The Third Annual Writer's Game: Roots

Ex Nihilo Nihil Fit | Leo Tolstoy

Leo Tolstoy ran his right hand across the rough bark of the trees that encompassed him, creating a twisting maze between him and the cornucopia that had become his destination. In his left, the knife that he had used since the very beginning of the Games hung loosely – it was no longer an extension of his body, simply an appendage that he no longer knew how to use, but he clutched it until his knuckles turned white. It was a lifeline.

He had not yet decided why he was choosing to move forward, but his feet still trudged through the dirt in an attempt to find the place where these Games had first began. The cornucopia had seemed like the most logical destination – like an unbroken chain comprised of many links, an event such as the Games should always end in the exact place it began. Leo liked the perfection of such a perfect ending that tied up the loose ends of such a story, even if the plot line had not been one that he would have chosen for himself.

There had been mistakes. It was clear to Leo, as the wind caused the leaves to rustle above him, that the mistakes he had made had been inevitable but this was not comforting. He would still had preferred them to never have been made. However, it was too far into the story to turn around and rewrite everything that had already been written. It was not possible to hide it and so, instead, Leo had made the choice to embrace it. He had kept the knife in his hand as a token, a reminder to both himself and the watching citizens of Panem that he was aware of what he had done and he was beginning to care about it – not much, but he was beginning to.

It could possibly have been the thought of Natasha, but Leo did not think that such an incident would lead him to have such an emotional reaction. He had never felt such an attack of conscience before and, as he had willingly made the mistakes that flooded his mind with every step forward, Natasha had never even been considered. She was simply a side character who was there when it was convenient, but when it came to the actual plot she was simply disposable.

Everyone was disposable.

It was becoming more common to see a smile spread across Leo's otherwise clouded face, and he broke into a grin as the sun found a point in the trees where it could shine down onto his pale skin. It provided a warmth which he had not realised he had missed whilst sheltering in the cave that now held a handful of bad memories. Leo was not happy, but he was content and that was enough. He had never asked for – or, in fact, even wanted – his own special happy ending.

The muffled sound of his own footsteps was beginning to match his heartbeat, a marching sound like that of music. Leo made no effort to disguise them beneath the accompaniment of birdsong and the whisper of surrounding trees, even though he was aware that another tribute could potentially hear him at any point. Leo was beginning to wonder if he perhaps wanted to be discovered, but his own mind was becoming too much of a tangled and complicated mess to even comprehend his own train of thought. He simply continued to move forward without reason or justification. Everything was easier if you simply did not think about it.

If Leo thought too hard, it began to hurt. It burnt with a pain that he had not experienced before. Unlike a physical pain where a location could be identified, his mind simply seemed to swim until every image was unclear whilst an ache filled his chest and his legs began to struggle to support his weight. Whilst most would have been concerned, Leo did not show any sort of wonder or fear for this affliction – he avoided it, keeping his mind blank and focused only on what was around him rather than what was in the past. He ran his hand across every tree, feeling the rough patches and dents in the cold bark. He paid attention to the gentle whispering of the soft breeze and the warmth of the sun. He never stopped, not even once, on his journey to the cornucopia.

His past, however, was inescapable. Leo could only spend so much attention on the world that surrounded him before he began to see and hear reminders that caused the pain to begin. In the distance, the sound of running water sent a chill spiraling through his body. The metallic tinge of blood that filled of the arena began to make his head spin.

Leo walked faster, pulling his hand away from the trees and forcing his eyes to look down at the ground. Beneath his feet, the grass and dead leaves worked together to form a pattern that simply blurred into a kaleidoscope of shapes as Leo kicked them apart in his haste to move forward. The knife that he had clutched so tightly fell into a limper grip – he wanted to drop it, but also knew that his life depended fully on having a blade in his hand just in case someone was to surprise him.

His footsteps grew into a soft thunder as he broke into a run, no longer caring for the world around him like he had done before. He only wanted to think of the cornucopia, always looking forward into what awaited him in the future rather than the memories that continued to taunt and haunt him in the past. When the pain of remembering continued to stalk him despite his desperate attempt to escape, Leo simply pushed himself to run faster. He stumbled on tree roots, scratched his face open on branches and slid on the loose grass beneath his feet but he kept going as if he was being pursued by a monster rather than simply his own mind.

Eventually, the scratches on his face caused blood to leak into his mouth and for the metallic taste to overtake him once again. Finally stopping, unsure if he had even made progress towards the cornucopia in his longing to move, he brushed a hand across his face to check that the tree branches had caused no serious damage. When he brought his hand away, it was stained red. Leo did not even blink as he rubbed the blood away on his clothing. He was used to his hands being stained with blood that could only be spilled through pain and suffering.

The pain that had been following him through the forest seemed to have been lost, replaced by burning lungs and screaming muscles that brought a weak smile to Leo's injured face. The new pain felt like a relief as he stumbled and lent his weight up against a nearby tree. It was exactly what he wanted – a pain that was physical, that he could understand that he could look back on and say with confidence that it had been caused by his actions.

Leo did not like things that he could not understand. He was observant enough to see the tiniest details despite the bigger picture, to watch them and know exactly when they did not fit in. Occasionally, he would see those instances that did not seem to slide neatly into the full novel and those would annoy him. He would want to know why but he was never able to find out.

In the arena, he was beginning to encounter those moments far more frequently. He could look in any direction and see something that made him uncomfortable. He would see the faces of the dead in the sky and wonder why that particular person had been killed. He would look at the knife in his hand and wonder why that particular blade became his weapon. He would see something that did not seem to fit into the perfect web he had tried to create and simply ignore it in an attempt to pretend it did not exist.

Now, there was an emotion that he could not understand. It was triggered by remembering, and yet could be cured by finding another pain or distraction. It had driven him to hide himself in a cave, but also to emerge into the sunlight to try and find the cornucopia where he would be able to be seen. It had flooded through the letter from his father and seeped into his veins, making Leo fully aware that something was happening inside of his mind but not quite telling him exactly what it was.

He was angry. To not understand something that he had observed was frustrating, but to have it run through you just as often as a heartbeat and still not know exactly what was happening. When Leo was angry, he usually found himself wanting to turn to violence and to spill blood as a way of showing exactly how he felt. However, this new feeling made him want to run away. It made him want to give in. It made him want to collapse to the ground, bury his face in the floor and scream and cry until there was no ounce of strength left in his slight frame.

Leo Tolstoy could not comprehend guilt.