Erase Me | Deathpara
Brady Olliver lay still in a dark cave of ruble, breathing what would be his final breaths. His iodine tablets for clean water had been exhausted. The food the Capitol had given him was gone. It had been three days, but he couldn't tell. The arena corrupts one's sense of time. The only sign that time was passing was the growing emptiness in his stomach. Well that and the nightly show of dead tributes in the sky. But he had lost track of how many nights it have been. He had lost track of how many cannons had sounded.
The camera angle was terrible. The cave blocked light, casting Brady in shadows. But through the grainy image the Panem audience could still see how close to death he was. His face was still swollen from swarm. His lips dry and cracked from dehydration. His knees and arms were covered in dry blood. Brady Olliver was an old man. He could no longer hold his body up. He didn't know it, but the Capitol had started taking bets on how many times he would fall while crossing the arena's rough terrain.
"Such a boring tribute," piped an announcer, thousands of miles away. "I'm bored with these old men. Last year's tributes were so much more attractive."
Hallucinations, starvation, and age were taking their toll. Every movement was painful. Every noise sounded like his family. Anabel calling him for dinner, his children clamoring to tell him about their day. Every cannon was a stark reminder of reality. The booms were loud and unforgiving. They sounded less often than they had in the beginning, but every one was just as startling as the first.
He craved his wife's touch, a cold glass of District 11's finest beer, the juice of a pear to be dripping down his chin. He craved home and safety and freedom. But most of all he craved death.
His wish was coming. A tribute was close, a stronger individual than he, with and instinct to kill. Brady could hear the tribute approaching. He knew what was coming.
"Finally some action," the announcer said, sitting up and straightening her collar. "We've gone too long without a good kill."
He didn't move to escape the predator, nor did he open his eyes to see who his killer would be. Instead he merely tilted his head upwards, exposing his neck. He was destined to die in this arena. His name being pulled from the reaping bowl had been proof of that. There was no point in fighting death.
For a moment there was pain. The bite of a cold knife against the skin of his neck. Then there was warmth. Blood rushing to escape his body, soaking through his clothing. A few brief memories flashed through his mind. Anabel's smile, his children's laughter, the smell of orange orchards in District 11.
Then, mercifully, there was death.
