A Perfect Storm (A Fanfiction for "The Hunger Games")

Chapter 1

I realize too late what's going to happen before it does.

        Using my nimble hands, I grip my dagger and cut away the excess wires. By this time, I thought I was pro at my job. I was wrong. I was a fool. Usually I do a scan of the area, but I completely forgot and I didn't realize that one pesky rotten cord was still plugged into the wall like a catastrophe waiting to happen. As soon as I cut the wire, electricity surges out in one quick "zap!" and scorches my hand with one burst of pain that leaves me feeling as though the force of an explosion was just transmitted into my hand.

       Hot tears burn at the back of my eyes and  I clutch my burnt wrist, careful not to rip the  peeling skin. My palms are bleeding and thick blood, now black from soot, leaks out, slowly trickling in a stream as red as roses. This has happened before, but never this bad. I've never been so stupid, so careless.

        "Oh no," I hear a clucking voice behind me, "the Millers can't be having trouble with their electrical system again, can they?"

        Mykael, his voice thick with sarcasm. Clearly he hasn't noticed me grimacing in pain, holding my charred hand and hunching over like an old hag.

        "Dayta?" This time his voice is gentle, concerned, always kind when it matters. He must have realized something was wrong when I didn't reply with a cheeky comeback.

        I try to hold back my tears when he crouches beside me and tenderly tucks a strand of dark, ebony hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing my cheek. I hate to seem weak in front of him. I hate to be weak. It makes him feel sorry for me and I can't stand being pitied, as though I am still just a child. I stopped being a child a long time ago. I can never force myself to look into his eyes when they are no longer laughing, but dark, like a forest on a shady day. 

        I hear a sharp intake of breath, as though someone has just stabbed him,  and watch him run a hand through his chocolate coloured hair. "Oh, Day..." He takes my hand in his and holds it between his palms, warming them, as though they need to be warmed. The slight pressure helps a little bit, but not much. I can almost pass out from the agony, but my stubbornness keeps me awake.

        I'm only a year younger than him but he is still very protective of me and thinks it's his responsibility to take care of me just because my parents died in an electrical bomb explosion six years ago. Just because our parents were friends.

        "Come on, mum will make some salve for that. And then we can talk to the mayor about getting you a  different job. They might understand; you've been putting up with this danger for far too long. It's no place for a fourteen year old gir–"

        "Are you kidding? It's reaping day! They would never listen to us, especially not today.  Besides, it's not like they've ever listened before, or have you forgotten?" I don't mean to sound harsh, but Mykael looks away and his grip on me loosens. 

        "Maybe –– maybe they've changed their minds. You work hard; we could convince them..." His voice trails off and I can tell he knows it's hopeless. Maybe his relentless optimism is finally running out.

        I put my good hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry Mykael. I know you were just trying to help. It might not matter, anyway. I could be chosen. My names in there seventeen times. The orphanage doesn't just give supplies for free, you know."

        I shrug and try to look nonchalant, but Mykael winces, as though I just punched his grandmother. "Don't talk like that."

        "What?" My voice is shaking with frustration. Not at him, but at the world and all its unfairness. "It's the truth. You know it's the truth. I prefer to accept the facts rather than set myself up for disappointment."