Fighter | The Hunger Games

Chapter Nineteen

One of the hardest processes in life is healing. I learned that at a young age from witnessing neighbors suffer traumatic accidents as lumberjacks in the forest. It was not rare to have a badly severed limb from axes or saws or a few broken bones from fallen tree branches. Typically when a tragic event like that occurred us children were ushered inside by our parents to shield our innocent eyes from viewing the critical injuries of our neighbors, family, and friends. Although I was not sure what difference that made considering every year our equally as innocent eyes would be subjected to the horrors of the Hunger Games, but then again my parents never encouraged Faith nor I to watch the Hunger Games either.

My point being it was a long process of healing for those badly wounded in their work field. Meal trains were common for those of us who could afford to help. Prayer circles were usually formed and older children typically volunteered to watch the younger children of the afflicted family. There was no true medical system in the districts because the Capitol wanted citizens to be reminded of their poverty. In wealthier districts there were a few well stocked hospitals but in Seven there were only a limited amount. Typically those hospitals were crowded and largely understaffed so when there was an emergency many of the citizens banded together to offer as much medical care as they could muster.

It was hard work. The physical pain of healed victims would dissipate but the scars were ugly and lasted forever. It would take months or even years for a patient to be fully rehabilitated. Many of the wounded often died due to lack of resources. Because I grew up in that environment I was familiar with the physical aspect of the healing process, but never in my life had I been subjected to the mental pain.

That's what I thought of as I awoke on the grass somewhere in the afternoon of the thirteenth day. My physical pain greatly improved. I was alive. I survived the night. And I was healing. I was most likely going to be okay. There may be a lingering scar, especially from the cut on my abdomen, but I could handle that. I could live with that. My fever was gone, the inflammation around my shoulder wound was gone, my headache and muscle aches were mostly gone, and my wounds were already healing over. Thanks to the strong antibiotic and antiseptic I was going to live. Of course I would need further treatment in a real hospital but this would do for being trapped in the Hunger Games arena.

The one thing that was not quite gone was my mental pain. I knew that if I survived the Games I would begin to heal physically, but how would I recover mentally, emotionally? My heart ached for all the lives lost during the Hunger Games. There were only four of us remaining. Twenty of us had already perished. Those are twenty beautiful lives gone just like that.

Some of those lives were people I grew to care for, people I loved. I missed Olivia and her bubbly personality. I missed Mason and his confidence. I missed Lucia and her innocence. Even if some of those who died wronged me in some way my heart still ached for them because they were children. They were human. They had families. Jace would tell me there is no room for empathy in the Games and he was right, but lack of empathy was lack of humanity and at the end of the day I am still human despite my flaws. I will always be human.

That was how I was going to win the Games. I was going to win by embracing myself for who I am, not who I think I should be. I might not be the strongest, or tallest, but it was time I stopped feeling insecure about everything I am not, and it was time to focus on who I am. 

If I won there would be a long process of healing ahead of me, but there are people I love and trust to guide me through. There are people who care about me. Of course, there are many people who do not care about me, but those do not matter. Some things in life do not matter and I think the Games was beginning to help me get a grip on that.