‹‹ you could be happy ›› [Sampson's Death]

Lying in her own blood, body curled to protect it from further harm, Sampson Farron had never felt more ashamed. There had never been, nor would there ever be, anything that even remotely resembled the pain that wrecked her body and brought forth painful shudders across her skinny form. She had long since abandoned her whip, allowing the useless weapon to fall away from her as her body gave up. Having never given up on anything, there was an indescribable hatred she felt towards herself as she allowed the muddied earth to cradle her. The rain was her only salvation. Its little drops poured across her body, washing away the bloodied wounds that littered her flesh and prevented her from rising. They made Sampson whole once again, even if only for her final moments.

Sampson trembled at the thought of Ivy Soren. She had seen the girl she had met in the training center flee the massacre. A weak smile parted the redhead's features at the memory. Ivy hadn't sunk with Sampson, and that was all that mattered. That mysterious girl, with her dark hair and fierce eyes, had walked flown away from it all. She had maneuvered the Bloodbath so easily, Sampson attempting to shadow her, to keep her close and distant at the same time. How had it all gone so wrong? You slipped up.

Left alone, save the bodies of the other fallen tributes that had died in the Bloodbath, Sampson began to cry. Being alone was never something she wanted. Death was expected, but being by herself was not. There had always been someone there. She needed someone to smile at, to flash her grin towards and know that everything would be ok. But no one was there. Her teeth clenched together with another spasm of pain. It looked like she was trying to smile still, with her lips parted as the rain ran down her face, cheeks strained with a pained grimace.

Sampson's wounds—the deep cuts, the shallow ones, the broken bones—had destroyed her. Oh god, you really aren't more than your carvings, are you? Remembering her beautiful creations, those delicate crafts that had been her lifeline for so many years, caused her hand to instinctively reach for the wooden pawn in her pocket. She found she couldn't reach it. The backpack, that damned bag she had died for, had twisted around her shoulders, its straps holding her arms back. At this realization, more tears erupted from her green eyes. You can't even do this. Struggling painfully, slowly easing the bag from her shoulders, Sampson did her best to free herself from the straps. It was like a trap, but eventually, she allowed the item to fall to the ground. With trembling hands, the teen pushed the bag through the mud and away from her. It had no place near her.

Now free of her binding, Sampson pulled the wooden pawn from her pocket. It was like seeing the sun at the end of a cold night. It reminded her of home, of Hailey, of everything that had ever been meaningful in her life before the Games. Yet, the little chess piece also reminded Sampson of her place. You really are worth your carvings, nothing more. Pawns are sacrificed early on in the game, don't you know that?! Why didn't you carve a king? A knight? Anything else? It was true. Sampson had actually been her craft, becoming a simple pawn that was thrown away at the beginning of the game. Knights would rise to battle, against kings and queens, never looking back at the small line of pawns that lay fallen at their hands. And there Sampson would be, lined up against the stars, a member of the fallen. Her vision was beginning to darken, shadows eating away at the edge of her sight, as she gently pressed the wooden pawn into the mud. It stood there, marking the place where a fellow piece in the Games had fallen. Just like some stupid, sacrificed pawn.

Collapsing back against the ground, rain still stung across her flesh. She was beginning to lose feeling, however, and soon all the pain would depart from her body. It would end soon enough. But Sampson was afraid. Her trembling form wanted nothing to do with the gates of heaven or hell, yet, she wanted nothing of the realm of the living either. She yearned for the sun. Out of everything Sampson could have asked for in her final moments, even taking precedent over having company, the redhead wanted the sun. It was such a simple request; just to have the rays lick across her freckled skin once more would have made the teen content in her final minutes.

Her realization that the sun would not be making an appearance (the Gamemakers had decided that the sky would cry that day and hide the sun), caused an overwhelming sorrow to overcome her. Ivy, once again, came to mind. Sampson wondered where she was. If there was anyone in the arena that could win, Sampson believed it would be Ivy. But, then again, she had also believed—even just for a moment—that she had a chance. A tiny chance, kept alive by a dash of hope, had been the District 7 tribute's faith. Look where that got you.

Once, when Sampson had been younger and filled with that naive gullibility that only small children carried , she had believed everything people told her. This was the reason why she had been so engrossed with a tale that an old man insisted on telling her. He'd explained to her that people died, not just once, but twice. It had seemed so believable then and considering the circumstances, Sampson couldn't help but think of the tale again. People died twice: once when the spirit departed from the body and once when their name was spoken for the last time.

Another wave of pain wrecked through her body, causing Sampson to wince softly. She wondered if anyone would remember that girl from 7 who died so early on in the carnage of the Cornucopia. She wondered if anyone would keep her from the grasp of her second death. But the girl wasn't stupid. Remembrance was reserved for winners and tributes who actually made it a day or two into the Games, not for the second or third tribute killed. No, Sampson didn't hold much hope in being remembered. You tried. She closed her eyes. Trying was just never good enough.