Final Reality (THG Fanfic)

Chapter XXI

Everyone gawps at the gigantic tree. It looks untouched, not a single burn mark from the lightning, minimal charring. Zara compliments the technology but then quickly moves in to examine what she is to be working with. We all slowly follow her, still distracted by the tree. Finally, I help Pommel set Jaeda on a rock, pushing her head in between her knees. She groans, gesturing that her back is on fire. I help Primrose to unwrap the wound, revealing a disgusting image that I’ve grown used to seeing on the streets of the sixth district of Panem. Surprisingly, Cathal busies himself by helping Primrose extract the bucketfuls of yellow pus.

“It’s infected,” Primrose announces. “Whatever that poison was, it’s acting fast. And I don’t have the right equipment and medicine to operate on her. The cure is far out of my reach.” Everyone deflates; slowing accepting that Jaeda’s heart will not continue to beat. She’s not dead yet, of course, but already the task of accepting it is difficult to overcome. “I’m sorry, Jaeda,” Primrose says as she strokes her hair. “There’s nothing more we can do, except to clean and rewrap it.”

“Nothing more?” Jaeda wheezes out uncertainly.

“Nothing more,” Primrose confirms.

After a few moments of silence, Primrose and Cathal proceed to treating Jaeda’s back and Pommel leaves to hunt for food, leaving Quent and I with nothing but the task of draining a tree for its drinking water. I follow Quent into the jungle, handing him the spile as we climb over one last boulder, and take turns drinking from the tree. Other than the sound of Quent gulping down water, it’s quiet – too eerily quiet. I don’t think much of it; it’s just that, finally after forty-nine long hours in this arena, the suspicion and awareness of my surroundings has finally kicked in. They were traits one would acquire upon launching into the arena. I, of course, am slow and idiotic and am constantly trying to turn every situation into a joke; it’s not surprising it took me this long to accept reality. It was probably the conversation I had with Quent and the thoughts that followed after.

Like always, I try to find myself a distraction, a memory of sorts, but I find after a while that it is no use. I throw my past into the back of my head, full of cobwebs and dust bunnies, and wait for my turn to drink. It’s not long before I find myself studying Quent – a distraction I cannot avoid. His skin is shining with sweat and is scratched in places, like mine, and his more-than-well-built abs drip with tree water he keeps missing. Although his face no longer illustrates the carefree personality I once witnessed. What he said to me before changed my perspective of him. Quent has become more mature, which I guess led to him losing most of his carelessly fun nature. That’s when I realize that it’s not acceptance I struggle with. It’s change – growing up, maturing. I don’t ever want to grow up.

I remember hiding from the peacekeepers with Katri a few months ago, during the Victory Tour, after sneaking out of the house. We had planned to visit this clean-shaven guy named Xander on the other side of the neighbourhood. Xander was widely known amoung the rebellious youth, selling alcohol under the counter, as he was a cheeky teenager that survived. Katri and I were up for our first legal swigs of alcohol. (Yes, that’s right. The legal drinking age for District 6 is eighteen-years-old. It really just gives the peacekeepers a better excuse for inflicting pain, even causing death if someone was seen out after dark). The peacekeepers had suspicions about Xander’s dealings, but they didn’t know they were correct.

Katri and I had made it two blocks away from Xander’s before hiding in the shadows of an alleyway. Two groups of four peacekeepers marched up and down the street like robots, waiting for a disobedient citizen to show himself or herself. We were trapped for all I knew. Across the street was our only escape route, through the alley, then a blacksmith’s basement and follow a tunnel that led to the alley next to Xander’s five-floor walk up. The blacksmith was both thoughtful and careless enough to let teenagers use his home as a way to acquire booze; he never once told a soul about it.