you can always bleed a little more.

I was carving my name into your side /
and you were calling me soft,
calling me gentle. 
I do not think you were paying attention.

THE DOGS / TRISTA MATEER

﹙ chapter fourteen, act one ﹚

southern island, the arena.
july, 70 att.

                    THE GAMES WILL END SOON. It's a chill that permeates her bones, despite the ever sweltering heat, and makes her shiver in apprehension. Because, she knows. She knows the games won't last forever, and that now ─── down to the final six, where some small part of her doubted she would reach ─── every decision could be the difference between first and second place. Between dying young and going home. She's never been outwardly competitive, but she'll do whatever it takes to win.

                    All of it? Even the blood on her hands?

                    It's been eleven days since they started, and just over three weeks since she was selected, since her world fell out from beneath her feet ─── and for three long, bloody weeks, she has fought to get it back. It would be gutting for it not to be worth it. It can't be for nothing. 

                    But, sometimes, in the dead of night when sleep remains elusive, when all that accompanies her is the chirping of birds, rustles that set her on edge, and the gentle snoring of Avens, she starts to crumble. In those early hours of the morning, her guard somewhat down ─── because the knives are always in her jacket, and she's always on the verge of grabbing them ─── she starts to doubt her position. To console herself, to offer some comfort, she starts to plan and re-plan the next three moves, the best words to choose, the best expressions to make and memories to divulge. The possible outcomes.

                    In most scenarios, she ends up as a corpse. Alone in her thoughts, she realises there's very little value in all this.

                    Amira knows, and she hates it. And regrets what she has to do, what she has to become, even if the mere thought crawls under her skin like ants. The tension in the air could be cut with a knife, and she's half-tempted to try. It'll give her something to do, something pointless, and perhaps it'll divert her thoughts away from the intrusive notions. She's been fiddling with the knives stolen from Desiree ever since she and Avens escaped from her and Octavian. And, she's become proficient enough with them to avoid cutting off her digits when she twirls them around her fingers.

                    Only at night, though, where the cover of darkness shrouds her from most cameras. She's given herself a role to play, and Amira will stick with it for as long as she can.

                    The worst part is, sometimes the act is real. That's what fear does: it exposes the weak points, the flaws in her armour. Roles aside, she'll never forget the visceral fear that clawed up her throat that night. The way her heart threatened to beat out of her chest, her clammy hands, her uncontrollable breaths. Before then, she'd thought herself as cunning, in control, a chessmaster behind it all. She's not, and she never was. Now, as she roasts some insects over a small fire, silently stewing inside with an indifferent expression, she realises how wrong she was. How stupid she was for thinking that.

                    "You all right?" Avens asks, his low voice cutting through her swarm of bitter realisation. It's the first time they've really spoken since the feast. He fixes her with a kind, yet sad gaze, one like a warm night, and she looks away before it becomes suspicious. He's too good for this world, for the games. He's the sort of boy who deserves to go home. 

                    She paints a small smile across her features; the slight action still makes her cheek muscles ache. Still, the concern is touching. "As good as I can be."

                    He nods, accepting her answer and biting his lip as he undoubtedly is reminded of where, exactly, he is. After a moment of pensive thought, he nods again, before returning to cleaning the machete. If she looks closely, she can still see traces of blood, but he's worked hard to scrape it all away. It is, to be honest, a futile task, because both of them will always see the blood that belongs to the person who nearly killed them ─── and who would do the job properly, were he given the chance.

                    She can't stop thinking about that night ─── and she hates the fear she feels. The way it shrinks her back into the small girl who got herself in a bigger mess than she thought possible. Amira hates everything here, from the sparkly dresses to the bloody bets, and longs to be back in the electric hum of District Five.

                    It never ends there, not really; even in the dark hours when everyone sleeps, the buzz drones on in the background. She grew up with the eternal noise, and Amira quickly got used to it, since she was a worker maintaining the power plant ─── so much so, that now she hates the silence of the arena. Though she'd never say it out loud, she longs to be back in the stuffy rooms with an aching back, mentally counting all the food left in the cupboard back home and hoping for the market prices to come down. Even the risk of electrocution ─── which is never officially the cause of death ─── would be better than this.

                    She longs to wake up to Kiran's crying, to hearing Lucien murmur that he'll sort it out, and falling back asleep. Amira thinks of the hut on the edge of town, far from the family that never loved her, close to everything she holds dear. It's in that moment, before tucking into a feast of slightly burned bugs, that she vows never to feel that way again. And so, her mind is made up ─── the dread, the guilt, the shame, are all locked away, never to make her doubt herself again. Because if she can't trust her own thoughts, who else can she?

                    They fall back into silence as the insects are done roasting; slowly, mechanically, she puts them into her mouth and starts to chew. Hiding her disgust is not easy, but she manages. Where did the food go? The feast was two days ago, and yet not a single morsel was offered ─── though she did receive some pills for her arm, which when bitten, released a bitter liquid. And yes, her arm is healed back to use, but they need food.

                    Resorting to eating bugs. How far she's fallen.

                    How far she'll go.

                    The grim moments seem to stretch into an eternity, which would've once been filled with light surface talk about their home districts. He'd tell her the urban myths of Eleven, and she'd divulge a few details about her life in Five. But never about Lucien and Kiran, and always vague enough to be about anyone. However, that's not what happens now ─── because Amira no matter how successful she was, betrayed what little trust he had in her.

                    If she'd gone along with his plan, though, she'd be dead. For all her nods and agreement in the hours spanning before the feast, she never meant them. Avens is smart enough to survive, but he's not strong enough to see his plans through to the end. She did feel a twinge of guilt, leaving him, but that was quickly stamped out. By disappearing just before the feast started, she was able to get her package ─── the ensuing bloodbath had cut her away from retrieving his too. Since she hasn't properly explained what happened ─── not wanting more questions to be asked ─── she uses the excuse of fear.

                    It was fragile to start with. Of course it was, and how could it not be? They're strangers forced to slit each other's throats, and both of them know exactly why they're here. It would be utterly stupid to trust him, and a death sentence for him to stay with her.

                    ( Which, oddly, he still does ─── Amira can only guess why. )

                    Now, it's a thin, broken string fluttering in the wind, defeated. His gaze rarely flits to her, barely ever appreciates her facial features like he once used to. There hasn't been a proper conversation for two days. They're no longer really allies ─── just two bombs ticking away, waiting to see which explodes first.

                    It can only mean one thing: it has to be done, it has to end soon. Everything depends on having the upper hand, and if Avens decides to abandon her, as planned, or slice her neck with the machete ─── well, it's safe to say she's failed. The insects crunch between her teeth; they exchange an identical grimace before quickly looking away. There's no feeling of fullness in her stomach, just nausea. Acute dread descends on her. It really is a shame, but she supposes it has to be done.

                    And it will, soon, if everything goes to plan; there's just one variable she can't account for.

                    The rest of the tributes are simple: the Careers, Octavian and Desiree and Yoselin, will follow the same path as every Career pack does ─── warring and self-destruction. It's poetic, really, that they're the only people strong enough to kill them. That they are their own greatest threat. They've been told it's their birthright, their destiny; if that night is anything to go by, they'll be at each other's throats any day now. A few well chosen words could easily set them off.

                    Amira puts thoughts of them away as she carefully watches Avens. Why is he still here? Even she knows that her performance hasn't been flawless. Is it the near-death experiences keeping him close? Does he think she really is that weak? She hates not knowing, but doesn't dare to ask.

                    The Careers, herself and Avens ─── there is only one other left: Mara Cayden.

                    Something about the dark-skinned girl is so deeply angering ─── from the way she skirted around the carefully laid trap, being impervious to all Amira's attempts at winning her over, to the fact that she just won't die. It would all be so much simpler, so much more secure, if it was her face in the sky. She's alive, and not kicking just yet; nonetheless, she's still the only person who could topple everything Amira has been building up to.

                    If there's anyone that could turn Avens against her, it's Mara Cayden ─── he cares for her deeply, and from what she can gather, they used to be friends. He's never mentioned her by name, she knows that Mara is the one he speaks of in the stories of his district. Mara could ask him to kill her, and he wouldn't even question it.

                    And why wouldn't she? Mara is well aware that only one will go home, and she'll want it to be either Avens or herself. She'd never let Amira win. And nothing about her shies away from killing ─── she's a natural, and her ally was a young girl from Three. That same girl is dead; her headshot displayed at midnight several days ago. Amira can't be sure of it, but something must've happened.

                    Mara Cayden could ruin everything, because she's a killer who suspects too much.

                    The words are tumbling out of her mouth before she can stop them, a quiet mumble that he pretends not to hear. "You'll be the one to go home, won't you?" She says, and now she makes up her mind on what she needs to do.

                    Amira can't bring herself to regret it. 

⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹ ⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹⭒

southern island, the arena.
july, 70 att.

                    THEY WERE ALWAYS GOING TO BE FOUND. They promised, didn't they, with bared teeth and furious shouts, that they'd rip her to pieces? Yet, for the longest time, no such threat came, and Amira found herself relaxing, even if it was always inevitable that they'd come charging back. Three things are finite ─── the arena, the Capitol's patience. Oh, their insatiable desire for entertainment.

                    It would appear that Amira has forgotten, to a certain extent, just how vengeful they are; just how afraid they make her, and how much she hates it. It's another reminder of where she truly stands in this game ─── the underdog, the weakling, the one that somehow has made it this far. 

                    She hadn't expected them to be so . . . crazed. Maybe it's the heat, or maybe their supplies have started to run out, but she swears there's sparks of insanity in their eyes as they chase the pair through the thicket of the southern island. No, not insanity, but something else ─── something she's seen in her own reflection more than once ─── desperation.

                    "Why run?" Desiree calls from a few metres and several shrubs away, voice sickly sweet. A knife skims past Amira's neck, cutting a lock of blonde hair from her head, and she hears violent swearing from the female Career. A stark contrast to her previously saccharine tone. The words come out more harshly now. "We'll get you anyway."

                    Amira is far too out of breath to think about answering, let alone choosing words that could set her on Yoselin, or preferably Octavian. She can't think beyond the next moment, her whole world narrowing to each step she takes, focusing on not tripping, or running into a tree, or letting the thicket hold her back for too long.

                    Her limbs are heavy, dragging behind with every move as she ducks and weaves and worms her way through the forest, forcing herself to carry on. She's running like that night a week ago; and she wonders if she ever really stopped. Her lungs burn, stealing humid air for a brief moment of relief, before it's used up and she's once more consumed in flames. She's tired, so tired, of being afraid.

                    Amira and Avens have the unspoken agreement to weave in and out of the trees, using their smaller, starved frames to their advantage. She always keeps him in view, though she's prepared to turn the other way if it comes to it. If they catch up and decide to take out the greater threat first. Perhaps the forest will go on forever, and she'll run until she dies.

                    "Come on," Octavian croons, and Amira is satisfied to hear that even he, with all his muscle and years of training, is panting. "We'll make it quick if you give up."

                    Amira can't afford to do that, but it does sound appealing compared to her burning hell. "And then what?" She manages to say, voice laughably weak. She wonders if they even heard it. "What do you do then?"

                    No answer; their footsteps and grunts grow louder, closer.

                    Up ahead, there's a break in the trees, revealing a swathe of perfect cyan. The sea ─── some way or another, she always seems to come back to the sea. Presently, she can't tell whether that's a good thing or not. As with all the children in District Five, she has been taught to swim, in case she would one day be required to help repair the hydroelectric dam, Coriolanus Seven, but remembers the lessons vividly. Until she got the hang of it, she nearly drowned twice ─── and even now, can only stay afloat for a while. She wonders if it could be a means of escape, or an enticing trap.

                    But there's no choice. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see them fanning out, narrowing the options. They're funneling her and Avens towards the sea.

                    She tears through the shrubbery, thorny stems scratching at her exposed legs. The past eleven days have taken a toll on her arena clothes, and she suspects Yasmina would have a fit if she saw the state they were in. Torn, battered, covered in a layer of blood and sweat and dirt. She's tried to arrange the fabric so that it covers her pale skin from the sun's harsh glare ─── even then, her face, arms, and legs are still red and raw. The cuts sting, but amidst all the other horrors, she doesn't feel them much. Unlike everything else, they seem to go numb on impact. If only the blisters on her feet could be the same.

                    All too soon, the ground turns to sand and she prepares the ungracefully leap through the water. It's quicker than trying to force her way through.

                    The salt water re-alights the cuts scattered below her knees, making her eyes water and bite her lip so hard she tastes blood. As Amira runs, trying her best to stay out of range from Yoselin's spear, she reaches inside her jacket and grasps the handle of a knife. They think she's weak and defenceless ─── let them see how wrong they are.

                    There's maybe two seconds to turn around before they manage to kill her. Muttering a quick prayer to whoever is watching, she turns and flings it through the air, no time for proper technique. Just blind, dumb luck.

                    It spins through the air and sinks deeply into Desiree's knee. Her dark, cold eyes widen as she abruptly stops and stumbles, a very satisfying shout escaping her lips. Good ─── Amira never liked her. It's not a killing blow, and not one they've learned to avoid, but it takes her speed away. Distracted by the bee sting they never expected, she and Avens gain a few more metres before Desiree starts to chase after them again; swearing viciously and screaming bloody murder. And yet, she never even gets close, limping towards them but always out of reach.

                    Amira mentally congratulates herself, and she can see Avens smirking a little, but it's quickly wiped away since Octavian and Yoselin are still looming threats. She runs, and what must be the eastern island is nearing. However, undoubtedly on the high of frenzied chase with the promise of bloodshed, the Gamemakers seem to have another trick up their sleeves. One that she's keen to avoid. 

                    The last ten metres of water are marred by black masses within, and Amira couldn't care less for what they are. In no universe are they a good sign, so she takes a sharp left to avoid the one in front of her. Laid out like a maze, she keeps as far away as possible from the dark shapes. On closer inspection, they're some kind of fish that's a mottled yellow, and Amira has no desire to touch one, unlike the Careers ─── they don't bother to slow down and dodge them.

                    It's their undoing.

                    Abruptly, Yoselin stops. As her lean legs come into contact with one of the shapes ─── fish? What even are they? ─── it inflates to triple its size and pierces her shin. For a moment, nothing happens, and she takes another step forwards; and then stops again. At her tanned, chapped lips, a froth makes its way through her mouth and onto her face. Her pupils dilate dramatically, muscles beginning to spasm, and she collapses into the water, where more of the shapes inflate at her touch, filling her body with spines. From the puncture wounds, blood leaks into the sea.

                    Floating face down, the spines in her calves and back are visible, yellow and long, and certainly what caused her bitter end. She twitches, one last garbled cry, and then falls limp.

                    A cannon fires, and Amira has never heard a sweeter sound. It's a welcome signal, meaning there's one less obstacle for her to overtake. Meaning there's one less person who could kill her.

                    In the confusion, where Octavian suddenly starts to regard them with caution, she and Avens make it to shore. The sand between her toes, however sharp and irritating, is a glad feeling. They escape into the trees, covered by the foliage, but even then, they don't stop until the sea and his furious shouts are long out of sight. 

⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹ ⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹⭒

eastern island, the arena.
july, 70 att.

                    WHEN THEY'RE SURE THAT THERE'S ENOUGH DISTANCE, AMIRA'S LEGS COLLAPSE BENEATH HER. Her knees give out first, buckling, and the rest of her body tumbles down into the dirt, face first. Something about it is welcoming, and she's inflicted with a desire to be anywhere but here, to be anyone but herself. Amira does not get up for a long, long time; everything aches so deeply, so permanently.

                    Avens is in a similar ─── but more composed ─── state of exhaustion, sweat running down his skin as he heaves, doubling over, leaning against a tree for support. After a few minutes of retching up next to nothing, he too, slides down to the ground. Amira makes no move to assist him, she couldn't even if she wanted to. Maybe it would be nice to die, if it would mean that this is all over.

                    No, she can't afford to think like that. Not when she's so close that she can taste it on the tip of her tongue. Five are left: herself, Avens, Octavian, Desiree, and Mara Cayden. Finally, she truly starts to believe that she has a chance, and won't waste it with self-deprecating thoughts.

                    The air around her is sweltering with midday heat and thick with laboured breathing; she's being cooked alive. Her shirt is soaked with sweat and sticks to her skin; the ground is hot and gritty, but at least it's better than running. Her throat is dry, and some water would be good, but she can't bring herself to form the words.

                    Hours pass, and there's no sign of the Careers. As the bake slowly gives way to a boil, she decides that she can't stay in the sunshine any longer. She forces herself to crawl over to the shade, which offers little respite. Now, she arranges her body in a sitting position, back to a tree, next to Avens. He slowly searches through the pack and passes her the canteen, and, for once, doesn't bother telling her to save it.

                    "Thanks." She croaks; her stomach aches for food, but she settles for a long swig of tepid water.

                    "It's nothing." He whispers, before taking a long drink as well.

                    Amira can feel her eyelids growing heavy, like sheets of lead, and wonders if she should rest while she can. The idea seems enticing. Then again, though, she doesn't want to be caught off-guard. So, she sacrifices that for staying awake and aware ─── despite herself, her head slumps forwards, and she can't bring it back up.

                    More time passes. It must be at some point in the early afternoon. Avens starts to say something, opening his mouth, before shutting it. He seems to be choosing his words carefully. "Amira . . . you know what this means, right?"

                    Of course she does, but gives no indication that she heard him, allowing him to continue. "We're in the final five. That was the agreement."

                    She's careful not to move, keeping her breaths steady, as if she really were sleeping. A sick, horrid feeling claws up her throat, but she doesn't move. Mentally, she's both screaming and cheering. She knew this was coming, from the very start, didn't she? Amira has been hoping and planning and waiting for this, so, in the moment, why does it feel so awful?

                    "We should split up." He continues, a certain sadness lacing his tone.

                    She gives no answer, nothing to hint that she heard him, as if she can pretend this all away. Her mind whirs; it has to be soon. Stop putting it off, she tells herself sternly.

                    Amira opens her eyes ever so slightly, fighting the urge to blink as light floods her vision, immediately searching for the machete. It rarely leaves Avens' grip ─── and she knows there would be no point trying to wrestle it away from him ─── even while they escaped earlier today. But, as she secretly smiles at the sight of it, the blade lies between them, discarded in the exhaustion. Forgotten by him, but not by her.

                    She can feel his gaze on her, sadder than a grave; her fingers inch towards the glistening machete. No sudden movements, nothing to show what she's about to do. She shields her face with a lock of hair, one that Avens gingerly brushes away, when her fingers curl around the hilt. He doesn't notice.

                    As she pretends to wake up, she keeps eye contact with him, so he doesn't see the machete sliding up behind her back. He's too transfixed by her smile, however fake, to see it. "You're right, as always. So am I."

                    He raises an eyebrow, the beginnings of a lopsided grin making its way onto his face. Why does he have to make this more difficult than it already is? "Thanks? What are you talking about?"

                    "We'll end the alliance, and you'll go home." He starts to tense, recoiling away from her, eyes narrowing, but it's too late. "In a box."

                    Like lightning, she brings the machete around her side and, with a dagger-like grip, forces it deep into his chest. As he scrambles around for a weapon, for something, she knows she was right to use the machete and not her knives. If she hadn't, he could fight back. But, he's defenceless, and can't stop her as she whips around towards him with more speed than he thought possible, pushing the blade further into his body, until she feels the hard bark of the tree.

                    She hates this, the resistance of skin and tissue, the betrayed look in his eyes. It almost makes her stop ─── but, as she said, it's too late. This is who she's become. Amira Montgomery is now a killer in the name of her own life.

                    He tries to recoil away, but the metal piercing him from one side to the other keeps him fixed in place. His hands fly to the wound, grabbing the sharp edge and trying to pull it out. Futile; it merely cuts his fingers and covers him in more blood. She can feel herself starting to cry, but she bites the tears back. She will not be weak again.

                    She drags out the machete with a sound horrid beyond description. Blood, his blood, rushes into the open air; he gasps, a shriek suppressed, and stares up at her with those hurt, dark eyes. No, she has to do this, otherwise everything she holds dear back home will be lost ─── she'll be lost behind the veil of death.

                    Again, she stabs him, his crimson mortality splattering over her face and arms, and again, he cries out. The second strike must have punctured his lungs, because he starts to struggle to breathe, blood bubbling around his lips as it floods his throat.

                    Slowly, he collapses to the side, curling up and clutching his chest. She kneels before him, dripping machete in hand. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry." She whispers, allowing herself one moment of guilt. Amira thought she would be able to do this. She's never killed before, but she'd always imagined it to be easy. Nothing about the guilt, the shame, the pain, is easy. She can feel herself slipping, panicking; is this what she'll become? Amira never worried about her soul before, never cared to admit that it existed, but now it dies along with Avens.

                    This was always inevitable. Nobody wins the Hunger Games by being a passive player. It doesn't make her feel better, if anything, worse; this is who she's become: a killer, a traitor.

                    A chilling scream echoes around the clearing, high and terrible and the embodiment of pain. Up in the trees, eyes fixated on her, Mara watches with the most horrified expression. It morphs from shock to sorrow to rage.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 :

( 4,611 words! )
it's been a while─── oh look at that, i've
killed off yet another character i've started
 to  love and find  comfort in !! 💔this  was
always going to happen to him. talk about
being doomed by the narrative ─── that
talk about ghosts? about believing things 
could be better? yeah, yeah no. amira is a 
traitor now, and this is where we start to 
 really diverge  from the previous version.

i always knew this was going to  happen
from  the moment i  started planning act
 one, but still. . .i was not ready to write it
at all. avens my love, you deserved much
more than what i gave you.

one more chapter of the first act to go!