A TALE OF ROPES AND ASPHYXIATION
Dear Diary, Today, I killed someone. I got mighty fucked up in the process, but, as I live and breathe, I think I came out on top. I might have also thrown up, a bit.
Before the big event, the Capitol sent me another gift, this time in the form of an old-fashioned taser, along with a set of ten matches. This brings my current wealth status to fuckin’ ballin’ as hell. Come night, I now also have two sets of brass knuckles, a makeshift spearhead, a machete, a flask of lemonade, two (full) bottles of water, 2-1/2 rolls of bandages, a thermal blanket, and a small fruit bar. What a fuckin’ haul.
The Capitol, blessed be their name, must have enjoyed forcing me to fight the girl from Nine. I hope they also enjoyed cutting her corpse from the tree, swollen skin and all. Bastards.
After the fight, I took a break in the hollow portion of a large hill, near the clearing. I had some wounds to tend to, and I needed a few band-aids. I also gratefully consumed the bread and apple my dear old pal had left me, making up for the lack of food from the previous day. She also left me some water. She really was a nice gal. I also finally got a fuckin’ chance to cook the shit out of those birds. Victory tastes savory. I have two bird corpses left.
After the fight, my injuries most likely numbered into the hundreds. I’m sure there are some legal injuries, emotional damage, probably some mental shit I need to work through. Besides that, I have a gash on my temple, a couple cracked lower ribs (compressed into position by tying a bandage), and a large wound on my left upper arm (below the shoulder, packed tightly with bandages but not cleaned or wrapped). That’s what is wrong with my shit. For now, anyway.
