𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘'𝐋𝐋 𝐉𝐔𝐌𝐏 𝐎𝐅𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐋𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐄 𝐓𝐎𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑.
What District 2 victor, Saffron Creek, and prodigy, Finnick Odair, share is the very antithesis of what has been stolen from them. They test the edges of the rules that construct t...
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asphyxiation . . . . .
Water spills over Saffron's head.
It is lukewarm and uncomfortable. The stream fizzles out as soon as it has started, but, most critically, the creature around her neck writhes. It convulses with bruising force. Saffron must lift her chin as far as she can to prevent her nose from breaking on impact.
The monster releases a cruel wail before it falls limp and heavy onto her lap.
Her chest heaves as her lungs piston air in and out at an irregular pace. She searches for whatever miracle saved her. Above her, her dagger is lodged in the tree, perforating the bark.
Damn the Gamemakers.
Saffron's arms burn. Her thighs burn. Her throat burns.
Though she was doused with water, it feels like she has caught fire.
Again, she stabs the dagger into the tree and greedily gulps at the water that slips through the wound. It is cyclical—how she forgets what it is like to take for granted her fortunes. Now, the water feels like liquid gold trickling down her throat. When she is full, she feels less hungry too.
Insects have been roused.
Fat flies drone curiously and incessantly around the carcass of the mutt.
Hours still stand between dawn. Saffron knows that with the morning comes conflict just like she knows that she should sleep, but when she closes her eyes the feeling of a noose around her throat is too fresh. She can't be sure that there aren't more monsters lurking.
She is not safe in the trees, nor on the ground.
But she must take a chance.
Saffron deserted safety when she abandoned Finnick during the Bloodbath. She traded companionship for betrayal. It was an unfair trade in every sense, but Saffron has spent a lifetime strategizing with unfavorable hands.
She drops to the ground in the half-light, and runs, collecting her chain from the grass. She finds that it is hard to move without making a sound when you cannot see. In the distance, she hears a great buzzing. The sound of disaster grows.
This is her bet.
She will escape one tragedy by running into the arms of another and she will have to survive by skirting the edges of both.
First, she gambled on the trees, so now she will bet on the ground. She is spent from sprinting. Her weight seems doubled by exhaustion. She collapses in the crook of two boulders, and she finds minimal comfort in their weight, pressing upon her on three sides.
Saffron's eyelids flutter as if with indecision. To be awake. To fall asleep.
Then, a drop. Alone and skin-warm hits her cheek and slides down towards her neck. A second follows. Then a third and suddenly it's pouring. It is hot and thick, like everything in the jungle.
Her instincts tell her to tilt her chin to the sky and catch as many of the heavy beads on her tongue, but her reason cautions next. What need is there to hide water in the trees if it rains?
Tentatively, Saffron licks her lips as she stands, getting drenched. She tastes iron on her tongue. Immediately, she knows it is blood.
Through the torrent there is sudden shouting, staccato and angry.
"Damn it! Damn it!"
She picks her way towards the voices.
She purses her lips, but still the blood is so dense it pollutes the air. She thinks she's choking again. She thinks she is drowning on land. She feels suspended in a reality where she has completely left the arena and it is only blood. Where did it all come from? she wonders.
She can smell nothing but iron and is deprived of her senses until she trips over a root. This darkness is absolute. There cannot be shadows if there was never light.
Then she trips over something harder that tips her off balance. Her head hits a stone and her ears ring. She cries out.
"Blight?" someone yells hoarsely, then coughs. "Blight!"
