I hear a soft thud nearby. I take a breath. I can picture papa yelling at the television, telling me not to go. My mama clasping his hand like she always does when she’s worried, her throat tight with apprehension. It’s hard to tell, but you can see it in the strain of her muscles. But they don’t need to worry. I will be okay.
I cannot compromise who I am for their worries. How can they ask me to do that? It’s not something I’m capable of doing. I can’t tame my spirit for them. Nobody should be asked to do such a thing.
I take my spear, my water bottle, and I put the knife into my boot. I feel a pang of guilt, but I must remind myself that it’s for my own protection. I slip the spear into my waistband as I climb the ladder to the mansion, feeling the winds whip against my body like they do at home in the months right before winter.
Listening to the water slosh around in my pockets, I come to the roof.
As the flamingos strut through the grasses, I assume that they’re making a beeline for the lake, where all of the other animals are peacefully drinking the crystal clear water. But their thin, pink legs increase in stride, and they become a blur as the slender birds move closer to me at a speed that I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to outrun. It’s clear that they aren’t heading for the lake now, because their little eyes, yellow with a black dot, seem fixed upon me, even in my camouflaged state.
I sigh, unsurprised that these animals are able to pick up on my presence so easily. Animals are always more perceptive than humans. It’s something that they learn naturally in the wild. I think that’s what the trainers in the Capitol tried to teach us all in those four short days before the arena. How to think like a wild animal, and act like one on instinct, too.
I pick up my spear and rise. I realize that it’s becoming easier and easier to kill these creatures that are sent after me. I know that I have to do it to live. They will surely kill me, they’ve been programmed to do so. I don’t find it too difficult to forgive myself for killing them. They just seem tortured, with no other choice than to go after any tribute they see, created for only one purpose. I know that I’m not supposed to weigh my life above others, but in situations like these…
The first of the birds, pink in color like cherry blossoms, gingerly leaps forward on its legs. I sweep my spear in an arc, hovering just above the ground, causing the shaft to slam into its legs. The animal squawks viciously, falling to its side with its recent incapacitation.
I feel bad, watching the bird suffer. It doesn’t deserve that. I’m sure it’s already suffered a great deal.
But before I can apologize, the other seven creatures unleash themselves upon me, gnawing at my flesh with their beaks. They seem to be just as sharp as the axe papa uses to chop up firewood. I know because I cut myself on it once, and then metal sliced through my skin as easily as water. Well, water from the river in the mountains. Not the stagnant pond water, covered in lily pads and lotus blossoms, waxy and pink.
I begin to spin around with my spear in hand, keeping a few of them at bay for the time being. Although one of them ascends into the air, fluttering its wings before my spear makes contact with them, and I hear a sudden crack and a slight cry that makes me feel a pang of guilt in my heart. But I can’t hold onto the negativity.
I spin with the weapon, trying not to look at them as my weapon makes contact with their bodies. The spear is the only weapon that I feel comfortable using, but even now I think I’m starting to reach my limit. There’s so much death around here. The air feels toxic. I would like to leave.
They scratch and peck at my arms and legs, cutting a large gash across my upper arm.
And then suddenly, the flapping of wings is gone, as is the squawking. Six dead flamingos lie around me, and pink feathers float around in the air as I glance over their bodies. I spot the one with the broken wings, unable to fly, writhing in pain. I put it out of its misery, and do the same with the bird that has broken legs.
“I am sorry,” I murmur as I gather my things, pouring the water in my bottle from the raincloud onto my wounds, and watching as they slowly fade. I turn east, walking back to the raincloud and filling my bottle up with the water, before turning to face the rest of the arena. I take in the savanna, the animals by the lake, the rivers, the tower in the distance. I spot Noor and Yule and Essa, and it looks like they’re fighting. I hope Noor and Yule are okay, but I don’t wish death upon Essa. I hope that they can all come to terms with what they’re doing.
I decide to explore the mountain, heading north as I apply my paint to where it came off, moving quietly through the brush.
my wig was snatched. again. bald might be considered a look but i wasn’t really feeling it. so i got my wig back. oh, also, i killed kendall. that’s probably not too important of a detail anyways. i mean i only committed murder and now i’m going to hell so, that’s pretty great. and then i cleaned myself up because i’m not totally into infection, slithering a bit deeper into the forest.
◦◦◦current location◦◦◦
glowing forest
◦◦◦injuries◦◦◦
cut on leg (cleaned and bandaged), cut below collarbone (cleaned and bandaged), trauma to head (cleaned and bandaged), bruised jaw, various minor cuts and scratches (cleaned)
◦◦◦weapons◦◦◦
3 throwing daggers, hunting knife, baton
◦◦◦items◦◦◦
blue pack (bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a quarter of a bottle of blueberry water), coat, recorder, first-aid kit (1 roll of bandages, needle), syringe, rope
snatched: the sequel (available in select theaters) | day three
I know that today is going to be a completely awful day when I wake up and my head is cold. Slowly, I raise my hand to my head, shuddering when I feel not synthetic hair under my touch, but instead, baldness. I am bald on national television. What a wonderful way to be portrayed. This is just spectacular. It’s amazing, cool, nice, really great, awesome. I might as well just get killed now. Walking around in this death arena bald is not something that I have on my to do list. Maybe that’s surprising to some, but it’s the truth.
Suddenly, I remember Apricot’s infatuation with my pink wig. She was always eyeing it, snatching it, obsessing over it. She’s taken it hostage many times, and I don’t think that she’s up to speed on proper wig care, let alone proper anything care. But also I am not either and Apricot is amazing so whatever. Blinking away sleepiness from my vision, I peer around the immediate area, looking for the hyperactive fruit child sporting a new fluorescent bob. But I don’t see her.
I see a group of three monkeys, one of which is serving a look in a pepto bismol wig-my pepto bismol wig. And it looks better than me. Nice. I’m glad to be getting shown up by a rodent in the arena. “Wow, Apricot. You look pretty good today, although the change has been a big one. I’m glad that the plastic surgery was a success, though,” I mutter, my voice a monotone, with no inflection.
“But honestly, I think chartreuse is more your color. The pink would look better on Kiwi,” I remark. I love what the arena is doing to me. It’s pretty cool, I would say. Slowly watching my sanity crumble away is an interesting, one in a lifetime experience. It’s really nice that the Gamemakers gave me this opportunity. How considerate of them.
And then I almost fall out of the tree when Kiwi and Avocado (I heard that she did crack in the Capitol and this is what happened to her. This must be a warning to all the kids in the Capitol.) leap onto my branch. I think I would rather be dead than fighting monkeys while I’m bald. Kiwi extends her beautiful little claw, gingerly placing it on my arm. She looks into my eyes with hers, which are a bright, neon pink. I see the devil in her eyes. Or maybe it’s just my reflection. Anyways, she drags her claws along my arm, slowly drawing blood. An unholy noise erupts from her mouth, something like my laughter but probably not as bad.
I’m not really sure what these monkeys are doing but they seem cool. Kind of like an emo monkey gang that needed money so they decided to be test subjects and then they turned into bioluminescent mushroom creatures. Sounds like a nice life. Kiwi continues to look at me, raising her claw again. Confused, I look around at the other monkeys, seeing if I can make some eye contact and be like: I don’t understand what’s happening. My small mortal brain is not developed enough to understand such complexity. But the monkeys don’t reciprocate the look and I feel Kiwi’s touch once again, but this time with more pressure. Before I even know it, I find myself smacking Kiwi. She’s flies off the branch and lands below with a crack and a thud. Nice, now I’m going to hell on what, three counts of animal murder? Or seven-hundred depending on whether you count the bats individually. So yeah, that’s up in the air, I guess.
And so am I, because Avocado is sent into a frenzy when I murder Kiwi. He leaps onto my back and begins pounding on my shoulder blades with his fists, and then turns to scratching my ears. An interesting approach. The screeching in my ears is nice as well. With my knife, I swipe behind me, forgetting that I’m sitting on a tree branch. Losing my balance, I slide off of the bough, now slick with the heavy moisture in the air, falling to the ground below. I manage to not die by latching onto a branch below. Just as I do that, the monkey leaps down to me, fangs bared and claws brandished. The spray of blood onto my face stops that after I hold the knife outwards, the monkey skewered on the blade. I fling the creature off and look to the queen monkey with my wig.
She swings down to me, landing directly beside me on the branch. Removing the wig, she offers it to me. I extend a wary hand to grab it, only to see the monkey retract her greedy hand and throw the wig higher into the treetops. I awkwardly climb up there, and not very skillfully. I finally reach my wig, securing it on my head. But then Apricot snatches it yet again, leaving me bald and vulnerable. Great. Absolutely great. “Fine. Just keep it,” I grumble, climbing down to the ground.
Although the knife I throw says otherwise. When the dead monkey lands on the ground, I finally get to collect my wig. But yes, I’m most definitely bound to go to learn out eternity in the flaming lakes of hell now that I’ve killed all these animals. Should be exciting, probably will find out soon.
With my scratches and bruises, I gather my things, examining the mushrooms on the monkeys before looking around to see where I can go.
