The realization didn't dawn on her until she stared up at the ceiling that day, in a failed attempt at sleep. She hadn't seen the sun in a week.
A week doesn't seem too hefty, until you really consider it. One entire week of bright, unflickering luminescent lights, one entire week of artificial light and nothing more.
And, she thought as she covered her eyes with a moan, I won't see sunlight ever again.
She stood no chance now. The young, intelligent boy, Technick, had died. How, Nevia was unfortunately unsure. All she remembered was coming across the small body of the innocent teen, blood splattered everywhere and not a person in sight.
But what had been truly suspicious, was the disappearance of Mye Bentler after his friend's death. It was unnatural for an ally to simply disappear without a trace, especially with so few tributes left. And while Nevia tried her hardest to think of any new possibilities, she couldn't hide the truth even from herself.
Mye had murdered Technick.
Really, the more Nevia thought about it, the more simple the plan seemed. Find an ally, get them to trust you. Then turn your back on them.
Mye had been a skilled liar, to say the least. The friendship between the boys had seemed perfectly authentic. And whether or not Mye was truly evil, Nevia knew that no matter what, he would never forgive himself.
She had begun counting the cannons a couple nights ago. Five last night alone. There could only be a handful of tributes left, and somehow Nevia was still one of them.
By this point it was simple; kill or be killed. By this point the tributes remaining had come to a fork in the road, the good side or the evil side. And all of them, each and every one, had chosen evil.
Greedy creatures, these humans were. Sacrifice every other, for your own good. Even Nevia knew that although she had nothing to live for, she would sacrifice anyone for her selfish needs.
She let out a grunt of pain as she sat herself up, grimacing. Her thumb had gradually grown less painful since the Bloodbath, but the throbbing pain still left was almost too much.
She needed to head back towards the theatre sometime, maybe there would be extra food if she got lucky. She was growing hungry, and wouldn't last long without food.
She never had time to stand up as the smoke seeped through the vents. A beautiful, mesmerizing turquoise colour, just how her mother's favourite had been.
Her mother. Her poor, dead mother. The image of her flashed through Nevia's head, once, twice, three times. In all of the time since she had been gone, her mother's face had turned into a blurred mess of memories. But here, carved deep into her mind, Nevia saw her mother as clear as ever.
The memory held so many emotions. Gratefulness and joy, grief and despair, amazement and confusion. Radiant as the sun, her mother was, and her father a mighty star. Oh, how she missed this awful, bittersweet bliss.
As soon as it had appeared, the image faded, and she let out a cry of protest, inhaling even more smoke. Her vision slowly became blurry, and then there was nothing.
And then there was light. A dully lit candle, lighting up what little, past Nevia was writing. Nevia watched through the little girl's eyes, as she scratched a dull pencil on a simple blank sheet of paper. Struggling to read what she was writing, Nevia tried to squint but found she was unable to. The mouth that was seemingly her own opened wordlessly, mouthing what she was writing.
After a lifetime of waiting she could finally make out the first sentence. I got the plan today.
With a soundless cry of horror, Nevia tried to close her eyes. But of course she could not, and was forced to read.
Quinn helped me today. He told me all about his plan. I like him a lot, he's really nice to me.
Nevia let out an inward groan of disgust. She couldn't bear this.
Suddenly the image went static, and Nevia hoped it was over. In just that little flashback she had already delved far too deep into her memories.
But of course, of course it couldn't be finished. There was much more pain to endure yet.
When she could finally see once more, she became startlingly confused. These were not her eyes that she was seeing through. These were not her eyes that stared directly into little Nevia's face.
"I have to leave now." The mouth that wasn't hers spoke in a raspy voice, one perfectly easy to recognize. Quinn the killer.
They were in the same calm, dark room, lit by the same candle, sitting in the same chair, the ever-so-slightest bit of sunlight streaming in through a crack in the wall. The darkness seemed to calm Nevia, for darkness was the only place she had to relax. Darkness was all she needed now.
Suddenly it was static again. Her mind was dulled by the smoke, enough so that she could not tink clearly. Another picture appeared and it began to move
Nevia had been broken before, there had been wounds that had never healed. Nevia had been broken and torn apart and left on her own; and now it was about to happen again and she couldn't stand it.
The scene in front of her was picture-perfect. A small brick house, smoke billowing out of the chimney, beautiful forest surrounding it. A window exposing the young couple inside, hugging one another tenderly. Bright sunshine, almost blinding, filtering through the trees.
And then a scream, and a shout and a yell and a cry, and the peace was shattered. The sun seemed to disappear behind the trees, which now seemed to hold many dark creatures. Blood spattered the window and the couple that had been inside were nowhere in sight.
Nevia wanted to scream and shout and cry, but she couldn't and that made everything worse. She wanted to stop as the body she was inside began to move closer to the window. She tried everything she could in her right mind to stop walking, but the act was in vain.
The image of her mutilated parents had left her memory in the following eleven years after the incident, but her mind was tainted once more. Their heads, each lying about a foot away from their bodies, blood staining their once pristine floor. The entire scene was too much for seventeen-year-old Nevia to handle, so she could hardly bear thinking about little six-year-old Nevia.
However, the more she looked at the bodies the more she seemed to harden. That was eleven years ago and she simply needed to move on from it. She had been an idiot and now her parents were dead, and little Nevia would grow up to be a snivelling crybaby for the next eleven years and it was all her fault. She simply didn't care anymore.
So maybe Nevia had changed, and maybe it wasn't good, but there was no need to fuss. She was perfectly imperfect and she loved it. It was too late to turn back now. All she knew was that she would never trade her future for her past; she would never trade her tomorrows for just one yesterday.

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