The Third Annual Writer's Game: Roots

Ex Nihilo Nihil Fit | Roscoe Wayland

Considering how much I want to survive the Games, I haven't given much thought to what will come after.

At first, it was because it seemed impossible, a dream so far-fetched that not even I could consider dreaming it. Besides, the only thing that came to mind when I thought of anything outside of the Games was the all-too-real feeling of Mom's lips pressing softly down onto my cheek. For the longest time, I thought that I had seen the future in my dream. It only just occurred to me that it's impossible now. And if that part is wrong, maybe the whole thing was wrong. Anything can happen.

Oddly enough, that isn't reassuring.

The only bit of certainty I've had in the entire Games has been that, eventually, I am going to die. My body will be shipped back to Eight where my parents will mourn me, along with a few classmates and coworkers who will pretend they knew me better than they did. They'll probably burn my body, and maybe spend a little extra money on the urn. Every day they will notice it less and less, until eventually they'll forget about it. Life will go on.

Now, as I stare at Mom's suicide note as it crumples up and burns away completely, I'm not so sure. Part of me feels a pang of regret for getting rid of it so callously, the very last thing Mom left to this world. Someone in the Capitol must be fuming right now, thinking of how much that note must be worth to some sick collector. That's exactly why I have to get rid of it though, to keep them from taking Mom's death away from me. If they have their way, they'll turn it into a national spectacle - the greatest tragedy of the year if I win. After all, they can't make money from letting a boy mourn his own mother in private.

I feel strangely numb as the last bit of the letter is swallowed up by the fire. In an attempt to stave off the emptiness, I shove a saltine, the last one in my pack, into my mouth. For a moment, I stop thinking of Mom and only think of how good it feels to be eating. Although I've been trying to ration my food, to spread it out so that I don't eat it all at once, I'm still hungrier than I've ever been. My throat is dry from the saltiness, but my water supplies are just as low, and I've been too scared to drink the river water. Both physically and emotionally, I'm weaker than ever.

Maybe there are some supplies left at the Cornucopia, I think to myself. With the girl from Four still alive, I've been too afraid to risk looking, but, faced with the choice between a quick death at her hands, and a slow, drawn-out one from starvation, I immediately know which one I'd choose. Still, I stomp out the fire before the smoke it's giving off can broadcast my location too much. Regardless of how ready I am to die, I still want to do it on my terms.

Something about walking away from the river has a sense of finality to it. It's the same feeling I felt when I left home for the Reaping, I only wish that I could have identified it then. Regardless of whatever happens, something tells me I won't see the river again - not the ledge I almost stepped off, not the cave I took shelter in. As much as the river has been my home for the past several days, I know that I won't miss it at all.

Walking through the forest back to the Cornucopia almost feels like walking through the Games in reverse. As I follow a game trail leading away from the river, I remember the Mutt I was running from. All at once, my heartbeat speeds up, and I feel myself break into a jog I didn't know I had the energy for. Besides for the Bloodbath, coming face to face with the Mutt was probably the closest I came to death the whole Games. Still, I think as a wry smile comes to my face, the Mutt ripping me to shreds might have been less painful than the rest of the Games.

Would dying have been worth it though?

I think of Mom, of how she thought death was the easy way out, and of all the pain she caused with it. If I survive, she'll never know, and she'll have missed so much. Dying now, whether that means jumping into the river or running headfirst into a Career or a Mutt, is just as cowardly. Surviving much longer might cause me more pain than I'd thought imaginable, but it might also bring more joy. Maybe I'll get out of the Games, and one day they'll be nothing but a distant memory. No matter how unlikely it is, I force myself to cling to that hope. I can't give up now.

Before I know it, I'm at the edge of the forest, and the glistening gold of the Cornucopia is in plain sight. Part of me wants to step out now, to run and grab supplies as fast as I can, but before I can move, I waver. Last time I was in that clearing I almost died. I killed someone, and I had to hide under a bleeding corpse until everyone else cleared out. Could this time be any better?

It could be, I tell myself. Or it could be worse.

But whatever will come, I'll face it here and now.