The Eleventh Hunger Games~ A Mags Fanfic

Chapter Thirteen: Day Six

Oops I guess I'm pretty late

On this chapter thirteen update,

But 1.2k? you guys are so great.

I hope you enjoy this chapter,

There may or may not be a disaster,

And nature could possibly be a factor...

Anyways, as you can see,

Poems are not my expertise,

And so I shall flee,

And let you all continue to read.

Enjoy!

~A poem by Ninjafranbow

(Side note: Happy (late) Fourth of July fellow Americans! Every time I hear a firework boom I can't help but think another tribute has fallen :x )

Unfortunately, that feeling didn't last long. Only for a day, in fact. In my dreams it was a giant dragon, pounding down the streets of District Four. I was in my house with my family, and the Dragon was coming nearer and nearer, crushing houses like toothpicks; its footfalls so heavy that our floorboards lifted like waves with every step. I tried to run, but something yanked me back. My father's hand was gripping my wrist, except in place of nails, he had the talons of the dragon and they dug painfully into my skin and suddenly our roof collapsed inward and the dragon's leg came crashing through-I wake up with a start, a cold sweat across my forehead. Just a dream, just a dream. I reassure myself. But then why can I still hear that noise?

It's like the domino effect. A tree snaps in the distance, then another and another until I can make out a cluster of them crashing to the leafy ground, quickly buried by black stones. Out of the seething air I can just barely make out the faint boom of the cannon. My eyes lift away from the fallen trees--and my heart drops to my stomach. A massive wall of rock rolls over the ground, descending straight for me. More and more stones fall to my feet and without a second's hesitation I scoop up the thin blanket and swing the backpack over my shoulder, propelling myself from the rock tsunami. Stones smack into the back of my heels and calves, and a tall black aspen crashes down to my left, its thin branches snapping off and biting into my cheek. I grit my teeth from crying out and force myself to run faster, weaving in and out of trees. The tumbling stones quickly catch up and climb higher up my calf. It's a race between me and nature-no, me and the Gamemakers, and they are winning. My eyes dart around the forest in desperate attempt for an escape. And then I realize something: the only way is up. I risk plucking my feet from the churning rocks and quickly hop to the nearest aspen tree quivering in the swarm of stones. I stretch my arms and jump, grappling for a branch and pulling myself up into the tree twisting threateningly in the current. I gasp for breath and cling to the aspen like life support, the throbbing of my legs matching the hammering of my chest. It doesn't take long to realize why they are doing this. The Capitol grew bored of me. They needed some action, some way to either weed me out of the forest or meet my inevitable doom in a less than peaceful way.At first I think it is just the blood rushing in my ears, but the trembling ground beneath me tells me that it is something far, far worse. I scramble to my feet, my eyes straining to see where the deep rumbling is coming from in the caliginous night. A strong wind howls through the tense air, making the lean aspen look as if they are doing a sickening dance. The cacophony grows louder still, and I have to cling to the shaking tree to keep my balance. My heart leaps into my throat and my eyes widen like a deer in headlights. Fire? I quickly toss the idea away. There would be smoke and light. Water? The noise does resemble a rushing river, but wouldn't there be water by now? My question is quickly answered when a small black rock tumbles to a stop at my feet, followed by three more, then five. Then too many to count. Rock-slide.

Suddenly the tree gives a dying groan and snaps at the base. My cry is torn away into the blistering night sky as we teeter, then dive into the surging mass of rock below. My hands slip from the bark and I crash to the ground, white pain shooting up my arm. I quickly push the pain to the back of my mind and hurriedly pull myself away from the torrent of stones and end up tumbling down the stream, backpack and all.

Seconds, minutes, hours, I never know, but when the last rock finally slows to a stop and I roll onto sweet, gentle grass, it feels as if the world of torture has finally been put on pause. I stumble away from the rock-slide until I reach the clearing of the forest, welcomed by a rolling, yellow grass hill, illuminated pastel pink in the early sunrise. The start of a new day. The grass feels plush and soothing beneath my bruised feet, almost heavenly after days of treading on dry leaves. Without bothering to further observe my surroundings, I collapse at the base of an aspen, overlooking a valley from the hill. Everything hurts. My feet, my legs, my chest, my arms, my head. Even breathing hurts. I look up to the sky and try to breathe deeply despite my shaking body. It takes only a moment for my mind to clear enough to realize that my right arm throbs with a new kind of pain-a searing, white hot pain that makes me squeeze my eyes shut and wish the world away. After a few minutes I force myself to look down. My right wrist is a fiery, swollen red, pulsing with distress. It doesn't take long to realize what it is, for five years ago the same thing happened. I had slipped on a ship's deck and landed wrongly on my arm, resulting in a sprained wrist. Thankfully we were near land so the journey to the hospital was short, but as we waited my mother managed to secure it for the time being. What would mother do in this situation? She was always the one who managed to cool a heated argument and reassess the matter. When I was a child, she used to be a preschool teacher until the Capitol decided preschool was "unnecessary" and that "time and money could be spent elsewhere for more important things." After that she transitioned to working in District Four's small greenhouses. It didn't grow much more than lettuce nor make much money, but it made her happy, and that's all that mattered. I quickly brush the rueful thought of her away and focus on the present.

Step one: calm yourself down. I continue to breathe deeply despite my racing heart and try to push away the rock-slide occurrence from my mind.

Step two: Ice it.

Step three: Dismiss step two. I don't even bother to look for anything cool. Unfortunately this time there is no handy ice bucket. It smelled repulsively of fish, but hey, it worked.

Step four: Secure it. God only knows what could happen if I run into something else-I don't want it to become broken. My eyes flit up to the branches above me and I slowly, reluctantly, get up and awkwardly snap a branch with my left hand, sliding back down onto the cushiony grass. I debate on whether I should use the blanket or my jacket to wrap my arm, eventually coming to the conclusion that the jacket is more portable and has greater value. After twenty minutes of sawing the blanket in half with the little knife and my free hand, I place my searing wrist on my leg on top of the branch and carefully wrap the ripped blanket snugly around the stick and arm, creating a splint. I swallow my bubbling cry and force myself to continue.

Step five: Elevate it. I tuck my knees to my chest and prop my elbow on top of them, elevating the wrist.

Step six: Ingest painkillers.

Step seven: Disregard step six.

. . . . . . .

I eat a handful of apple slices and two crackers that evening, knowing that I'll need the energy now more than ever. Although my arm still throbs, the pain is slowly beginning to ebb away, allowing me to think clearer and assess first myself, then the surroundings. Bruises cover me all over like new skin, and my muscles ache from head to toe. The only thing to lift my spirits is that I am finally out of that god forsaken forest. The grass beneath me is droopy and yellow, almost as if it is dying, yet another subject in the games. The valley below is equally grassy-although--could it be? I squint, absorbing the details of the scene below me. A forest of willow trees form a crescent on the outskirts of the valley, their sagging leaves hiding whatever treasures-or traps-lay beneath it. A day or two's hike from here. With my luck, there could be a river down there. Or a career pack. I would say that only fate is to decide, but in this case, it is the Gamemakers. They are the gods and we are their puppets, and eventually, they will cut all of the strings but one.