Youtube Hunger Games

Alliances: Part 2

Dan's POV

It was only the third day of torturous agony that generated both psychological and physical torment. Only the third day of the last few remaining in my life. The concurring resentment displayed throughout those of us being so brutally abused, a perpetual mutuality, was being incorporated against those with wit and a loathe in opposition to lust for life. The third day of the Hunger Games.

And I was going to die.

I hadn't pitted contradiction against aggrieved, distorted tribute mentalities, I hadn't disobeyed or been insubordinate in correlation of the regulations, I hadn't disrupted or caused a frivolent indignation throughout the smattering of victims. But I was going to die. Because of my own unfortunate uncoordination. 

Somehow and quite inexplicably, I had managed to disperse myself within a trap I had tediously established, and rather ironically, despite my concerning ineptitude, it was functioning. 

The blade intended to behead unsuspecting animals intrigued by the alluring enticement had instead descended upon to my own limb, and was now lodged indiscreetly in my leg, gradually exceeding deeper into my unprecedentedly blood-conformed flesh. Evaluating the situation, it may have been perceptive to experience less tranquility and composition, yet I seemed to be numbed and adhered to the wound. I had succumbed to the pain, excruciating though it was, and I was prepared for death.

Hypothetically, even should I manage to escape, I would be incapable of so much as walking, and, if not immediately killed by some other tribute in attempt to eliminate nuisances, I would eventually bleed to death. And as was more plausible considering circumstances, I assumed my leg would soon be severed.

Endeavoring to distract myself from the ever-encompassing agony, I attentively listened to my undisturbed surroundings, yearning for something previously inconspicuous to arise. This was when I noticed the quickly approaching footsteps.

I'd infer that they were human, since the condescending patter mocking my own disability seemed to maneuver upon two limbs. If not a tribute, whatever it was, it was bipedal.

 And subsequently, arrived into my field of vision was a tribute, upon further speculation, the same one I'd encountered at the beginning of the games; tall, constructively black hair, and a striking blue eye. (please respond if you laughed at reading this; it was deliberate)

He had yet to notice me, and seemed considerably flustered and deterred, and I presumed, that if he saw me, I may not have to endure the pertinent removal of my leg.

However, instead, as his gaze fell upon my crippled form, he halted and gazed consistently, and slightly unnervingly. I remained silent in the duration of these unsettling few moments, which seemed to condone eternity. Then, he advanced.

As he pervaded forward, I was able to establish a more concise repreation of whom was probably the last person I'd see in my life. He was rather pale and lanky, a laborious fringe of dark hair falling meticulously over his right eye, and his piercing stare was still fixated on me. His hand clenched a small dagger, imminently the curio to end my life. I momentarily felt nothing as I anticipated death. I closed my eyes, apprehensive of the impact.

It did not come. 

I looked up at him inquisitively, and managed to speak, terrifyingly, dauntingly, interrogating wearily, "What?"

He continued staring at me, and after several seconds, I asked, "Are you not going to kill me?"

In rendition of reply, he shook his head.

"Then please clarify what you're doing," I requested slightly irritably. I knew I was going to die, but I didn't want an audience.

Many minutes past. I began interpreting that he may have been paralyzed, until he suddenly altered position. Kneeling down, he dislodged the blade from my leg, and, gripping it derevrantly, severed the bonds keeping it in place, successfully dismantling my trap. Then, he looked at me vehemently, and voiced so softly, it was almost inaudible, "Are you alright?"

I found myself incapable of speech. I hadn't exactly expected this sequence of events. So exuberantly had I pertained that any tribute I encountered would kill me. And yet, astoundingly, this idiosyncratic stranger was seemingly attempting to assist me.

He asked again, somewhat more forcefully but still discernibly gently, "Are you alright?"

I opened my mouth to respond, but before I was able, A horrific gurgling noise resounded, and the open wound began to inadvertently secrete blood.

"I'm swell. Just completely incapacitated."

I froze, petrified by my involuntary statement, which didn't quite convey gratitude for liberating me.

Fortunately, he emitted what resembled a minuscule giggle. Evidently, sweet people with senses of humor existed. I smiled weakly before instinctively screaming in coerced tolerance of unendurable pain. 

His smile vanished immediately, and he quickly attended the wound, placing his hand without reluctance over the gaping black injury. I winced as his skin came in contact with it.

Cautiously, he took the string previously composing the trap, now strewn unceremoniously upon the grassy earth, and tied it firmly, securing it as taut, around my leg above the bleeding portion.

"Do you know what you're doing," I inquired feebly.

"Not really," he admitted, "But we ought to conceal the wound with something affirmative to make it stop bleeding."

"You realize I'll probably die anyway," I condoned bluntly, "I've already lost a substantial amount of blood"

"I won't let you die," he retorted rigidly, unwavering, with subtle confidence. "At least, I'll try to keep you alive. I don't want anyone else to die" As he finished, his voice fluctuated and his gaze contorted. I supposed something traumatizing may have occurred previously, and concerned, I hastily spoke.

"I've got some" He stared at me confusedly, "supplies." I explained, "but they're not here, and I can't move."

"I'll help you," and before I could protest, he had moderately aided me up, stood on one functional leg, and with one debilitated leg dangling conspicuously, dripping blood, though at a lesser velocity, and both arms wrapped thoroughly around his neck. Limping, and with him supporting the majority of my body weight, I managed to move.

"I'm Dan, by the way" I stated at what I assumed to be relevant time, "not conventionally addressed as 'guy with enervated leg'"

He grinned slightly, and replied, "My name's Phil."