After The Storm (A Hunger Games Fanfic)

Night Life - 15

"I fucking hate this place," she declares, curling up with her hands around her knees and the sickle ready in case another mouse decides to attack her.

"I just gotta..."

Flora sighs. Rafe is constantly needing to relieve himself. It must annoy his fiancee no end. Flora thinks she remembers her, a little. Adrianna, Arianna. Something like that. She bought an intricately carved bracelet from Flora once; she remembers because it was the first piece of jewellery rather than carpentry that she'd made.

That's how things works in District Seven; everybody in connected by an intricate web of links.

Rafe lopes off into the grass, vanishing around a corner. Still, she looks determinedly the other way. It makes her nervous, well, more nervous, when she can't see Rafe. She feels vulnerable, like any moment the Careers are going to leap out of the grass, leering at her.

Oh, please no. She can't take pain. If she has to, she'll take any death as long as it isn't painful.

Rafe is gone a long time. She doesn't know how he can have so much liquid in him. As soon as this thought crosses her mind, she squirms. Gross.

She nibbles on a stalk. She's not hungry; her belly is full of fluttering nerves but she feels like she has to do something with her mouth to stop herself from crying. The sun is stretching over the horizon, the grass regaining its pale blonde-green colour in small washes. Day two. She's survived to day two. Surely she can take it one day at a time and survive, right? There's a bruise on her arm and she doesn't know how she got it. The bloodbath, that panic, probably. She hates to remember it. She hates to think that she will have to do that again and that she might not make it out alive.

Rafe said, she remembers, that as soon as they're in trouble, she's on her own. She doesn't blame him, but the thought catches around her heart. On her own. She's never been on her own. Her whole life she's been surrounded by her family, able to blend into the background.

She runs a hand down the axe. It should feel familiar to her, but it doesn't. She's never even lifted one. Carpentry is her business, her delicate little fingers chipping away at the wood. She knows how oak feels different to mahogany, why willow is no good for smaller objects or furniture, that birch is too brittle to last long. But she doesn't know how to use and axe and right now she wishes she'd tried, just a little bit. But she'd never thought she would end up in this arena.

The axe head is good metal, the blade so sharp that it nicks her finger when she prods it curiously. Tears well up in her eyes and she sucks on the wound, knowing from experience that this will help more than anything. Her hands are pockmarked with scars and splinter wounds, each of which has nearly made her cry. It's a hazard of the job.

Shaking with the feeling of how powerful the axe is, and not quite sure of what she's doing, she slides a hand under the cool, smooth wood and tries to lift it up. It's not as heavy as it looks, or she's stronger than she thinks she is. It's tall and unwieldy and it feels like she has no control over it whatsoever. At home these things are tools. Here, they are weapons.

With a sob, she drops the axe and curls up on the ground. She can't do this. She can't stay strong.

Rafe returns, feeling less like he's going to burst. Flora is in a heap on the ground, crying. His heart goes out to her. She's somebody's daughter. She has a father.

What if...whatever the baby is called...ends up in the Games?

Suddenly, he can't understand how anybody risks having children in Panem.

He crouches awkwardly next to Flora. He wants to stop her crying. He wants to cheer her up. But he doesn't know how and he didn't want allies anyway and he doesn't think Flora has a chance of winning and he doesn't want to see her die.