The winner of today’s sponsorship vote is…Eleanor Roth of District 11!
Congrats Eleanor, you get a free attribute point added to your lowest attribute (Cunning).
Late last night, as I tried unsuccessfully to sleep, the male from 7’s face appeared and then disappeared in the sky. It’s the last time he’ll ever be seen in this arena, unless some family in the near distant future watches a recap of all of us dying while they chow down on their TV dinners. They’ll watch Shannon kill Josh, and then me kill Shannon, and then me almost die from Shannon’s poisoned food. They’ll watch me recover, fight my way through the feast and survive with only a small gash on my wrist.
Or so I thought.
The last of my painkillers are starting to wear off. I glance down at my wrist as the throbbing returns. Above the cut, my skin, normally tanned from fourteen days fully exposed to the elements, is a pasty, fish-belly white. Below the cut, the red lines that appeared on my wrist yesterday have climbed even further up my arm, following the veins that flow to my heart.
I reach for the empty pill bottle, knowing it’s empty but desperately hoping for some miracle, a hidden capsule of relief to numb the pain for a few more hours, a few more minutes, even.
There’s nothing. I scrape the tip of my finger all around the inside of the bottle, already welling up with tears, dreading the inevitable onslaught of pain.
The first few minutes are bearable. I whimper to the sky, begging for medicine, begging for someone to support me, to sponsor me, to send me something, anything.
It gets hot. Then cold. Then hot again. The sweat sitting on my body makes me break out into shivers.
I can feel my arm dying, tearing itself apart on the inside as my immune system flares up and tries to burn out whatever infection I got from my wrist wound. The fever is maddening. The fire is spreading, out of control. My body is killing itself.
I scream and scream and reach for my club and scream and scream.
Across the field, the screaming finally stops. On edge, I crouch hunkered down in the tallgrass, waiting for a cannon that doesn’t come.
Was it all just in my head? Is it a muttation? I don’t know. I really don’t know this arena like the remaining tributes must.
My bunker is gone, sealed shut the second I closed the hatch behind me as I headed to the feast two days ago. The Gamemakers won’t let me hide and wait it out anymore. They want me to fight.
I’ve spent fourteen days in the Games now, and almost all of them hidden away underground. Now I’m stuck in the open, waiting to be attacked.
The wound on my shoulder is healing nicely, but my upper back and arm are stiff and rigid with lingering pain. I rise to my knees to stretch, and feel my gut clench as I fail to hold back a horrified scream.
Had I not recognized her, I would have thought the woman from 4 was some sort of bloody specter, inserted into the arena to exact revenge on the living. Head drooped to her chest, she stumbles forward as if she’s being dragged by her forehead by some invisible chain.
The woman has a bloody mace gripped in her right hand. Every few steps, she pulls it back to make a labored swing at her left arm. What’s left of it.
The woman from 4’s left arm is the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen and ever will see. It’s beyond broken, beyond shattered, connected to her body by only the thinnest stretches of skin and tendons, hanging like a marionette. I can only stare as she stumbles past me, uttering the weakest shrieks and gasps of pain, totally unaware that someone’s watching her die.
Blood loss takes its toll a few minutes after she passes me. Still recoiled in horror and shock, I watch as her departing form stumbles one last time, falling headlong into the tallgrass with a muffled crash. She doesn’t get back up.
The twentieth cannon fires. It’s a cannon that very few tributes ever hear in person, and I’ve just heard it.
Twenty tributes dead. Three more left to die.
When I watched last year’s Games, I wasn’t expecting the woman from my district to come home. In all actuality, I expected her to die first, and yet she made it nearly to the end, all the way to the final three. She was one of the few that have heard the twentieth cannon.
I’m stronger than she was. She survived by hiding, and I’ve survived by fighting. I’ve fought monstrous muttations and held my own against some of the strongest tributes in the Games, and I’m still here. Still hanging on.
I did not make it this far to die right before the end. I will survive. I will do what no woman from my district has done in years.
I will win.
Strongest Tribute: Sierra Strom (D2 F)
Most Agile Tribute: Jai Ferrick (D4 M)
Most Cunning Tribute: Jai Ferrick (D4 M)
Most Charming Tribute: Sierra Strom (D2 F)
Strongest Overall Tribute: Sierra Strom (D2 F)
Attribute scores have been altered due to today’s events. Please note the changes on the respective page.
The benchmark for Day Fourteen has been posted on the home page!