Night 4
Only five of them left. Daniel allowed himself to think he could actually win. In the beginning, with twenty-four Tributes, it seemed like an idle fantasy. But now, with five, it didn’t seem so crazy.
He daren’t dream too much, but the thought, once in his mind, wouldn’t leave. He might be able to go home. He might make it through the nights and days to come, and face many more of those.
That night, he fell asleep with a smile.
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Henley found her night shared with Harry. It was late already, and she was tired, mentally and physically. She had killed three people the previous day, and while Jeanine had been fast and painless, it was still one more person on her kill-list.
Harry’s hand held hers, their fingers threading together. His head came to rest on her shoulder. In another life, they might have been friends, but these were the Hunger Games. Their alliance would end come morning. She would honour his trust by not slitting his throat tomorrow.
She curled up against the other. She only hoped he would do the same.
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Cho lay on her side, her fingers tracing patterns in the dirt. She arrived at the Cornucopia late, and she was thankful she had. Though the bodies were gone, she could still see the pools of blood where they’d fallen.
She’d skirted around them to the bags. There were a lot still left, but none with the number ten.
She sniffled, and held the battered picture in her hand. Her family smiled at her. Her memoirs had lain broken on the floor; a wooden comb shattered in half, and her family’s photograph creased and torn.
She missed the fields where she used to walk. She missed the animals, their sounds, their smells. But most of all, she missed going home to her family. To see them and hear their laughter, their voices. To feel her parents’ warm hands on her shoulders.
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Eric’s hands ran through his hair. Sobs tried to force their way out of his mouth. His fingers gripped his hair tight, almost pulling them out.
The fire had gone out. Despite everything, despite what he did to stop it, the fire had gone out.
Without the fire, the cold assaulted him. It was too much. Even inside the shelter, it was too cold. He couldn’t take it anymore.
With quick fingers, he drew the knife from his belt. He lifted the blade to his neck and in a swift motion, cut his own neck. Blood escaped the wound, his life followed soon after. He slumped where he sat, his eyes unseeing as the canon blasted for his death.