And we run

He's dead

TW: vomit (and death/gore, but that's nothing new)

My worst dreams come to life, nightmares springing from the dark red blood coating Taura's dagger as she pulls it out of Apollo's forehead. The gory substance spills over me, too, as Apollo falls limp, crushing innocent branches, eyes open, never to close, never again to close, never again.

The cannon sounds, but I barely hear it. It is background noise to the chaos erupting within my own brain.

My breath catches in my throat, and for the second time I wonder if it will ever return as my gaze flits up to Taura, eyes wide as dinner plates. "What did you do?" I ask, my voice wavering, eyes stinging with unshed tears. 

She nonchalantly wipes her dagger off on her shirt, leaving a stain of blood (Apollo's blood, Apollo's blood) that I try not to look on but fail, miserably. "I did what's necessary. Get over it."

I can't meet her eyes now, the green orbs shining with murder. 

Taura just killed Apollo.

Taura just killed

Taura just

Taura

Apollo. 

He's dead.

I don't even know how to process this. It's not the first time, but it is the first time it has come as an unwelcome shock, right before my eyes. Obviously Terra was nothing close to welcome--but I didn't see it happen. She was already dying when I reached her; there was nothing I could do (or so I like to tell myself). 

The same is not--was not--true for Apollo. He died because I lived. He died because I was stubborn. He died because all I wanted for him was life, because I was willing to sacrifice myself so he could get it. 

But he didn't. He didn't get it. Apollo got nothing but death, and so it shall be, forever, until the heavens fall from the clouds and the world implodes, becoming nothing but space dust, as we all were in the beginning. 

I hope, sincerely hope for the first time since Terra, that Taura does not live nearly that long. That, against all odds, I win this thing. I make Terra proud. 

I won't, though. I won't win this thing, because in the Games, there are things you must be willing to do, and there are talents I do not possess. 

And yet, right now, I almost wish to possess them. I almost wish to grab Taura's dagger and shove it through her own body, to find some solace in revenge. 

But, of course, I don't. Instead I turn, my body convulsing as my stomach empties what little food it had previously contained, Apollo's lifeless body shining behind my eyelids, burned into the fragile fabric of my retinas. 

I will never be the same. 

That was always true, though, wasn't it? It was true from the moment I raised my hand for that little girl. It was true from the moment my sister was reaped, the fear on her face as she walked up to the podium, as she glanced over to her male counterpart, as she breathed her last breaths within the confines of this prison that is often called an arena. 

That was when I first understood the games. Not when I was dropped into them myself, not when the stories were explained to little me, but when I watched my sister die. When I watched the esteemed Gamemakers murder my beloved sister, bloodthirsty entertainment glimmering through the television as I sat, cross-legged, tears dripping down my cheeks. 

Taura grabs my neck, pulling me out of my dreams and into reality. She pulls my hair and I fall backwards, through the brambles away from Apollo towards my death. I fall on my back, hard. My breath ceases for a moment, and I fight to find it, fight for my life, as I have been for these past days. How many days has it been? I don't know. I haven't been counting. I haven't been wanting to know. I still don't. 

There is a scream, and for a second I think it is me, but by the way Taura's head snaps up, a grin splitting her face, I find that it is not. My hand traverses my lips, checking just in case, and finds them firmly closed, painfully so. 

"C'mon," Taura says, her tone nothing if not rough as she pulls me to my feet. The forest goes silent--has it always done that?--as Apollo's body is lifted away, away, back to his family in Four, his family who belong in the Capitol, his family who is now in mourning, away. 

It is not my fault. It was not my hand that held the blade. And yet, it is another death that I now add to my growing tally, another weight resting on my back, threatening to crush me, to throw me down into the earth and stomp stomp stomp until I am unable to ever rise again. 

Somehow I push myself to standing, legs shaking, surely a target for anyone who would come across me now. I wonder about that scream: who it was, where it was. Why it was. 

"Wyatt, look at you," Taura breathes, eyes wide with pride, and I get my answer. 

She runs, and so do I. I don't know how I manage it, but I force my feet forward, into a loping stride. Maybe it is because Apollo's body is gone. It has lifted into the sky, far, far, away from me, and although his blood still coats the bushes (and will likely be made into a historical site once this Games is over and the arena becomes open to tourists), blood does not contain memories. Blood does not have eyes that stare into your soul, unblinking and blameful. 

Apollo does--did. Apollo did. 

We reach a small clearing, where there is the sound of another scream, and a grunt, and oh, look! Wyatt is fighting a girl about the same age as us. Her braids slowly escape her tight bun as she twirls and twists, blood dripping down her side from a large wound in her abdomen, both hands gripping the hilt of her medieval-looking mace. 

Her gaze flicks over to us, and Wyatt takes the advantage. He leaps towards her, confidence flashing across his face, and the hilt of his sword comes down on her skull--

I look away. I can't stand to see this. There is nothing left in my stomach to throw up. And yet, I can hear when her cannon sounds, can see her body fall to the ground in my periphery. 

Taura ignores the fallen girl, reaching instead for her mace, presenting it to Wyatt like a trophy.

"You killed her," she says, smiling, and I briefly flash back to the moment when I was Wyatt, when this girl--Zea?--was Mei, and when the accusation was not accompanied with a proud smile. 

Wyatt does not respond. Truly, we are alike: I have discovered it is true. We are not the same person, we do not share all the same interests, but deep down, we are incredibly similar. We are not bloodthirsty. We are human. 

The same can't be said for Taura. 

"Take it," Taura urges, pushing the mace towards him. Metal talons reach down from the hovercraft that has slyly descended behind us, lifting Zea's body up, up, up, into the air. I still refuse to look, only glancing down at the bloodstained grass once she is long gone. Once they both are. 

Apollo and Zea. Zea and Apollo. Two deaths in two minutes, done by two murderers, holding three people responsible. 

Or--four? I look around, attempting to find Lua, but she is gone, disappeared, by the looks of it. Taura doesn't seem concerned. Her attention is only on Wyatt. 

"You earned it," she says again, although Wyatt is still frozen. "Got her with the hilt, too, did you? You could use a mace, if that's your style."

This time she presses it into his hands, and Wyatt blinks, looking down at the weapon he's not holding, freckled with his own blood. He looks up again, meeting Taura's eyes, and I can tell there are many things he wants to say--but his lips stay closed, pressed in a tight line. 

Eventually his sword falls to the ground, forgotten, and he lifts the mace, as if inspecting it. 

Finally, he smiles. 

Wyatt turns to me, and the expression in his eyes is not familiar. It's Wyatt, but there is so much Taura there, so much danger, that fear courses through my veins, replacing my blood. 

His gaze locks on mine, and I waste no more time. I run.