You know that saying that sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me? Lots of people joke about this. Some say that it will hurt if they throw a dictionary at your head. Truth is, the saying is a lie. Always has been. Words hurt more than any stick or stone that hits you. Sticks and stones can't touch the soul. But words. Words dig deep and strike through flesh and bone to the part of you that makes you who you are. They can either build you up or tear you down.

Words are why I'm here now. It took only two words - my name - to put me into this place. I've been through more than anyone would imagine. I turned eighteen in an arena while participating in a fight to the death. I killed someone on my eighteenth birthday. I watched the second boy I've ever loved die at the hand of one who was supposed to be trustworthy. I've been chased by beasts from your nightmares. And I abandoned my last ally to those same beasts because I knew it was him or me.

This is how I come to be alone, pushing and shoving a wooden hatch open to emerge from darkness to the star light of the world above. Everything is silver and beautiful in the moonlight, so different from what it should be. This place of death has no right to be beautiful or peaceful. Not after what it has put me and everyone else here through. Nonetheless, I have survived everything thrown at me.

I've survived my foster mom, her horrible string of lovers, losing my fiancé, being Reaped, killing others, and losing everything I've ever cared for. At the same time, I've been strengthened and freed. I realize now that if I hadn't come, if I hadn't been Reaped, I never would've fallen in love again. I wouldn't have realized that no matter how broken I am, someone, somewhere, will still want me. I never would've found the real me.

A smile slips over my cracked lips as I take in the beautiful snowfall. The light from the stars hurts my eyes after a day and a half - if my count is right - of the near total darkness of the caves, but inside, I'm content. I've survived the Wendigos. I've escaped the caves too and reemerged in the world above. For one blissful moment, I can see myself winning. I can envision a life of peace and joy. It gives me a reason to live another day.

Then it comes. The dinging that heralds the arrival of a sponsorship package. Only this time, it isn't for Alex.

I abandoned him. He's gone.

Not gone. Dead.

I left him to perish in the Wendigos' clutches. The lack of remorse on my part should jar me or at least surprise me. But it doesn't. I knew the moment I asked for an impromptu alliance that I would betray him. I knew, even then, that I was the one using him. Not the other way around. I knew that was how it had to be if I was to survive.

My hands reach up into the nippy air, and the package drops into them, nestling there like a giant silver egg. My fingers curl around it as I stare at the silver orb, wondering who would be sending me anything. And why now? All this time, and now they send me something?

My fingertips press against the locking mechanism. The ball scans my fingerprints and blinks green. Then it clicks and whirs open just like Alex's did.

What I see inside confuses me. There's a rope. A long one. And it has a loop tied to the end. I don't understand. Who sent me a rope, and why? What good does it do me? I suppose I could hang someone with it. But that would require me to get close. I'm not like Alex or Achmetha. I'm content to slit their throat and run. Call me a coward, but playing dirty is something that's natural when it comes to real combat. Milan trained me not to think of it as fair or unfair. When you're fighting for your life, none of that matters.

Then I see the tiny, crisp envelope. It's folded neatly and has my name printed across the front. Printed, not written. My thoughts race. Perhaps the person who sent this will explain why they sent it. My fingers tremble as I reach into the silky interior of the orb and pull out the little envelope.

The paper seems so fragile in my hands. I break the seal with trepidation. Will I like what they have to say? Who sent it?

Then I see the handwriting and my heart stops. The words are scrawled angrily onto the paper, almost as though they were forced from the nib of the pen. They seem like black blood on the paper. My blood. Milan's blood. Azrael's. This note embodies everything I fear. Everything I have lost.

It's sick how fake you are.

~Mom

I squeeze my eyes shut and drop my head. After everything I've done here, she calls me fake? How dare she? She of all people? The irony. This woman is as fake as they get. Everyone around her saw a good, though somewhat misguided, mother who worked at the local bar and was poor. Until the night she shot Milan. That night ruined that image. She was exposed to the world. The nerve! If I ever get my hands on her, I'm going to kill her.

And now the rope makes sense. My throat tightens as I fight back the old Meri. The old one would've crumbled to pieces, lost all resolve, and would've blamed herself. I will not do that. I will not blame myself for something I didn't do. My fingers clench on the rope, remembering the way another set of ropes rubbed my hands and arms raw as I struggled under the stars on a night much like this one. The night exactly one week before the Reaping. A night that is only four weeks before my birthday.

It isn't my fault he died. And despite what I've been telling myself, it never was.

The rope burns against my wrists. I struggle against them as my foster mother pulls me into the alley where I was supposed to meet him. She shoves me to my knees on the damp cobblestones. My legs hit the ground with a sickening crack. I whimper in pain.

She ignores me. I watch helplessly as she goes back to her old, beat up truck and pulls out a shotgun. My throat tightens until I can barely breathe. She's going to shoot him. I can't even fight anymore. Every thought of escape flees. "Please," I whisper.

She turns to me then with a smile. "I've told you so many times, dear... You're my daughter. I don't take it lightly, and no one is going to take you away from me. Ever."

I want to yell like I did that one day. I want to tell her that I'm not her daughter. I'm not. My real mom abandoned me when I was five months old.

She just left me.

I'll never know why, but I've always believed that it was because I wasn't worth it. Because, just like now, I'm a burden. Because I was weak and useless.

The words I'm trying to cough up won't come. They get stuck in my chest, rattling around there with each painful breath I draw into my weary lungs. I want to be done. I want to be gone.

"I warned you, sweetie. But you didn't listen." She clicks a few cartridges into the shotgun and slinks into the shadows behind me.

Footsteps echo on the cobblestones of the street as he approaches. I know it's him. I've memorized the sound of his feet treading on these same stones. We should've known not to meet in the same place every time. I should've been more careful. I never should've let him get close. If I hadn't let him in, he wouldn't be in danger.

Tears slip down my dirty cheeks as my foster mom drags my further into the shadows. Her fingers scrape over a bruise. I fight off a whimper. Yesterday, one of the boys in lunch hour tripped me, and my arm slammed into the table. It hit the corner, and as a result, left a nasty bruise.

"Meri?" His sweet, beautiful voice roots deep in my soul and soars there like a hawk willingly tethered and owned.

No. No, leave. I want to scream at him, but she shoots me a warning look from the darkness, and the words die in my throat.

"Meri?" He sounds concerned now.

"Answer him," she murmurs.

"I'm here, Milan. I'm... I..." The words choke off as a cry escapes me.

"What's wrong?" He rounds the corner with a frown. "Meri? Why are you on the ground?" His eyes linger on my form and finally catch the ropes and my tears in the moonlight. "What happened? Who's here?" He looks around, and as he does, the moon glints on the barrel that will be his end.

My foster mom steps from the shadows with a twisted, insane grin. "Milan. So nice to finally meet the boy who plans to steal my daughter from me."

He looks at me quizzically. "You told her? Why?"

I shake my head, crying quietly and wiggling my already raw wrists in the ropes. "I d-didn't. I swear. She m-made me come."

"Are you okay?" He kneels beside me, trying to loosen the knots.

Laughter bubbles inside and dies. He's asking me if I'm okay? My foster mom is going to shoot him. I've finally pushed her too far and made her go crazy. Doesn't he see that?

"She's fine for now. But you aren't going to be." She raises the gun when he stands and turns back to her. Then she pulls the trigger.

A muffled crack echoes around the walls of the decrepit, abandoned buildings to either side of us. My eyes slam closed. I can't watch this. But I have to. My eyes open again.

He's clutching his arm, gritting his teeth against a scream. "What's wrong with you?" he hisses. "She's such a beautiful, loving young woman. And you treat her like crap."

"She's my daughter. I can do whatever I want with her. And if you were smart, you would've realized that and kept your nose out of it." My foster mother slaps him with a snarl.

"No. She's too kind and generous to stand up to you, so I will. You're a pathetic excuse for a human being. Meri deserves to be loved and protected. Not destroyed and abused. Or subjected to near rape because you don't know how to take care of her."

His words ring in my ears, striking deep. I swallow hard. Love wells up in me for him. He'll always defend me no matter what. But he's just signed his own death warrant. There's no way she'll let him go now. Standing up to her always makes it worse.

"Please..." I finally find my voice. "Please don't hurt him."

My foster mom glances at me and laughs. "Too late." She squeezes the trigger a second time, sending a bullet into his leg. He collapses to the ground, unable to hold his own weight.

A moan slips from him. I cringe and struggle to get to my feet. My foster mother cackles and brings the butt of the rifle into my skull. Stars dance before me, blending with the night sky as I lose my balance and fall on my butt in a puddle, unable to break the fall because of my tied hands.

Lightning crackles through the dark sky, followed by a loud clap of thunder. The heavens open and pour heavy, cold tears upon us, weeping with me. Milan clutches his leg and screams into his teeth as she shoots him in the arm.

My eyes do close then, and they stay closed. An image of him on the ground fills my mind. Blood coats his fingers, his arm, his leg, and the ground beneath him.

Blood everywhere. His blood.

It fills my nostrils, sickeningly sweet, and I struggle to hold back the vomit.

The gun rings out one final time, and then her footsteps echo on the stones as she leaves. The truck roars to life. Her tires squeal on the slick road as she leaves the quiet, abandoned section of town. She probably expects me to come home, crying and submissive like I've done before when she's left me stranded. And she's probably right.

It's easy.

Routine.

The choice is between embracing the unknown or facing the known. I've always chosen to return to the known like the coward I am. Truth is, I'm too much of a coward to leave, and I hate myself for it. I deserve to be abused if I can't even take the chance she's provided to run.

My eyes slowly open.

He lies there, broken and in pain. Blood and rain mix on his chest. His shirt is so dark by now that I can't tell the difference between the blood and the rainwater. I scoot over to him and struggle to pull his head into my lap. My hands are still tied, and the rope is just another reminder to me that I can never have him. I can't be happy. I don't deserve to be happy.

"Hey," he coughs, struggling to reach up and touch my face with his free hand.

Tears slide down my cheeks with the rain. I wish that they were magical and healing like the story books' heroines. I wish I could save him. But he's almost gone. I know he's just hanging on for me.

"Please, don't die, Milan. Don't leave me. Don't give up on life." I bend over so that our noses are touching.

He laughs quietly, stroking my hair. But the tension in his body as he rests in my lap is so clear. He's dying. We both know it. "Promise me you'll call the cops, Meri. Call them. You can't stay with her."

"It's not her fault," I stammer. "This is mine. I knew what the rules were. I broke them. Now you're paying for it." My words fail and crack to pieces. "I- I... I'm so sorry." I nearly double over as I sob. "This is all my fault."

He curls his fingers into my soaked hair and pulls me close for a kiss. His lips brush mine for a moment as he whispers, "None of it is your fault. It never was."

"No, it is..."

"Promise me, Meri. Promise."

I know I have to. I have to call them. But I don't know how I can. I'm sure she'll be better. I'm sure she'll change if I can just stop being so rebellious. If I could be quieter and better. Eat less and work harder.

He clutches my tied hands in his, pulling himself into a sitting position with difficulty. His beautiful brown eyes meet mine. "Don't you dare. Don't you dare think about how to fix it. You can't fix her, love. You can't... This isn't something that you're doing wrong. She's..." he gasps, clutching his chest. "She's... wrong... in the head."

Pain overwhelms us both. His is physical. Mine is emotional.

The bullet just missed his heart, but he's bleeding to death. And he's so cold. With the last of his strength, he manages to yank his phone from the back pocket of his sopping jeans. Shoving it into my hands, he says, "Call. Call if it works."

With trembling fingers, I manage to hold the phone between my two tied hands and dial. I don't know whether I want it to work or not, but somehow, miraculously, it still does. I raise both hands to my ear with the phone cupped between them. The voice of the 9-1-1 operator cuts through the rain and silence. "9-1-1. What's your emergency?"

"Help me. Please!" I wail as Milan closes his eyes and stops breathing.

An angry whimper tears from my throat. I hate her. I would kill her myself if I could. Climbing out of the hatch and onto the silvery snow, I raise the rope to the sky and shake it. Tears stream down my face as I tear my knife from the sheath at my hip. "You see this, Mom? I know you're trying to tell me that you still control me." I stare at the empty, starry expanse of sky above, wondering what the Gamemakers are thinking.

You know what, at that moment, it no longer matters. I am pain. I am anger. But most of all, I am free! Raising the blade and rope to the sky in my fists, I smile. "Well, it doesn't just represent your tyranny over me. This is the oppressive power that everyone in my life has tried to exert over me. And that reign of terror ends now!" I purposefully place the blade against the thin rope and hack through it. "Done," I yell at the sky. "You hear me? No one is ever going to control me again. If I die in this messed up place, I will die free. I will go out on my own terms."

I will go out on my own terms. The words echo around the clearing as I stand there, drenched in moonlight just as I have been drenched in the blood of so many others I cared for. A smile carves a place for itself on my lips. Perhaps I should be scared that I've just stood up to my mom and the Gamemakers in one night. I'm not though. No. I'm content. For the first time in my life, I am at peace. If I die today, I will die happy. I will die free.

Z