I only write when I am falling in love, or falling apart.
The dressings of her wound were changed by a nurse every few hours. Eventually, she started to regain sensation in her legs, with the most noticeable feeling being pain. She yearned for the moment when she couldn't feel them at all.
Tempest has been confined to the hospital wing of the Academy for several days already. People have been coming and going, but their visits have been brief. Some of her classmates have dropped by, but they always seem hesitant, as if they expect her to suddenly spring up and attack them, despite her being injured and all.
Coriolanus had been coming by every day. He kept her informed about Dr. Gaul's writing assignment on "why they love war" and even dropped by in the morning to submit it on her behalf. It was peculiar, but Tempest didn't feel as disgusted by his actions as she should have.
Coriolanus consistently approached her with updates on the tributes, their remaining numbers, and their current conditions. Tempest considered herself fortunate that Reaper had only sustained minor injuries. And it seemed that Reaper dedicated a significant amount of time fretting over her well-being.
Yesterday, Coriolanus, with a furrowed brow and a hint of resentment in his voice, approached Tempest and inquired about the level of closeness between her and her tribute. He couldn't help but bring up their frequent handholding and hushed conversations, as if they were a thorn in his side.
Tempest, on the other hand, couldn't quite comprehend why he would be upset about such innocent gestures, even if they did indicate a certain level of intimacy. However, rather than providing a proper response to his query, she simply shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly and uttered a seemingly unrelated statement, "He has an affinity for poems."
Coriolanus was taken aback by her dismissive response, his frustration growing. He had expected a more substantial answer, a reassurance that their connection was purely platonic. But instead, Tempest's words only added to his confusion. What did her tribute's love for poetry have to do with their closeness? Was she trying to divert the conversation away from the topic at hand?
As Coriolanus tried to make sense of her cryptic remark, he couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy. The thought of this tribute sharing intimate moments with Tempest, whispering secrets and holding hands, ignited a fire within him. He had always prided himself on being the one who held her attention, the one who shared those private moments with her. And now, to see someone else encroaching upon that territory, it stirred up a mix of emotions he couldn't quite put into words.
Tempest, however, remained oblivious to the storm brewing within Coriolanus. She had always been a free spirit, unbound by societal expectations and norms. To her, the closeness she shared with her tribute was simply a natural extension of their alliance, a bond forged through the trials and tribulations of the Games. Handholding and whispered conversations were nothing more than gestures of support and camaraderie, devoid of any romantic implications.
But as she glanced at Coriolanus, his resentful expression etched on his face, she realized that her nonchalant response had failed to address his concerns. Perhaps she had underestimated the depth of his feelings, the possessiveness that lurked beneath his stoic exterior.
Tonight, she found herself in solitude. As the tributes interviews took place, the entire crowd was engrossed in front of their televisions or present in the audience downstairs. Despite Coriolanus' plea for her to join, Tempest understood that Reaper had no desire to participate in the interview, leaving her with no reason to be there.
Tempest couldn't help but roll her eyes when the nurse mentioned the possibility of her needing to walk. After all, she hadn't been able to walk for days. Her legs were tightly bound with gauze, except for the fabric around her knees which was left loose, allowing a glimpse of the raw, red flesh beneath. The sight was enough to make anyone cringe, but Tempest had grown accustomed to the pain and the grotesque appearance of her legs.
She was dressed in linen pants and a matching shirt, both in a cement grey color, while everyone else wore gowns. It was as if her attire was a constant reminder of her difference, her inability to conform to the norm. The hospital staff had explained that her legs were covered to hide the ghastly injury, to spare others from the unsettling sight. But Tempest couldn't help but wonder if it was truly for her own sake or merely for the comfort of those around her.
Tempest felt utterly exhausted by everything. Being confined to a hospital bed, receiving sympathetic looks from her former rival, enduring her father's intense gaze, and being surrounded by a sterile, bleach-scented room. It was becoming unbearable for her, and she could feel her sanity slipping away in this confined space.
As the sun had disappeared beyond the vast expanse of the universe, she reached a breaking point. With determination, she pressed the call button and firmly declared, "I'm heading downstairs."
Despite her excruciating pain, the nurse encountered her in the hallway. She struggled to maintain her balance, clutching onto the walls and shifting her weight from one leg to another, desperately searching for some relief. "I can bring you a wheelchair," the nurse offered with genuine concern. The other women in the hallway cheered at the suggestion, but Tempest stubbornly refused. Determined, she forced herself to continue limping down the corridors, ignoring the pain and pushing forward.
It was a daunting task for her to calculate the precise amount of time it took to traverse the labyrinthine corridors and finally arrive at the grand doors of the Academy auditorium. The winding hallways seemed to stretch on endlessly, each turn leading her further into a maze of uncertainty. Yet, despite the uncertainty, she pressed on, her determination unwavering.
As she pushed open the heavy doors, a cacophony of disruptive hacking sounds assaulted her ears, emanating from the microphone on the stage. It was unmistakable - the girl from district eleven.
It seemed like she had finally regained her stability, or perhaps her legs had become numb. Tempest found herself rooted at the entrance of the auditorium. On both sides of her, there were two rows filled with faces, some familiar and some unfamiliar.
Lucky Flickerman couldn't help but exclaim, "What an incredible performance!" However, it was evident that he didn't find it endearing at all. Dressed in a stylish blue suit with rhinestone accents, his hair perfectly styled with a touch of coppery powder, Lucky's mood was undeniably cheerful. "We're about done for the night, with just one final interview. Please welcome, from District Tw—-"
"Wait!" a commanding voice cut through the air, halting him in his tracks. Instantly, a wave of murmurs swept through the crowd, a mix of bewilderment and mild indignation at the unexpected interruption.
As Reaper hurled himself onto the stage, he squinted against the blinding light that illuminated him. Tempest couldn't help but suppress a bemused chuckle. What on earth was this boy up to? The peacekeepers swiftly moved to apprehend him, but to Tempest's surprise, she overheard a muffled command, "The President says to let him go," and just like that, Reaper was set free.
"Hello?" The hesitant tone made it seem like a genuine inquiry rather than a customary greeting, and in an instant, Lucky found himself beaming from ear to ear.
"May I know your name, young man?" He inquired.
His sudden surge of energy seemed to radiate from him, electrifying the atmosphere and captivating the audience. With each step he took towards the microphone, his posture straightened, his shoulders squared, and his gaze focused.
The once reserved and unassuming Reaper Ash had transformed into a figure of confidence and determination. His voice carried a newfound strength, resonating with conviction and purpose. The weight of his words hung in the air, leaving an indelible impression on all those who listened. "I am Reaper Ash, representing District Eleven," he declared, his voice ringing out with unwavering certainty. The words echoed through the room, leaving no doubt that he was a force to be reckoned with.
The crowd, initially unsure of what to expect, now found themselves drawn to his presence, their curiosity piqued.
Reaper Ash's introduction was not just a mere formality; it was a proclamation of his identity, his allegiance, and his commitment to his district. With those few words, he established himself as a formidable contender, ready to fight for the honor and survival of District Eleven.
Lucky put on an exaggerated pout as he spoke, "Ah, indeed, the tribute to our Secretary of Defense's daughter, young Galdur. She is currently in the hospital tonight, and we all send our well wishes to her." The crowd murmured in agreement, but Tempest couldn't help but feel a hint of disbelief. It seemed that none of them genuinely cared about her; they were simply too fearful of the consequences if they didn't show agreement with the sentiment.
Reaper wasted no time in declaring, "Tempest." Despite the disbelief evident in Lucky's expression, he stood his ground and confidently affirmed, "That's her name, Tempest."
Reaper seized this opportunity as his chance, while Lucky was momentarily surprised. Tempest, concealed within the crowd's shadows, watched with wide eyes. Overwhelmed by the unexpected twist, her eyes were filled with amazement.
"Tempest Galdur," he continued. "The only person who has shown me an ounce of kindness since I was torn from my family. The girl who brought me shoes. Who made sure I was never hungry. The girl I shared stories with. The only one who believed in me from the moment I stepped foot in the Capitol."
Tempest fights in vain to stop the tears from leaking from her eyes. "If she is here, listening somewhere tonight, then know that I only do this for her."
The audience was mesmerized by this, utterly captivated by the way he spoke so highly of her. Tempest's stomach churned. Is he really doing this for her?
"She loves poems," he declared. "She always read one to me whenever she saw me. And though I ain't no poet. I wrote one for her—-"
The room fell silent as everyone eagerly awaited his next words, their anticipation palpable. While Tempest should have been ecstatic about Reaper's actions, knowing it greatly improved her chances of winning, she couldn't shake off the feeling of unease. The presence of him here now only intensified her fear of a world that might snatch him away too soon.
Reaper Ash. The boy who loved his sister and his 'Ma. His days were filled with the warmth of the sun, the smell of freshly turned soil, and the laughter of his sister as they played in the fields. Reaper's love for his family was boundless, and he would go to great lengths to ensure their happiness and well-being. Whether it was working long hours under the scorching sun or sacrificing his own needs for theirs, his selflessness knew no bounds. He might be dead by the end of the week. Gone forever. But he'd be damned if he let anyone forget about him.
"Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there.
I did not die."