The 1st Writer Games: Powers

Elizabeth 'Lizzie' Edison - District 3

So, so close.

Every inch of my body feels drained and my brain may as well be mush. The crossbow, trusty right up until now, shakes so badly in my hand that I don’t think I’d be able to aim if I tried. There’s nothing left. I’m spent.

The Games have taken everything I have.

My own eyes reject the scene in front of me. Those woods, lurid and glistening as Benoit himself, ring with the clash of steel and countless battles, frozen stakes and grinning Careers, even though now they are empty. The mountain that spewed hot, sulphurous lava at my feet, those tense hours climbing down it, brings the memory of sweat to my back and hands, and despite the cold starting to settle over my brain I’m awash with heat, bubbles of molten rock popping in my ears. The muddy crater is the rush of water hissing at my heels, the blackening sky, the seething vines. The jeweled beach is ruby red with blood and memories; the thunk-swish of shooting down Orion, Tiamera’s dying breaths, a fight I don’t even remember.

Even the arena looks tired of this. Whatever landscape it was before has been obliterated, seized by greedy Capitol hands and wrenched into a shape designed purely with hell in mind.

‘Hey!’ Benoit shouts in my ear, ‘These are my people you’re talking about!’

Benoit is still here, hidden away in the recesses of my memories of this sickening Snow-forsaken place. He’s dead but still hasn’t gone, won’t leave. Capitol, ally, friend.

Capitol.

Whatever happens to me, whether I win or die, I will always be here. When I close my eyes, the mountain will burp lava at my feet. When I look out of a window the violet sea will wave from the horizon. When Watson takes my hand and pulls me, laughing, up a flight of stairs, it will be Benoit tugging me out of the crater, the sky above blackening. Electricity, my district itself, will be the explosion inside of lightning, whiting out my vision and blanking out my brain, every cell threatening to burst and the screams of the dying tributes, tattooed into the inside of my ear.

I will never leave.

The clouds above are dark, purple bruises. I ache. My hair falls in front of my eyes; however long I’ve been stuck here, it’s long enough for it to grow. There’s dirt lodged under my ragged nails, my clothes are little more than blooded tatters, and this is fun for someone?

There’s no glory in this, Benoit. I saw you die once and you came back. Why? If you’re still here, tell me.

It’s just my voice, Lizzie. I can only tell you what you already know.

The reply should shock me but it doesn’t. It’s no surprise at all, not after all this madness, the swirl of fight, flight, fight, flight.

I can’t do this, Benoit. Look at me. I can’t even lift the crossbow.

Mutts. So what? They’re not the bird things from earlier; these are catlike and prowl the vines that once thrashed in the darkness. I don’t care. Nothing can scare me now, not after everything I’ve seen. The Gamemakers are loving this but I’m just sick of it. I want it done.

Atta girl. Just two tributes, then.

Shut up.

You don’t want to come here, where I am, Lizzie. It’s a horrible place. You think you’ve seen it all but you haven’t. The arena is nothing…

I don’t want to know!

Lizzie, listen to me. You’ve got to try. Don’t you dare give up.

You’re just a voice in my head. They’re just kids, Benoit, just kids. Grant was just a kid…