The 71st Hunger Games: Purity

Chapter Eight - Johanna

Ten.

I'm rising to the arena, to the place where all my acting is going to finally come in to play.

Nine.

I see the sky above me, crystal clear, and blue as the ocean itself, or at least as I imagine it—I've never seen it.

Eight.

I see the heads of other tributes rising. Beside me, there's a girl with dark hair that was tucked into a tight bun on the back of her head. To my right, there's another girl with her hair in tight braids down her back, and skin darker than anyone I've ever seen back home.

Seven.

I take a glance at the area around me. It was mostly barren, dry. I could smell dust in the air.

Six.

I see Aspen across the way, and he looks different. There's fear in his eyes, as if he knows his impending death.

Five.

If I stare hard enough, I can almost make out a small humming sound coming from around me. It seemed as if the ground around me was buzzing.

Four.

One of the careers came into view. How could I tell? He already had a snarl on his face and his eyes trained to the center.

Three.

I glance around me nervously. Right now I'm just the innocent little girl, but there didn't seem to be anything in sight that could keep me alive except for the materials provided.

Two.

The girl with the braids is pointing at something, her eyes wide and filled with fear. Bugs. There were bugs rising from the brown, dead ground underneath our feet. Small bugs with wings that made a faint chirping sound.

One.

I take one last glance around me, and at the sound of the cannon, I jump off my podium and run for the empty landscape behind me, running towards what I could only hope to be some sort of structure, or shelter. It was blurry now, but as I ran towards it, I slowly started to recognize that it was a patch of trees.

I feel myself losing breath already, my stomach quickly sinking in and out in time with the pounding of my feet on the dirt. Sure I was active, I spent my days chopping trees, wielding an axe, and carrying lumber. But in all of my life, I don't think I've ever run as much as those first few minutes of the game. Even though every time I glanced over my shoulder, no one was there, I could swear I heard footsteps behind me. I could swear I heard someone breathing, laughing, playing a trick on me. But there was nowhere to hide. Behind me was the empty terrain, the cornucopia, the tributes that weren't smart enough to run away. In front of me, the small patch of trees grew clearer, and I realized something: 

they were all dead.

They had no leaves, and their roots were slightly above the ground, where I could tell that they were lacking one fundamental necessity:  water. Their branches were dark and on the verge of breaking off, surely incapable of holding a human, if someone were to climb up them. Perhaps my knowledge of trees would help me in these games.

By the looks of them, I could tell they were all oak trees. They were very tall, and their centers were thick, probably many years old. They should have had leaves—green for the summer and spring, red and yellow and brown for the fall, and none for the winter—but their branches looked like if they even tried to produce leaves, they would crack off and fall to the ground. It looked almost as if the trees had been struck by lightning, which I've only seen a few times, but I remembered well enough to recognize some of the similarities here; charred bark, weak, dead branches, upturned roots—