put a bullet in my buttcheek {SS vs CR, Day 2}

Everyone is moving so quickly, everything is moving so fast. I stand big in front of Emberly, even as she protests my demands and raises her sword. I try to warn her again that I'm serious. That this is serious. Of course I hope she can't hear the twinge of fear lacing itself around my throat as I urge her to leave, my eyes following the gun in Rhetoric's hand.

"You know I can't do that--"

"Emberly, please--" I beg, standing between her and Rhetoric, my body a shield between her and a bullet between her eyes.

"I can't just leave you."

I've always been the one in charge. At least, I always tried to be. I made sure my brother was cleaned and fed and had someplace to sleep. I read him stories so that he wouldn't have so many nightmares. I made sure he went to school. I kept his eyes covered for as long as I could, like an elaborate, extended game of peek-a-boo that didn't end after he grew to stand nearly a foot taller than me. I kept him safe from harm—

Until he wasn't safe anymore. I still remember the way his ribs cracked as I threw all my weight against his sternum, begging and pleading through a fit of tears for him to wake up. Breathe. But I've never had the pleasure of happy endings; he never woke up.

And I am not doing that again, no matter how many times Emberly and Ree and Raquel are willing to throw their livelihood away for me. I will not let them. I just can't let them.

"For crying out loud Clem, it's a gun!"

A stolen glance in Raquel's direction and I realize I've gone and screwed it all up already. Chester's knife drips red. Teddy, who once looked far too fragile to hold a weapon, holds a spear drenched in blood. She bleeds, but she doesn't stop fighting, doesn't stop taunting or spitting fire.

She needs help, she needs more help or she won't make it off this beach without a

"She needs help, Emberly, please--"

"Don't —"

I twist just in time to avoid another bullet. But only barely, this one even closer than the last. As I regain my balance a few feet away from Rhetoric, I feel my back burn. Sweat drips down my back, the salt dissipating within the giant slash of red there. I grimace, clench my jaw as a wave of nausea rolls through my body.

Fucking hell, I ache all over.

"Rhetoric, if ya can’t use the gun, just give it to someone else."

I heavy air into my lungs, willing my body to hold out for just a little while longer as Emberly's district partner decides to pipe up—rather snarkily, too, though I'll admit he isn't exactly wrong. I swallow back the saliva that gathers in my mouth, force down the impending sickness as he takes steps toward Emberly and Rhetoric.

I turn towards him as he approaches, weapon raised but world tilting beneath me. I swing at him only to nearly fall over in the process. He steps past me easily, blade dripping with blood—my blood.

I stumble forward and he moves past me as Emberly takes a stance in front of Rhetoric—"I told you not to shoot, you're out of warnings, Rhetoric."—her voice steady and feet planted as if she were as powerful and talented as any of District 1's careers tributes.

"Behind you--" I manage to mutter as I stand. But it seems Rory is intent on making his presence known all on his own.

I struggle to my feet, reach around to grab my spear from my pack. I point it at him as he turns on his heels and speaks to Emberly.

"Emberly, It’s nice to see ya have got some good company, I bet the power couple are proud."

I try to move out of the way of his blade, my grimace twisting into a disgusted sneer as his words fall on my ears. Sometimes I forget that Emberly has someone she loves wearing a crown back home. It never really seemed like it was important, though to many it's such a big point of interest.

The name 'Lowe' never really seemed to define her in my mind. She's always just been Emberly. Then again I'm not from District 10 like this boy is—maybe the name means something different to the people who grew up watching Mace and Saffron succeed where others could not.

He manages to catch my shoulder blade with his already bloodied blade as I move to get between he and Emberly, who is still standing between me and Rhetoric despite all of my pleading and demands. My head spins and I sort of fall into her on accident, steadying myself against her as I speak to Rory.

"Bitter or something, Benstaloe?" I sneer, a very fake grin playing on my lips. I've never been any good at talking. And with a gun presumably getting aimed at the back of my skull as I speak, well-- I've never heard a gun demand anything but silence.

"A little jealous maybe?"

I twist around to jab at Rhetoric.

[Clem attacks Rhetoric w/ Obsidian Tipped Spear]
jxhWFo7xspear
[Shallow Cut on Back of Head -- 4.5 damage]

I swore I heard the click of gun, but now that I'm looking at her I wonder if my mind had been playing tricks on me, if the paranoia has finally begun to set in.

I turn to Emberly, breathless and muttering as I watch Rory over her shoulder, my head twisting frantically between Rhetoric and Rory.

"Emberly, if we get out of this alive," I say, chest heaving and heart racing. "You better get that power couple back home to sponsor me a bowl of ice cream for saving your ass."

I'm really only half joking.

we will wait for this
lean into my side
never felt alive
call the chance and sigh

Crimson floods her vision. It is spattered on the ground, dripping off of the tributes' blades, pouring down Rhetoric's tropical shirt, speckled on Emberly's shirt and her hands. The blood on her never seems to be her own, but somehow knowing that it is someone else's makes the feel of its thick, sticky texture far more grim and repulsive to her.

Emberly has always loved the color red — sunset-red and rosy-peach are her favorite colors. Her whole life, she had watched the sky over the golden fields turn from blue to purple to the most beautiful arrangement colors she could imagine. A sunset — sometimes it was a gradient, and other times it was like a watercolor painting.

Saffron once told her that when she was missing home in the Arena, she would think about the sunset. Emberly found that focusing on those memories were comforting, because when she thought of the sunset, she could truly see it in her mind. Scarlet and rose and peach and bloody orange, all spattered and smeared in watercolor on a canvas. And beneath that vibrant sky would be Emberly and her sisters, wrapped in patterned blankets and leaning on each other for warmth and comfort. Kiara would be sitting in Emberly's lap, playing with a firefly that she caught in the field.

The color red was home — it was her mother's hot chocolate and the fireplace in the living room, it was Saffron's hugs and Paige's sarcastic eye rolls that Emberly had come to find endearing.

But seeing all the blood on the ground, on her hands, spewing out of throbbing open wounds, was far from beautiful or comforting. Blood is a different kind of crimson, a different kind of scarlet from the sunset; it smells of death and when it is coated on Emberly's skin sometimes she wants to scream and her stomach churns with nausea. She would never be able to wash it all off of her — not even if she does make it out alive.

She is not like Chester Meisenzahl; she relishes nothing about spilling blood.

"For crying out loud Clem, it's a gun!" Raquel protests. Emberly knows that Clementina won't listen, however. But that does not mean that Emberly will leave her. She can't.

Clementina continues to urge Emberly to follow Ree into battle, but she just shakes her head at her. No, Emberly's entire body conveys. Her stance is solid — she is shocked that she is not trembling despite being absolutely terrified — and her eyes blaze with such a determined inferno that it looks as if she may burn holes into Rhetoric's skin.

"Rhetoric, if ya can’t use the gun, just give it to someone else," Rory cuts in. If Emberly could bring herself to laugh at the moment, she would giggled ever so slightly at Rory's jab. But she hadn't laughed since —

she paused to think about it for a moment.

Since she had gotten drunk for the first time with Basil Isley in the Training Center. They had giggled and howled with drunken laughter almost all night long in the empty dining hall. But that was all gone now, and Emberly begins to wonder if she will ever laugh again before she dies.

"Behind you —" Clementina breathes, but Rory's target is not Emberly.

"Emberly, It’s nice to see ya have got some good company, I bet the power couple are proud," Rory says, and before Emberly can react, he strikes Clementina. She tries to move out of the way, but he is too quick — Emberly watches with wide eyes as Rory slashes Clem's shoulder and drenches his blade in more blood. When he releases, it drips onto the sand.

Clementina falls backward onto Emberly's front, and her arms automatically link with hers protectively. Blood gushes from the deep wound on Clem's shoulder, running in dark rivers down her arm and onto Emberly's. She grimaces at the feeling of blood running over her skin, but Emberly manages to push her disgust aside, for Clementina's sake. Nothing would push Emberly to let go of her wounded friend.

If she were bolder, she would yell at him. She would charge at him, demanding that he stop, and then she would give him a harsh blow to the chest, just enough to scare him but not enough to kill him. If she were braver, she would kill Rory Benstaloe.

But she is not. She is Emberly Lowe, not Kaiser Fray. She is not brave or bold and or valiant — but she does have one thing: hope. Perhaps it would be enough to keep her tears from falling.

(Doubtful.)

Clementina turns to face her attacker. "Bitter or something, Benstaloe?" she snarks in return, and a grin twists up the side of her face. Emberly's grip on her tightens, a warning to Clementina not to say anything too inflammatory that would provoke Rory to fall into a rampage. But of course, Clementina does not seem to notice. "A little jealous maybe?"

She then pulls away from Emberly and spins around to jab at Rhetoric — although Emberly does not see the attack, she can just barely hear the tearing of Etty's skin. Her stomach throbs at the sound, and she is glad that she hasn't eaten recently, otherwise her dinner may be on the beach.

Emberly shakes her head frantically at Rory. "If you're jealous that my cousin is a Victor, you shouldn't be," Emberly tells her district partner. "It's true that because Saffron is family, we live very comfortably. But we were happy when we were poor."

Myara.

She died as soon as Snow learned the connection between the two sides of the Lowe family. Before Saffron found them, they were poor, but self-sustaining farmers. Their house was large, not because they were wealthy, but simply because it had always housed big families of farmers. But before they learned of Saffron, it had needed repairs after decades and decades of wear that they could not afford to fix.

The only thing Emberly's family needed was each other and their land. And there is a part of her that wishes she could return to those days, when all they had was their ranch and the bonds between them. But now her family was broken; all they needed was each other, but now they couldn't even have that.

"Being a Lowe gets you nowhere but the Arena." (Being a Lowe gets you nowhere but dead.) She regrets speaking those words at soon as she says them, but they spill out on their own. They had been building and building and boiling inside, until it all just reached a breaking point and she couldn't hold it in anymore. Although Emberly had tried to deny it before, what she has said is the truth, cold and hard like the blade of a knife. But those words, they cut right through her, splits her spine with one slice. She is easy to break.

"And that's not Saffron's fault," she adds. It's President Snow's. The Lowes are not cursed, despite what Kiara tries to tell her. ("It isn't because of Saffron! And how can Snow just make our whole family get Reaped? A witch like the ones in Momma's books must've put a curse on us, Emberly! I'm tellin' you!")

No, there is no such thing as curses, and Emberly knows that as this point, it cannot just be bad luck that two Lowes in a row have been Reaped.

It is not Saffron's fault.

But if she hadn't found them, if she hadn't gone looking in places she did not belong —

It is not Saffron's fault. Emberly will never allow it to be Saffron's fault.

"But that doesn't mean it isn't true," Emberly says, desperately hoping that Saffron would forgive her for what she said.

From several feet away, Emberly hears battle cries from the other four tributes. She sees Raquel's blood spill onto the sand and it sends a harsh pang into her heart. Part of Emberly wants to do as Clementina said and help her, but she knows that Clementina may die if she leaves her alone. She can't. She can't just leave her to fend for herself against Rhetoric and Rory.

Emberly would never forgive herself if she allowed Clementina to be ripped apart.

"Emberly, if we get out of this alive, you better get that power couple back home to sponsor me a bowl of ice cream for saving your ass," Clementina says, and Emberly spins around to look at her.

"I'm sure that can be arranged," counters Emberly, rushing the words out of her mouth; it isn't like they have forever to tease each other.

And suddenly, a sound rings out louder and more paralyzing than canon fire:

BANG!

And Emberly's heart stops —

Thump thump thump thumpthumpthump

T h u m

p —

and for a few moments, seems to stop with it.

She only sees a blur in the air and then Clementina falls over. But she doesn't need to see what hit her — she knows all too well, with a sinking feeling.

She feels as if she has been turned inside out. There is a horrible ache that shoots through her from her stomach to her heart, like someone has run her through with a spear. Only it is not her nerves that are being burned and torn. This pain is not physical, not from a gash on her flesh or a break in her bone.

But it is familiar.

Myara, McCarthy —

Clementina.

Blood pools out from Clementina's chest, where a bullet is lodged deep in her body. Every drop just heightens Emberly's panic, and soon is she is gasping for air almost as intensely as Clementina is. She rolls on the ground, writhing in absolute agony. The worst pain Emberly has ever felt is her collar bone breaking, and she remembers being submerged in a world of pain. She could not imagine the agony ripping through Clementina's body as she desperately inhaled as much air as she could, struggling for her life.

Emberly darts toward her fallen companion, running at breakneck speed. She tightens her grip on The Queen because it is the only thing she has to hold onto, that and the hope that Clementina may survive — on the battlefield, there is no shoulder to lean on. Not even Clementina's.

She retches; coughing up puddles of blood as her body rolls back and forth on the sand. Crimson floods Emberly's vision once more as it drenches Clementina and the area around her. It has begun to collect around her body from her gunshot wound, showing no indication of stopping.

Emberly's lungs are burning from exhaustion; she heaves heavily, her deep breathes the beginnings of sobs. But somehow the tears just don't come; maybe she is too firmly locked in terror's grip to cry, or maybe it's the adrenaline that keeps her somewhat steady.

Somewhat — Emberly can feel her hands trembling again. Those little quakes from before return, stemming from her core and reverberating through her entire body. From her very center to her fingertips, Emberly trembles with sheer fear and desperation.

"CLEM!" Emberly screams so loud that the sound she makes tears through her vocal cords and along the lining of her throat. And she doesn't stop, she can't stop. Panic seizes her, terror sinks its claws deep into her skin, and on the inside, she is bleeding just as profusely as Clementina is on the outside.

"TINA!" Please be able to hear me. Please please please . . . . There is no one to listen to Emberly's prayers — and there never has been.

Clementina does not speak, but her body is able to respond to Emberly's screams. She images that if Clementina did try to speak, it would only come out as a bloodcurdling scream. Clem tries to stand up, and her weak, wobbling body nearly falls over again, but Emberly is there to catch her.

It was a strange feeling, being the one to catch others when they fall. She had always been on the other end; Emberly does not fit the role of a strong protector well.

"Can you stand?" Emberly questions frantically, her eyes darting all over Clementina's body, from her eyes to the blood on her shirt to the hole in her chest. "CLEM, CAN YOU STAND?"

Clementina nods her head, and Emberly lets go. This time, Clementina is able to keep herself steady, but barely. Emberly wishes that she could hold her, that she could carry her away, but Rhetoric would only follow with her revolver raised. There is only one way Emberly can protect her friend.

An image flashes through her mind, one of herself — she is charging towards Rhetoric and slices her hand off with one strike. She watches as her severed hand falls to the ground, gun still clutched between its now-dead fingers, blood spurting out of the stump of Rhetoric's arm and streaming onto the ground in thick puddles.

The image disappears, all of the crimson wiped away by reality. But Emberly does not feel sick from the thought. She only has one thing in her mind, one single drive pushing her over the edge of what she thought possible: protect Clementina.

And she decides that she must, no matter the cost.

[Emberly attacks Rhetoric; The Queen (sword)]
e8pWJP9jsword
[1160 -- Miss -- 0.0 damage]

[accuracy reroll]
sword
[1194 -- Stabbed in Foot -- 8.0 damage +1 blades]

we will wait for this
we will wait for this
lean into my side
never felt alive
(call the . . .)

. . .

lyrics: "divinity" by porter robinson.

"You're a rotten boy," Ree's voice registers next to me, and I glance sideways, catching a glimpse of him from the corner of my eye. He seems alright, save for the roughly bandaged jawline. "And you need to go." he lashes out with his spear, but I'm distracted by Teddy, who seems to be deep in troubled thought.

He looks at me, echoes of some emotion in his eyes. Pain? Guilt? I can't quite distinguish the two. And then suddenly, it clicks into place.

Fear. He's afraid of his own actions. My jaw tightens, some feeling of realization coursing through me. We're all more alike than we think. We're just kids, thrown into adulthood many years too early. And now, they're turning us into soldiers. Children aren't meant to be soldiers. We're meant to stay home, away from the death and destruction, safe in our mother's arms. And yet here we are.

"I-I'm not violent." his words are quiet, childlike, echoing around my head as if the words want me to know just how true they are. For a split second my sword lowers.

(Settle down, I'm not like them.)

My mind's eye sees his hands, soft but firm, well practiced, refusing to be pushed away by my rough exterior. Kind eyes and an injury that won't stop bleeding.

(Just let me take a look and make sure it's nothing serious.)

"I'm not violent."

Back in the real world, Teddy's words break through my reverie. He's sure this time, confident in his words.

Mine are far quieter. "No, you're not."

"But it's either fight or let Chester die. And I can't let Chester die."

Without warning, gold kisses my skin, and I'm grateful it doesn't go deep enough to graze the heart that's beating rapidly within my chest. Pain branches out through my body, twisting around my bones and through my veins, little tendrils spreading in every direction until I'm not entirely sure where it's coming from anymore. A gasp escapes me and I pull back before he can go any deeper.

(Henri, I'm scared.)

(I know, but you've gotta learn somehow.)

Almost six years ago, another metal tip cracks my skin and breaks free the fountain pressing up from beneath it. A cry escapes little lungs and hot tears spread down childlike cheeks.

(It hurts, it really really hurts.)

(I know it does, Kel.)

BANG.

Gunfire and a scream drags me back to the present.

"Who cares if I'm forgotten?" Chester's words distract me from all the noise. He speaks through gritted teeth, and he doesn't convince me that he means it. "I've been forgotten a long time ago. Nothing will change." he spits a retort at Ree and than turns to me once more. "How does it feel knowing you're about to die, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it?"

I reach a hand up to the wound in my chest, grimacing, hoping to staunch the flow of blood dripping down my shirt and on to the black sand beneath me. "C'mon Ches." I grunt. "Drop the act, will you? You don't hate me that much."

[ attacks Chester with falchion (sword) ]

A00qmfDIsword

[ 1050 -- Shallow Cut on Right Forearm -- 3.5 ]

Deprived of the grace of bloodlust, I only manage a slight internal wince when the skin on his thigh splits open and spills clusters of red ribbons. The irony of the situation is not lost on me; a week ago I half-anticipated the feeling of his blade against my skin but instead the opposite has come to pass, he's felt the power of my spear against his skin and he's the ony stumbling; struggling to face a reality that no one would dare attempt to comprehend. He painted a vivid image in my head; involving my cannon and his blade resting in red wounds torn against porcelain skin and broken bones. One glance at broken lungs, fragile will and little power made it clear that I was the weak one.

Yet his blood drips into the sand from the tip of my spear; maybe I could be strong when I needed to. A quick half glance towards Raquel Izar and the fire that burns weakly within her chest and the quickening of my pulse in the steady reality of the slowing of hers reminds me of the line to be roughly drawn between desperation in the face of pessimism and the power of the polarized. Adrenaline only claws in my veins because of the fact that I've been left suspended between two shades of friendship on the verge of complete erasure. "Don't you dare stop breathing Raquel, just don't."


Gashes meekly patched over with her mercy make me question what I would do if the blood running within her veins were to ran cold with the single thrust of his spear.

"Rotten? Is that the best you got, Fer?" Teddy asks, taunt only serving to stretch the tension and drive the grinding in my teeth and the tightening grip around the shaft of my spear and my scowl.

"My name's Ree, Teddy." I spit, venom runs through my veins and builds from the back of my throat to the tip of my tongue. I don't stop hypocrisy on the tip of my tongue this time, two seperate bloodtrails were prominent on the tailend of the bloodbath but the numbers branded onto their final moments remain more prominent than their names. Difficult to accept, but this fact along with Emberly's words acting as static background noise only serve to remind me that in here, we are all reduced to family names and numbers branded onto our backs.

There's a clear contrast between the technique of an average boy with an average score branded along his back and someone as ruthless as Chester, as strong as Raquel and as determined as Emberly. When the sun dies down across the horizon, a King of Hearts and a score of six will not staunch the blood flow.

"I'm not violent. But it's either fight or let Chester die. And I can't let Chester die."

Power to the polarized; Teddy's spear meets her chest.

Her body jolts and the threat of cannon fire looms, blood streaked skies only serve as a reminder of this. She gasps, stumbling backwards in a twisted form of free fall only reserved for blood that's begging for the opportunity to run cold. Power to the polarized -- a steel gaze falls across Teddy's spear and cold fury running through my chest is only intensified by blood patterns made in the sand at the tip of his golden lance. "Not violent, eh?" Venom in my veins, ashen memory in my lungs. "Funny, cos last I fucking checked peaceful people didn't try and shove spears in people's hearts. So don't give us any of that bullshit that you don't mean what you're doing, we ain't stupid."


Broken to the ground, the golden lance in his hand becomes more prominent than any elevator we ever shared.

I can only guess that Teddy Ursa would take Raquel for a fucking idiot. "But I can see your point, you're fighting to protect your friend and I'm fighting to protect mine," one look at bloodflood spilling from Raquel's chest and I know that this won't last much longer. "Difference is Raquel here is worth ten of Chester and if you touch her again I'll put my spear through your chest and I'll call it violence and mean it." I don't even try and hide the bitterness in my voice this time.

Tragedy through the generations defined the existence of our family -- trials, bloodied hatchets, drownings and fire. But the loss of a friend to cannon fire would cut deeper than generations of death left to fester in history. I can't do it, let my suffering become another footnote in a history full of tragedy.

Or let Raquel become the footnote beneath the weapons of these two; a rotton boy and a liar. Men who take, boys who steal; I would never succumd to chemical bliss ever again if it meant burying Raquel or Clem in a grave made from sand. "You can't give up," and my plea comes barely louder than a whisper buried beneath this very real rage beneath this empty chest of mine. She doesn't deserve to fall with the only one to watch her a sadist with a bloodied blade, a liar with a golden lance and a mess with broken promises his hands.

Another gunshot fills the air and the scream that accompanies it is acidic.

Instinctive thought overriding rational reasoning, I twirl on my heels and catch Clem crumble to the ground, Emberly rushing to her side.

Heartbeat racing to unbelievable speeds, I do not hear a second cannon.

"CLEM, CAN YOU STAND?" The relief that floods my chest when a nod forces Emberly to let go is palpable. I open my mouth to speak words of relief--

"Then kill me before I gut your friend." A snarl cuts me off before I can even begin and I spin back on my heels, spear balanced within this trembling palm. He steps forwards in a flash, striking her skin with his knife and spattering a new red smile in the sand. Cried hitch within my throat. "C'mon Ches.Drop the act, will you? You don't hate me that much."

I've seen the look in his eyes before.

In the eyes of my sisters, contempt for the lazy and hatred for the careless. Luci would never hold me close when I sit on the edge of withdrawal, rattling and ranting about the psychological damage when deprived of my Angel Dust. No, instead of hair and soft hands, I would be met with a boot and the spit that comes with spiteful words -- sometimes I wondered if she would kill me if she could. "No point in reasoning with people like him Raquel," I spit, adrenaline forcing the movements of my feet. "People like them don't deserve words."

('I'm not a violent person.')

Raquel's blade skims shallow across his skin and I bite my lip.

The bloodied sand tells me there's hope.

Raquel's sword spills iron galaxies from his skin and veins, staining the ground in shades of hope because he may be a man who takes but he can still bleed and with the way he grunts and his movements falters he can still feel the influence of his organs fading to ashes and sand in his mouth.

I heft my spear, wondering if Adelaide can see the galaxies spilling from beneath our skin in her so-called visions.

("Then kill me before I gut your friend.")

"Okay."

Blood in the sand sparks ignition of power; I would let it consume me before I watched her burn.

I try to scream, but I can't find any air. Flash, bang, pain shooting up my back and into my stomach and radiating from my chest. I reach for Emberly as I fall, but I'm falling too fast and too hard to catch her hand for balance. She's a blur and I think maybe I'm going to pass out as I gasp for air only to find that breathing makes it all worse.

My vision begins to spot, black and red splotches dancing in the sky above me. Sand rubs itself into the wound in my back and shoulder as I struggle to find a happy medium between breathing and minimal amounts of pain. But I can only hold my breath for so long and as darkness creeps slowly through my vision I know I have the breathe.

I nearly inhale my own blood; I cough and there it is in the sand, seemingly pouring from my mouth. I spit and cough and the pain shoots through my chest, across my back, into my stomach. I fall forward, face in the sand and mouth dripping with a mix of saliva and blood. I always knew I was going to die in here. I just never thought anyone would care.

"CLEM!"

I can't see her. Hell, I can barely hear her through the pain. I try to scream again as the pain flares up again, but all I can manage is a spluttering cough and groan. My entire body is on fire. I wish I could will her to stay away from me, but my hands have already instinctively clamped themselves over the hole in my body.

"TINA!"

And I look up in confusion, roll onto my hands and knees with a panicked feeling washing over me. My mom should be back home, safe and sound in her own home. 'My sweet little Tina, always such a good girl.' I wait for a kiss on the forehead and rub on my belly, but it never comes. I shake my head because she shouldn't be here. It doesn't make sense that she's here.

"Can you stand?"

I see her lips move, but I don't understand. I shake my head, dazed and confused as the sun blinds me. I shiver as I stand, stumbling and falling and so fucking thankful that my Mom is there to catch me.

But that doesn't sound anything like my Mom; I'm always the one having to catch her when she falls. I was never allowed to fall.

A shiver runs through my body as I glance up to find Emberly looking me over frantically.

"CLEM, CAN YOU STAND?"

I tell a lie and nod; she let's go and aims for Rhetoric. I stumble, frantically trying to stay on my feet. I take a wide stance, clutching at the hole between my ribs as blood slowly leaks from the wound. I gasp and my vision begins to clear—just in time to feel Rory's blade slashes towards me. My guess is that he hit me, but I don't feel anything beyond the bullet lodged in my chest.

"This just needs to end, it just needs to end."

And he's right.

It does.