Sparks Fly

Chapter 38

Everything seems to erupt at once. The earth explodes into showers of dirt and plant matter. Trees burst into flames. Even the sky fills with brightly colored blossoms of light. I can't think why the sky's being bombed until I realize the Gamemakers are shooting off fireworks up there, while the real destruction occurs on the ground. Just in case it's not enough fun watching the obliteration of the arena and the remaining tributes. Or perhaps to illuminate our gory ends.

Will they let anyone survive? Will there be a victor of the 75th Hunger Games? Maybe not. After all, what is this Quarter Quell but... what was it President Snow read from the card?

" ... a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol..."

Not a fight to the death. An execution. An extinction of the strongest of the strong, because not even we can survive. Perhaps they never intended to have a victor in these Games at all. Or perhaps my final act of rebellion forced their hand.

I'm sorry, Peeta, I think. I'm so incredibly sorry I couldn't save you. My chest constricts, but I know it has nothing to do with my physical trauma. Save him? I just condemned him. In a single, rash moment, I just stole his last chance at life. Maybe, if we had all played by the rules, they might have let him live. I try to move, to run to him as every instinct in my body urges me to, but I remain motionless, trapped in the prison of my mind.

The hovercraft materializes above me without warning. The claw drops from the underside until it's directly overhead. The metal talons slide under me. I want to scream, run, smash my way out of it but I'm frozen, helpless to do anything but fervently hope I'll die before I reach the shadowy figures awaiting me above. They have not spared my life to crown me victor but to make my death as gruesome and public as possible.

My worst fears are confirmed when the face that greets me inside the hovercraft belongs to Plutarch Heavensbee, Head Gamemaker. What a mess I have made of his beautiful Games with the clever ticking clock and the field of victors. He will suffer for his failure, probably lose his life, but not before he sees me punished. His hand reaches for me, I think to strike me, but he does something worse. With his thumb and his forefinger, he slides my eyelids shut, sentencing me to the vulnerability of darkness. They can do anything to me now and I will not even see it coming.

My heart pounds so hard the blood begins to stream from beneath my soaked moss bandage. My thoughts grow foggy and I realize I can conceivably bleed to death before they can attempt to revive me. After all, the Capitol doctors barely managed to save Peeta after he nearly bled out in the last Games. I can only hope that I am so fortunate. In my mind, I whisper a thank you to Johanna Mason for the excellent wound she inflicted as I black out.

When I swim back into semi-consciousness, I can feel I'm lying on a padded table. There's the pinching sensation of tubes in my left arm, and I feel a pang of disappointment, of betrayal that my body won't let me drift into nothingness. I have to disconnect the tubes . They are only trying to keep me alive because, if I slide quietly, privately into death, it will be a victory – a final act of defiance. It's a monumental task for me to move right now; it's nearly impossible for me to open my eyes, let alone attempt to sit up and look around. But my right arm has regained some motion. It flops across my body, feeling no more like an arm than a club. I may as well be back in the arena, paralyzed by poisoned fog for all the control I have over it. And though I have no real motor coordination, I somehow manage to swing my arm around until I rip the tubes out. A beeping goes off somewhere, but I'm unable to stay awake to find out who it will summon as my vision goes black and I'm once again greeted by darkness.

The next time I surface, my hands are tied down to the table, the tubes back in my arm. I can open my eyes and lift my head slightly, though my vision goes a bit fuzzy when I do this. I'm in a large room with low ceilings and a silvery light. There are two rows of beds facing each other, but I can't get a clear view of who lies in them. I can hear the breathing of what I assume are my fellow victors. I wonder if Peeta's here. I pull against my restraints, trying to get a good look at who's around me, but all I can see is Beetee in the bed opposite mine, hooked up to what appears to be at least ten different machines. I struggle harder, just trying to catch a glimpse of Peeta, but all I do is make things worse as fresh blood stains the sterile white bandage that now covers my forearm. My heartbeat thunders in my ears and a wave of dizziness hits me.  Just let me die! I scream in my mind. I hope for both of our sakes that Peeta's dead. That he will never again suffer at the hands of the Capitol. I slam my head back hard on the table again and again and again, desperate to join him. And as I slowly start to fade away, hoping that this is the end for me, I think that maybe in death we will finally get to have our forever.