Twenty Four Shades of Blood [A Hunger Games Fanfic]

Ghosts That We Knew - 11

The bloodstains on the steel of the sword blade are black patches in the shadow that Austin stands in.  He’s been rubbing at them for the past few minutes, and some of the more fresh stuff has come off on the hem of his shirt but some remains, caught in the blood channel and in the delicate filigree that decorates the hilt.  He tries hard not to think about the fact that not so very long ago that blood had been pulsing in the veins of an innocent girl. His hand clenches over the hilt for a second as frightened eyes flash before his own, then there’s a ringing clang as the weapon drops from his shaking fingers and strikes the ground.

He flexes his fingers, trying desperately to stop them shaking. He can only imagine what his trainers back home in District One will be saying about him. Especially Instructor Rathbone. Austin can just picture his bristling eyebrows rushing together into one of his notorious scowls. They were the kind of looks that stopped you dead in your tracks and made you feel as small as an ant. Then the words would start – low, quiet and so loaded with disgust that they could almost be felt physically. “Pathetic” was his favourite word, and the amount of derision that the man could pack into those three syllables was impressive.

But he’d never mentioned any of this in training.  Telling them how to lock your emotions away was all very easy when they were back home in a carefully controlled training environment. Here…it's all horribly, horribly real; there are real, actual flesh-and-bone kids who are dying. That he's killing. Something pricks his eye and he raises a finger and feels a solitary tear tracking its way down his cheek. Through it, the trees fracture and bend, the shadows crawling up the sides of the little dome of water.

Then he sees her. Her hands are held out before her, the fingers bent and shattered, reaching out towards him. Her eyes look massive and pleading and there’s deep black shadows under them.  Black like the blood on the blade. She’s mouthing something, but there’s no sound, just like that night in the flickering shadows.  A gasp rips out of him before he can stop it and his head snaps up, scanning the area around him. 

There’s no one there, just the shadows and the trees and the constant feeling of guilt pressing in on him from every angle, no escape. The tear drops from his fingertip and lands on the blade of the sword, disappearing into the dark patches in a tiny splash.

Austin sits quietly for a minute, running deep breaths through his lungs without feeling any of the supposed benefits. This can’t go on. He has to do something. His eyes slide down his shaking arm to the sword.  The thought flashes into his mind, and he drives it out again.  There is no honour or relief in that kind of conclusion. 

“Pathetic,” whispers the breeze in the trees around him and he bows his head.  He knows it’s true.

And he no longer cares.

“Child killer,” whispers the voice in his head, and another tear joins the first.

The sun has just crawled into its highest point, and the heat in the arena is almost unbearable.  Even the trees are starting to look exhausted, their leaves barely stirring in the faint, hot breeze.

Cruz is curled in an uncomfortable little ball at the edge of the Careers camp. He’d moved during the night, when the angry girl from One had been on watch. She’d been so busy stabbing the ground with a stick and looking pissed off that she hadn’t noticed or heard anything.  

He’d prowled about until he’d come across what must have once been a vehicle of sorts, although the twisted shell was barely recognisable.  The front of one of the smaller buildings had collapsed, burying the hood and shattering the glass above it.  The seats inside are still mainly intact though, although the amount of padding left on them is next to non-existant. Cruz shifts as one of the springs digs into his lower back, and the frame lets out a horribly loud groan of protest.