A Knife in the Dark | ✓

Twenty Nine

The cameras were focused on the fight.

The mutts seemed joyous as they tore into his legs. Or, tried to. His armor, which had been his greatest asset, had become the device of his torture. His death could not be quick so long as it remained intact. He couldn't even have his throat torn out--it covered him neck to ankle.

The sounds that passed from his mouth weren't human. He freed something from his jacket--a perhaps a knife, a final gift from Clove?--and took them on. His screams were accompanied by that of the mutts.

The sounds were the worst part. It was night, and so I was spared from having to watch his body be torn to shreds slowly. But I could hear it--the tearing of fabric and flesh, the wet thunks his knife made as it connected with another body, the growls, the snarls, the wet sounds of his skin being torn open and blood flowing from the wounds that would surely be fatal.

Saylee left the room and didn't return. Jake followed her. I sat alone, watching, listening, hoping. But I knew that there was no way out. This was Hell, and he was trapped, overpowered, finished. He was still standing.

But not for long. Not long after, his legs give out, unable to hold him after being torn at for so long. I wondered if there was any muscle or skin left on them. I watched as the mutts dragged him into the Cornucopia. It was pitch black inside, and the cameras, for several moments, focused on the bloodstained knife he had dropped.

The anthem played. No image of Cato appeared in the sky. There was no cannon. The cameras showed Katniss and Peeta, but only for a few moments.

Inside of the Cornucopia, a square of moonlight shined down from the tail. Cato's face was the only part visible, blood splattered across it, a deep gash over one side of his face. His eyes were shut, his face contorted into an expression of pain. I knew that he must've been making some sort of noise, but it was impossible to hear over the sound of the mutts, sloppily helping themselves to whatever part of him they could tear off and chew. From above, Katniss's occasional shouts of Peeta's name could be heard when he began to drift off. But it wasn't easy to hear.

Saylee and Jake left. I let them leave, said nothing as they left the house. I knew where they were going--to Bell, to Lucius, to Tiberius, to Lars. They were losing a brother. They were watching as he was slowly being torn apart, layer by layer, limb from limb.

One of my hands reached up, fingers wrapping around the necklace that Cato had given me. The metal was warm from my skin.

My other hand was holding that stupid bear. It stared up at me with glassy, unseeing eyes. They were rimmed in blue, and when tilted the right way, the eyes looked like Cato's. I felt sick. I threw it across the room.

Dawn. The sky was gray in District Two, the sun's first rays not quite reaching the dull landscape. Saylee and Jake hadn't returned. The camera was focused on Katniss and Peeta's exhausted faces, illuminated by the rosy glow of morning light.

No cannon had come yet. Katniss leaned down, pressing her ear against the Cornucopia. There was still the bloodstain on the metal, the marks from Cato's boot as he lost his footing still streaking through the dried stain.

"I think he's closer now. Katniss, can you shoot him?" Peeta asked, but I couldn't feel relief. They should've shot him hours ago.

"My last arrow's in your tourniquet." She said it like an excuse.

"Make it count." Was Peeta's reply. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to feel grateful or not. I chose to not feel at all for the time being. I'd have the rest of my life to decide.

Peeta unzipped the jacket they'd been in, and she free the arrow. She retied the tourniquet on his leg. After that, she crawled over to the horn's edge and hung over. The camera showed Peeta's hands, holding her legs in place.

In the dim light, I could see Cato. Or, what was left of him. He was little more than bloody meat at that point. It should've made me sick. It felt like I was watching a movie.

He made a noise that sounded something like please, but it was a watery gurgle. She quickly set the arrow in her bow, and with a pitying look that Cato would've hated, sent the arrow flying.

Katniss swung herself back up. "Did you get him?" Peeta asked, voice a whisper.

The cannon's fire was response enough.

They continued to have a conversation. There was no joy in their voices. They seemed just as drained as I knew I would've been.

They moved away from the Cornucopia when nothing came to take Cato's body. It worked. But still they sent nothing to pick up their precious victors.

I was beginning to grow angry. They got what they wanted. Snow had the final laugh--District 2's wonder boy was dead. What was the point in dragging it out? Frustrated tears pooled in my eyes. I wished I hadn't thrown that stupid bear earlier. I wanted to throw something. I wanted to call Cato, to drag him down to the Training Center and kick him around until I felt better, because he would always take my anger and frustration until my legs could no longer support me, and then he'd hold me until I felt like myself again. But there was no Cato to kick around anymore, no Cato to help me, so I stayed where I was and did nothing.

"Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games." Claudius Templesmith's voice made me jump. "The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed. Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor."

My head spun with the image of Cato and Clove, laughing and spinning in circles. Happy that they could both be Victors. That was just before Clove's death. It felt so long ago now.

The tears fell. "You assholes!" I shrieked at the screen. I wanted to throw something at it, but I couldn't. "You promised! My friends died for this!"

And I slid to the floor, overwhelmed by tears and sadness. Everything I hadn't felt since they had volunteered came flooding back, and with my face hidden by my hands, I choked on it. I could hear Katniss and Peeta arguing on screen, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Nothing but the silence and the tears and the feeling that something vital had been cut out of me and burned as I watched.

It was everything awful I'd ever felt before in five minutes, crashing over me like tidal waves. It was watching the fire creep up the stairs in my childhood home, feeling my dad's strong arm around me, pulling me back, pushing me back towards my room. It was the last image of my parents in my room, my father's arm around my mother's shoulders, my mother looking up at him with nothing but love and trust in her eyes. It was the skeleton of the house that had been burning when I left. It was the loneliness of lunches, classes, training alone. It was the burning shame of when I'd been knocked around easily in training, my thin, bony limbs not enough to do any damage. It was every bump, every bruise, every cut. It was every time I was in a crowd and felt completely alone. It was every fight with Cato, every ounce of pain caused by his not wanting to talk after the Breaking. It was seeing the dead look in his eyes. It was seeing Saylee cry when she realized that he wanted nothing more than to die. It was the look in Jake's eyes, the look of how much weight he'd lost, when he and Clove broke up and we all thought that they would never get back together. It was Clove's grief when a cousin of hers died in the Games. It was Cato and Jake's grief when Jake's grandmother, who had loved Cato like another grandson, passed away. It was when Cato's grandfather, who loved me as he loved his grandchildren, had a heart attack and ended up in the hospital. Every scar, every wound, every drop of blood and sweat and tears, every fight, every sob, every loss. If it hurt me before, it hurt me again in those moments.

I didn't hear Katniss and Peeta agree to eat the nightlock. I didn't hear Claudius beg them to stop. I didn't hear him pronounce them both as the Victors. I heard nothing but the sound of my sobs and the blood flowing in my veins and Cato, begging me not to cry so that he could hold himself together for the cameras.