues. Bette's advice rang so clearly in her mind that it felt for a moment as if she was back in the Justice Building.

Her virtues. Ridley did care about honor, she realized, and not just because the name Le Roux demanded it. It was because she was probably going to die right then and there because the Capitol had deemed her worthy (or unworthy) enough to be a sacrifice and honor was her last way to spite them. A way to sneer and prove to them that there was, in fact, something she cared about more than the crown. A way to honor the memories of Charisma and Torren and Milo and Delaney and Efram and every other tribute who had already fallen.

"You're right, Penelope." Her own voice sounded suddenly different to her somehow. Steady and distant. "You've done absolutely everything they told you to do. You've suffered, and you've killed, and you've hurt, and they owe you that crown." Not her, or Bell, but them. The people who had put them in the Arena in the first place.

Images of Milo swam through her mind. Surrounded by so much colorful thread that one could barely see how chopped up and broken he'd truly been. Hobbling up a staircase on one leg just because she'd had a gut feeling. Offering his arm to her just before the Gamemakers' grand feast. Stumbling through her clumsy dance instructions. This is just the calm before the storm, right? No wait, forget I said that. I don't want to ruin the moment. Did I ruin it? Despite everything, the memory made Ridley smile. It faded quickly as she refocused on Penelope. "But if we're talking about death and debts, then you owe me something, too, don't you?"

She raised her scythe, flames flickering, her own kind of reaper.

"I've come to collect."

Just for a moment-

I am blinded by a flash of light.

It is short and brief. And if you blinked you would have missed the glorious half a second. I swung my sword and a fire ignited. There was a large thump and the light was gone. The boy's body laid in front of me, bloody and burnt and broke. It took nothing more than a half a second and a bright light.

If there is light, there is hope.

Reyes Calvo is no more.

I can feel Death standing behind me, a smile on his face, finally proud that I have almost reached my full potential. The career girl swings at Penelope, spilling more of her blood onto the ground. I'm surprised that there is any left, that she even has some to spare, but Ridley finds it and turns the ground red.

"They owe you that crown."

My body freezes and turns colder than snow that's been silently falling around us. My eyes narrow and I bite my lip so hard to keep my anger inside that the iron taste of blood fills my mouth. They do not know what they are talking about. There is no one who is worthy enough.

Only me.

I begin to make my move, to end both of their lives, but the broken girl rings her bell and I am stuck. My legs will not budge and my arms are stuck at my side. A scream fills my lungs, and when it is released the sound fills the Arena.

"I hope you rot in hell, Penelope Marcet."

And as if my words were his signal, he began to move towards her. His black cape gliding across the white snow is blinding. His movements are slow, but deliberate and every second he inches closer and closer to the dying girl. He carries his scythe and another item in his hand. A crown. One that I know is meant for me.

Death may be here.

But I will be his queen.