A recurring nightmare jolts me from my sleep.

Oddly enough, it isn't about Michael this time, it's about Meri, struggling through the black waters, screaming at me to help her, to pull her in, as her head dunks in and out of the oblivion below. "I can't!" I yell to her, though I know she can no longer hear me. "I'll die!"

And it's this same terror, recurring thousands of times, that draws me from my slumber.

No Melody, I think as I bolt up, rubbing my temples with both hands. Do not dwell on these things. Because the longer I think about all of the things I could've done—I should've done—the farther I am away from home, from forgiving myself. We all knew, going into this that someone was going to die; that we would all be helpless to save someone that we stood beside.

But I was not helpless.

I was selfish.

My muscles are strained, body aching furiously against the horrors I am awaking to. I blink several times, squinting into the darkness, eye only able to catch the tiny flames flickering on the end of the torch at my feet. A drip of deep scarlet covers the wooden base, catching the light in a gleam. The sight makes me nauseated with remembrance, and I push myself back until I've finally found the wall. I sink down against it.

For a moment, I allow myself to wonder if the ravenous mutt was all just a hallucination, or a new nightmare that the games have conjured from me. The cold terror racing through my veins, the beats of my heart roaring in my ears like a siren. It had to be real. A certain horror can only be felt in the presence of reality. Nightmares are impractical.

Just to give myself a sense of control, I check over my weapons to see if they've maintained working order. Demetriot's arrow is stuffed into my belt, and I slide my dagger in beside it. The water bottle I'd obtained is stuffed away in my jacket, though I've found little use for it thus far. I check around for more, searching to put things in their proper place, but soon realize, these are the only things I've got. This being so, when I'm certain everything's in working order, I straighten up and let my head hit the rocky wall behind.

Somehow, I find the courage to close my eyes, though without the light, my nightmares are free to haunt me while I'm defenseless. How can I wish to survive, when life only means nightmares, and questions, and more games to watch? How can I want to live, when I know I have to help the tributes to come after me, when nothing I could ever do will save their lives?

The human body can be cruel like that. It fights to survive, even when the mind is saying that it's not worth it.

The tolling of a bell, a very faint one in the distance, is what tears me from my stupor. I look up, expecting to see the same beastly capital creation, eyes alight with the fiery pain he wishes to evoke. Blood dripping from his set jaw. Instead, my gaze follows a glint of silver, and in one moment, a parachute lands effortlessly into my open palm.

Help? As far as I know, there's nothing I could need right now, besides maybe a few bandages to cover up the scratches the mutt has given me. My head feels slightly strange as well, a pulsing at the base of my skull. Concussion, maybe? No, a concussion would be far different than this, far worse. So, what is it the sponsors think I need?

A little tentatively, I work my hands around the top of the twinkly cup and twist it several times, before it pops off and lands with aclink on the floor below.

What I have been given is not any type of aid.

It's a note. A small sliver of paper scribbled with lousy words that I struggle to make out in the dim firelight.

W h o d o y o u t h i n k y o u a r e ? I c a n n o t w a i t u n t i l I s e e

y o u d i e.

Shock. That is the first thing I feel. Odd really, because it takes my mind several moments to piece the words together, to comprehend the message clearly. I cannot wait until I see you die. In a matter of seconds the fear rises, and I clamp my palm over my mouth. Hard. So hard, in fact, that my hands jostle and the parachute's cup falls onto its side, spilling over. A thick line of brown pops out.

Shakily, I reach down and take the new object into my fingers. Rope. We use it to dry the clothes, to hang the dishtowels back home. Drying day was always the worst, when mother would drag us out of bed early to dry and fold the clothes. No one would be too thrilled about those days, though they were always necessary, and I swear my father made an excuse to get away almost every time.

The line of rope is wrapped up in a bundle and I quickly untie it, laying it on my lap.

The truth hits me like a ton of bricks.

A rope. I cannot wait until I see you die. I jump, horrified at the concept of it all. This message is asking for my death. The rope...I'd seen a few people back in district twelve who'd do something of the sort. Death is obviously a common fate back in the Seam, but most just try to hang on as long as they can before they're taken, whether it be from sickness, starvation. However, there were always those few who thought it easier to get it over with quick. I can't say I don't blame them, though I can't say I'd ever do the same.

But now...This is a totally different story. No question, whoever sent this message has intended for me to use this rope. Not as an aid. As a death sentence.

For several moments, all I do is stare at the words, letting them bounce around throughout my skull. For surely this is the gamemakers way of heating up the games, creating that little seed of doubt in the back of my mind. That I don't want to go home. Perhaps they think I'm an unworthy candidate to win the games. Why not? I'm small, haven't undergone many remarkable feats, and I've failed to kill a single tribute (Meri could be an exception but I refuse to let thoughts of her enter my mind) this entire game. Not to mention, the nightmares, the distance I have between myself and the people. One of those other bulky boys will win. They've got the skill, haven't they?

But, at the same time, the message leaves my mind swept with confusion. Would a gamemaker, the precious bloodthirsty gamemakers who would never take a step out of line, really send this to me? It is in a parachute, and anything that comes down like this is from a sponsor. Then...who has purchased my gift? Who would have the mind to tell me such things?

I allow my head to loll to one side as I stare at the message, letting my eyelids flutter shut. It's got me so tired, these games. So very tired. Life isn't meant to bring us such immeasurable pain. Such torture in watching children die. I cannot fathom why a creature would intend to bring this to any of us. Regardless of a war.

While I lay there, my brain never ceases to keep testing my options, but I always come up with nothing. There is no possible reason why this message has been sent to me, let alone the rope. The intent is clear, the rope and the words of death, but why...? The whole thing has me so frustrated that I crumple the paper up in frustration and toss it down.

I double take. The fiery glow of the torch light shines onto the scrap in a wave of orange. Even in its crumbled fashion, I can make out one word against the darkness.

D i e

Funny thing really, when I think about the way those letters each stand separately, like their part of something different. I remember the kids back at school spacing their letters similarly, when they passed notes behind the teacher's back. I can't help thinking back to the way I decoded these notes, writing down the answer to a problem in disguise of something much more complex...

My head snaps up. I quickly reach out for the note and flatten it down on my knee. My eyes study each of the different letters, piecing together each one. With the tip of my dagger's blade, I etch letters into the rocky dirt. I start with an F, which I quickly figure out from the ordering of the words. By the time I've finished, I'm squinting in concentration, fighting to make out the letters I've made.

FLOOD

Flood? What on earth could that mean? Obviously, I'm aware of what a flood actually is, but there's got to be an exit in this place. After all, if I got in, that means there has to be a way out. And the only thing I can possibly take from that is that I came from upwards. So helpful when the entire place is shrouded in darkness.

However, I'm not the idiot who will just pass off something like this without some observation, so I rise to my feet and lift the torch, swiping it left and right in an attempt to make out the adjacent walls. Nothing but darkness. More floor. I take a few cautious steps forwards, stepping down toe-first to quiet my footsteps. The gamemakers wouldn't let me get off that easy. No doubt they've got at least ten mutts lying in wait, maybe even more. Not to mention hidden fireballs, cameras, explosives. Anything their cruel minds could possibly concoct.

All at once a blood curdling scream pierces the air. I look right and then left, stumbling back in an attempt to escape the surrounding sounds. Before I can right myself, I feel my body dragged to the floor and I go slamming back, sloshing to the ground.

Sloshing. Water. The black darkness swirls around my ankles, covering my coat in only moments, filling my boots. My body gives in to panic; I start thrashing wildly, grasping for the torch, digging my feet into the ground hard enough for me to pull myself against the currents.

It's my district. They're the ones giving me this warning. My fingers fumble for the rope at my feet, only moments before it is sucked away, and I hoist it over one shoulder, clench my teeth, and pull through. Higher ground, murmurs the rational voice in my head, through all the splashing and paranoia I've successfully managed to create. Yes, higher ground might be my only chance—is my only chance—of escaping before the tunnels flood. That scream had to mean something, that there is at least one other tribute with me, and they may/may not have already fallen victim to the waters.

Maybe I'm delusional, or maybe the nightmares have finally gotten to my head, and I'm trapped in a real one that I can't seem to break my way out of. But at my ear, for a single moment, I feel a faint huff of heat against the back of my neck. On instinct, I turn, to find nothing but more water, and the same dead blackness. I concentrate for a moment, squinting. I stumble back into the current, ignoring the rising hairs on the back of my neck. I must be delusional. However, I can't escape the feeling that I'm being watched.

By the time I've reached the end of the strip of wall I'm following, the water has risen to just above my knees and I have to reach for loose rocks, the side of the wall to struggle my way through the current. I've no idea where to go, but staying along the wall seems like the most reasonable option, so I trace it with my fingertips. Breathe Melody. Breathe, I think, shutting my eyes as I pause for a moment, trying to catch my breath.

As I struggle along, the rope over my shoulder tugs at the water, until I pull it up, dripping, and wrap it around my waste. I take a few enormous steps through the water—weighed down by the drips—and pause once again against a large piece of rock that juts out of the wall.

Once again, I hear the same huff of warm air and whip around with my nails ready to rake down the face of my enemy. However, one again there is no one there. I could've sworn I felt something, the closeness of a body right behind mine.

A flash. Cold, off-white eyes calculating my stare. A stab of pain shoots through the base of my skull as I recall the same glare. Does it know, somehow, what I've done to another of its kind? I've no doubt the gamemakers could've given the creature some type of memory, or motivation, to come after us. Whatever makes them the deadliest, most malicious creation they can be.

With a new motivation of my own, I glance up, body pulsing with a new adrenaline to sprint back into the water once more. I stand my ground and study the wall of rock climbing above me, but even from this angle, I know it has to house some sort of a ledge or crevice. If I can reach that height, perhaps I can find a way to dig my way out, or cut my blade through the cracks or—

Another scream interrupts my thoughts, distant, but slightly muffled, like its owner is sputtering water. I turn around in circles, in search of a body rolling through the current, surely the victim of the mutt I had just spotted, but trip over my heels and go collapsing into the water myself. It's up to my waist now, and my head goes under the surface as I fall. Thankfully, I've still got one foot securely planted and I push off of my knees and rise again.

I need to get to the top of that boulder, if I've got any chance left. Already the water has risen to my chest, crashing over me in furious waves. Not to mention the vicious beast tracking my scent now. No, not tracking my scent any longer. He has found me. Now, there's the waiting game, searching for the perfect moment to strike.

For a few moments, I work my way around the side of the boulder, searching for hand holds before I reach for a few rocks and start making my way up. I make good progress at first, getting up a few feet above the water before my hands slip and I go splashing back into the depths below.

I wipe my lips. It's too wet here. Already I can see the wrinkles forming on my fingertips, the weight of the rope pulling me downwards. I stiffly unwrap it and sling it back over my shoulder, fighting to control the nervous pinches in my gut. You have one minute, I think. One minute to figure this out.

And so I wade around to the other side of the boulder and search for new hand holds. It's obvious, at this point, that no matter where I climb, the surfaces will be too slick for me to get any good grips on. I need something I can fully grasp onto. Something that I wouldn't originally expect...

Suddenly, the rope in my hand feels heavier and an idea strikes me out of thin air. If I could somehow manage to get this rope up there, I could pull myself up. Granted, it won't be much better than the rocks, but it's something. And at this point, I'm running out of options.

I slide the dagger out of my belt and twirl it so that the blade points outwards. I wrestle with the rope for a moment and tie it to the handle. I attempt to ward off the voice blaring in my ears, the one telling me that this is my very last chance and steady my hand. I lift the blade to my shoulder and squint into the darkness.

My first throw sends the dagger sliding back into the water with a tiny splash. I hold my breath for a few moments then let it out as I prepare for my next throw. Already I can feel the mutt at my back closing in, the sensation that sends wave after wave of prickles up my back. Though I don't have an exact trajectory, I throw in the appropriate direction and catch the slight clink as the knife wedges in between a few rocks. I pull on it, testing its weight. Nothing. I lean forward. Again, nothing changes.

The blood roaring furiously in my ears, I grasp the rope firmly in both hands and put both legs on the boulder. We had an opportunity to practice things like this back in training, climbing rock walls; jungle-gyms. I remember doing a few the first day, but I'd dismissed these huge physical climbs without a second thought after that. Now, I largely regret not doing more when I had the chance.

Gritting my teeth, I heave myself up by the arms, tucking my feet in around the base of the rope. I've got it, I think, as if this could somehow melt away my obvious doubts.

A hand—claw—wraps around my right ankle, pulling me to the water with such irresistible force, I slide a good foot down the rope. A strangled cry escapes my lips, and I rear back with my free leg, thrashing to ward off the creature. But it's too late. I'm too late. I've no idea how long I fight to keep pulling, but it just doesn't make a difference. I'm nothing compared to the sheer strength of a creation like this. I'm being toyed with, put to work for a good capital laugh. Oh what a good one the gamemakers must be having now, as the mutt pulls and releases my foot like I'm nothing more than a rag doll. After what I judge to be at least ten minutes, I'm sweaty and breathless, covered in what must be a thick layer of grime. My fingers continue to slip and I extend a hand, one last effort, to grasp the surface of a stone. What my fingers clamp onto is definitely the base of a rock, but past that is the bumpy surface of a break in the wall, a small platform. I could never answer how I managed to make it up this far, but I move before my body can demand otherwise and rise high enough to pull my torso onto the rocks.

I bury my cheek in the floor, clamping my eyes shut. The hand is still clutching my foot, but it loosens for a moment, as if it knows that I've put up enough of a fight for this time.

They decide to let me live; fine.

Somehow, through my muddled mixture of thoughts, I know that they won't regret it.