verbatim // hunter-gatherer, day one.

My knuckles scream, red and raw and thumping underneath the impact of two cracked noses. Even when my legs give out from under me and I collapse into a pile of colourful pebbles I can't bear to open up my fists. They might be broken - then I'm screwed. And once I know I'm screwed I'm going to panic, and then once I panic I'll be good as dead.

Boom!

Like them.

God I hope it's not Nikolai. There's nobody around, not behind me or where I was headed, so the kids who's faces I socked surely aren't coming back for more. I've never punched anybody, not ever - even if the first one was an accident more than an act of violence. Least I kept my thumb out from inside my fingers on the second swing - it'd surely be shattered. Call it instinct, call it saving my own skin, but the second punch was definitely meant to hurt. I needed those knives more than they did. And I needed my life to last a second longer in the moment.

So sue me. It's the fucking Hunger Games, what'd they expect?

The knife still sits clutched in my fist, purple and blue and shining in the light like the bruises on my knuckles. Slowly I unfurl one finger, then another, and another, braving for the hot flinch of broken fingers - but it does not come. The knife glistens in the light, passed from hand to hand - neither broken. I’ve still got a chance in this hellscape. Even when I collapse into the pebbles and realise I’m still alive and breathing and the sobs of relief roll through my chest it stays in my hands. Better safe than sorry.

No more canon-fire. When I was growing up the Bloodbath was the deadliest part of the games, but it seems the Gamemakers have scared us a little too well - we all avoid it as best we can. I don’t blame them for running like I did, but the weight of silence and how many it means are still alive hangs heavy against my shoulders.

Hours pass and I count pebbles until I hit the hundreds, turn a few in my hands and realise they’re gemstones and marvel at how many are here. I wonder if they’re real, and I wonder how much they’re worth, and I think about how just a handful would have set Mom and Dad up for life if they were the real deal. Dad wouldn’t have had to work in the factories. He wouldn’t have been there when it collapsed. He’d still be ali-

My eyes squeeze shut tightly but it’s not enough. The tears sneak out anyway, hot and angry, and I pull my knees up to my chest and hold myself close in comfort because I am alone, until I’m not, and then I’ll be dead. Like Dad.

Maybe that won’t be so bad.

A scrunching of boots in piles of gems scratches past my ears and I freeze, waiting for the sound to pass. But it only gets closer, approaching me quickly, and in a flourry of limbs and panic I remember where I am and scramble up to my feet, tripping over and losing my balance for a moment - these damn boots will be the death of me.

"D-don't come any closer!" I stutter, whirring my body around to face the noise. The tip of my knife points to the boy from Five, the wolf in a pack of lions. I look a mess, strands of curls escaping from my ponytail and red cheeks flushed with evidence of my earlier grief. But I stand my ground anyway, even with the shaking in my hands, and stare him right in the eyes.

"Seriously!" I add, prodding the knife toward him and silently begging that he makes it quick.

and all you can hear
is the sound of your own heart
and all you can feel is your lungs flood
and the blood course