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❝ we are buried ❞
❝ in broken dreams. ❞
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
MY CHEST BUBBLES IN ANGER AT THIS unexpected obstacle, and for the first time, I have no idea what to do next. Cato rests against the cave wall, sweat dripping down his forehead, his teeth audibly grinding against the agonising pain.
Looking down, I notice the tear Clove's knife has made against the fabric, and, running my fingers delicately over the injury, I sense the beginning of swelling around the cut, blood slightly oozing out.
It's the first time I wish I had paid more attention my mother's craft, when she tended an immeasurable amount of wounds, instead of running off, squeamish at the spread of maroon liquid onto our kitchen table.
It was ironic, considering how many times my hands had been dripped with other tribute's blood these last few days. All I know is that I should keep the blade jammed into his leg.
I shake my head as I press my palm against his burning skin, knowing I have to inspect his injury as closely as possible and assemble in my head the echos from what I did remember from Prim, or my mother's employment.
I notice Cato's eyes fluttering, threatening to shut, so I shake the weakened boy immediately.
"Can't I sleep?" he asks, wincing.
"Not now. I need to look at your leg first" I mutter, trying to be as gentle as possible as I remove his boots and slowly inch his pants downwards.
For some reason, the sight of his bare skin leaves me a little flustered, and I hope the obscurity of the cave hides the spread of blush onto my cheeks.
"Jade, I think we're going too fast" he jokes, placing his hand on top of mine.
"Shut up, Cato" I softly say, letting a smile make a subtle and rapid appearance onto my face.
The alternant smell of blood and dirt wafting in the air causes my nose to wrinkle in disgust. I bite the inside of my cheek as I spread some of the remaining of the cream I had been gifted at the beginning of the game around the wound. Yet, I know Cato's cut is far worse, and needs a far more effective cure.
"It's going to be fine. Your injury isn't that bad." I state, attempting to sound as convincing as possible against Cato's suspicious gaze. At the moment, I had no idea how damaging his wound was, and it could affect his future performance.
Instead of directly answering, he lets his hand cup my cheek and lightly brush his finger against my skin.
"How about another kiss?" he asks, a knowing smirk lingering onto his demeanour, despite his ongoing suffering.
