The Third Annual Writer's Game: Roots

Veni Vidi Vici | Jacqueline "Jackie" Ecclestone

There was nothing but wind, sun and sea around her, with a thousand grains of sand underneath her bare feet. In the far distance, her sharp eyes could just make out the outlines of many District Four homes, stretched out behind her in neat little rows. It was a sharp contrast to the roaring, raging waves that collided with one another, before smashing into the rocks that littered the shore. Above head, several seagulls called, using their wings to glide smoothly across the air, flying with the wind and not against it, to increase their speed and efficiency. She looked up, and though she seemed to be gazing up at them intently, though in reality her mind had wandered far, far away. Seeing the magnificent birds fly, seeing how they dived into the water and went for the kill, seeing how they used the natural energy of the wind to their advantage, it all made her wonder.

It made her wonder that if she had only stopped and thought things through, stopped her reckless ways and planned her future and had not gone with the flow – then maybe she wouldn't be here right now.

Maybe she wouldn't have wound up in poverty and debt, her initial reputation shattered, reduced to having to sleep on the concrete floor of her mansion in the Victor's Village.

Maybe, Jacqueline Ecclestone might have recovered from the horrors she endured in the Third Annual Hunger Games.

The arena resonated with the song of swords, accompanied by the choir of clashing metal and the harmonies of agonized shrieks. The silver horn was painted with crimson blood, a dark red splatter in the center where a boy's head was bashed in, by her. She stood, eyes wild, hair blowing in the wind, standing over the mangled corpse of the District Five male. His grey eyes were opened wide, almost as if he spent his last few minutes in this world shocked at his impending demise. Streaks of dried blood in varying shades of red stained his pale face from the fatal wound in his head, and the marrow of his shattered neck bones could be seen sticking out of his skin. She recalled how he had cried out when her hands had wrapped around his throat, before forcefully slamming his head backwards on the Cornucopia's walls. Relentless. Unstoppable. Even when Leo Tolstoy inhaled his final, shuddering breath, she continued – the wall was her canvas and each death was another step towards her masterpiece, the masterpiece that she was intent on completing. A cannon boomed, and the boy's face flashed across the skies, but the remaining three did not spare a glance. She was too busy gathering her breath, and the other two were fighting for their dear lives, the smaller of the two boys quickly darting to and fro to avoid the larger one.

Follin Ryme had been her ally – or at least, the only one in the Games that Jackie was certain would not kill her. After the Bloodbath, they had gone their separate ways, but there was still an underlying sense of loyalty that churned in the girl's heart that egged her on, to help the sixteen-year-old, even if he had to die in the next few minutes anyways. As for Roscoe Wayland, she felt nothing for him inside of her heart. He was just another face in the crowd, another withered leaf, swaying dangerously in the wind. More blood to be spilled; more paint for her picture.

There was a spear beside her, begging to be used.

She reached down, took it in her right hand, aimed, and threw.

Bullseye.

When her thoughts returned to reality once more, it was because of the sound of rolling thunder that rumbled across the greying heavens. The dripping golden sun had already been covered by the approaching storm clouds, casting shadows over the land so that in the span of a few minutes, day had been transformed into night. While any other sane person walking on the beach would've scurried away back to the sanctuary of their homes at the sight of the ominous clouds, Jackie did not. Instead, she smiled, for she was in her element. Though the years had indeed changed her heart and soul, Jacqueline could not deny the fact that she never lost her love for thunderstorms, a phenomenon that she was born in. Chaotic, yes, but beautiful in its destruction. Just like she was.