And that was the thing about her, she kept on surviving. With bullet holes in her lungs and knife marks etched in her back. She never let anything get in her way, resilient. A fighter, not by choice. But a warrior at heart.
| the hunger games |
| pr...
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The sound of the trumpets begin to blare a moment after the cannon. The voice of Claudius Templesmith shouts above them. "Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victor of the Sixty-seventh Hunger Games, Ember Graves! I give you the tribute of District Nine!"
I wipe the blood off of my face from the birds earlier this morning. The roar of the Capitol starts playing live over the speakers, and I can't hear anything. The hovercraft materializes overhead, and a ladder drops. I place a foot on the first rung of the ladder. The electric current freezes me in place. My eyes look down, and I can see that while my muscles are immobile, nothing is preventing the blood from draining out of my arm and leg. Soon the door opens, and the current stops, and I step off.
My fingers grip the back of my jacket too tightly when they come to take me away. Doctors in sterile white, masks and gloved, already prepared to operate, go into action. Some of the Capitol attendants who appear behind me offer me a beverage. I slump down on the floor, my face against the door, staring uncomprehendingly at the crystal glass in my hand. Icy cold, filled with orange juice, a straw with a frilly white collar. How wrong it looks in my bloody, filthy hand with its dirt-caked nails and scars. My mouth waters at the smell, but I place it carefully on the floor, not trusting anything so clean and pretty.
Through the glass, I can see the doctors getting prepared, their eyebrows creased in concentration. I startle when I catch someone watching me from a few inches away and then realize it's my own face reflecting back in the glass. Wild eyes, hollowed cheeks, my hair in a tangled mat. Rabid. Feral. Mad. No wonder everyone is keeping a safe distance from me.
The next thing I know, we've landed back on the roof of the Training Center, and they're taking off but leaving me behind the door. I start hurling myself against the glass, shrieking, and I think I just catch a glimpse of pink hair 𑁋 it must be Mica, it has to be Mica coming to my rescue 𑁋 when the needle jabs me from behind.
When I wake, I'm afraid to move at first. The entire ceiling glows with a soft yellow light allowing me to see that I'm in a room containing just my bed. No door, no windows are visible. The air smells of something sharp and antiseptic. My right arm has several tubes that extend into the wall behind me. I'm naked, but the bedclothes are soothing against my skin. I tentatively lift my left hand above the cover. Not only has it been scrubbed clean, the nails are filed in perfect ovals, the scars from the wolf are less prominent. I touch my cheek, my lips, the puckered scar above my eyebrow, and run my fingers through my silken hair.
I try and sit up, but some sort of wide restraining band around my waist keeps me from rising more than a few inches. The physical confinement makes me panic, and I'm trying to pull myself up and wriggle my hips through the band when a portion of the wall slides open, and in steps an Avox carrying a tray. The sight of her calms me, and I stop trying to escape. I want to ask her a million questions, but I'm afraid any familiarity would cause her harm. Obviously, I am being closely monitored. She sets the tray across my thighs and pressed something that raises me to a sitting position. While she adjusts my pillows, I risk one question. I say it out loud, as clearly as my rusty voice will allow, so nothing will seem secretive. "Did I win?" She gives me a slight nod, and as she slips a spoon into my hand, I feel the pressure of friendship.
