The Capitol's Tribute

It won’t be long now, I thought, feeling the pain in my side and left eye. The pain had dulled substantially (starting to numb, even) but it was still there, a blatant reminder of what I had done and been through in the past week.

The sun was beginning to rise upon the remains of the meadow. Beautiful streaks of magenta and orange bled across the sky. I could only see half the beauty with my remaining eye. I cocked my head to the side to peer over at Brant. He was staring up at the heavens, probably dreaming of home. After a few moments, he felt my gaze and our brown eyes met.

“It won’t be long now.” I voiced my thought. Brant gave a stiff nod.

“Hope it won’t take too long. I wouldn’t want the citizens of Panem to miss breakfast over my death.” He said dryly. I gave a snort but felt a sharp pain in my side. Lifting my head up slightly, I tried to see the damage. It was no use. The wound was on the left and I couldn’t see that far down with only my right eye. I could feel that my green tribute shirt was saturated in blood. That was never a healthy sign. “’D’you think they’ll give you a cool eye patch when you get out?” Brant went on lightly, as if he was commenting on the weather instead of my battle wound.

“A corpse doesn’t need an eye patch.” I answered, seeing Brant’s jaw clench.

“Rixa,” He said in a strained voice. “Don’t be stupid.’

“You’ll move Ma and Koel and Ruby in the house in Victor’s Square.” I said in a rough voice, struggling to speak coherent words now. “But not the ones by Peeta and Katniss, I don’t want the kids tainted by them. By Haymitch, off to the side.”

I thought Brant will scold me, tell me to watch my words in front of the cameras or that I had bitched enough about Katniss and Peeta to last us a life time. But he didn’t. He did the last thing I could imagine doing in the arena. Brant laughed.

At first it was a small chuckle but it gradually got bigger and before long, I joined in. We laughed until our sides split open a bit more and our wounds bled until they almost couldn’t anymore.

“Who knew I had so much blood?” I marveled, glancing at my hand caked in wet blood.

“Hmmm,” Brant answered. He coughed a bit, blood splattering the air. Neither of us was looking good. If I didn’t die soon, Brant would.

“Do you promise?” I questioned.

“What?”

“To move them into the Victor’s Square. Make sure they live the lives of Capitol citizens.”

“You gave that to them already, Rix.” Brant sighed. “You gave us everything and more.”

“No, I gave you everything. You’ll give them the ‘more’ part.” I stated. The sun was almost up. I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach that time was almost up as well. “You promise?” I raised a blood streaked brow.

Brant held my gaze. His brown eyes drooped slightly as his mouth opened to argue. Quickly, he shut it, knowing it would be no good to fight in our last moments together.

“I promise. You win.”

Satisfied, I looked up at the pale blue sky, hearing the Mockingjays sing some familiar, safe tune. The music made my eyes sag as sleep threatened to overtake me.

Might as well, I thought, If I’m going to die, I want it to be peaceful in my sleep, dreaming of days spent in Peeta’s arms or happy family dinner’s with my father.

I grabbed a hold of Brant’s hand, squeezing it warmly. He returned the gesture weakly. “I love you, Brant. Take care of everyone for me. Tell Peeta I’m sorry—” I stopped, struggling with the right words to say with the little blood flow to my brain, “Tell him I’m sorry I wasn’t there enough, that I couldn’t show him how much I really loved him, that I could never be the Girl on Fire. Tell him that I had always hoped there would be enough time after I stopped being so bitter about Katniss to resolve my feelings.” The tears I kept in so long finally fell. “Tell him I love him and never mind what I said on the train. I forgive him; no stupid burn mark could tell him that. I forgive him and he deserves Katniss. She’s everything I could never be: strong and brave. They belong together and I hope the wedding is beautiful and they live long and happy lives together; the life I could never give him.” I sniffed, knowing this was all jumbled and wrong, “Just tell him I’m sorry, Brant.”

Brant was so silent that I was afraid he’d fallen asleep. “I think you just did.”

He was right; the cameras were all trained on us since we were the only tributes left. I embarrassingly confessed my long suppressed feelings for Peeta to the whole country of Panem.

“Good thing I’ll be dead soon,” I joked, knowing that if I had blood to spare it would be heating up my cheeks. “Or this would be embarrassing.”

“I love you, too, Rix.” Brant’s voice echoed softly in my mind as the weight of the Mockingjays’ song hit me again. His voice felt fainter but it was probably just me falling away.

Darkness surrounded me when I heard the canon, my death being announced to the world. Who knew that in death you could still hear the noises of the world? I could still hear the Mockingjays’ singing. I opened my eyes and saw the arena exactly as it was before I died. It was an out of body experience. It was like I never left.

And with quick and terrible realization, it was because I hadn’t.

I bolted upward, pain striking through me. “B-Brant?” I called tentatively, knowing there would never be an answer again when I muttered that name.

“Brant,” I nudged his shoulder, “BRANT!” I screamed, shaking him wildly. He didn’t stir.

Tears flushed down my face as I cradled his limp body in my blood-streaked arms. “Brant,” I blubbered, shaking my head. Brant couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. Brant was the victor. Not me.

Not me.

“I promise. You win.”

I let out a long, anguished shriek. Someone had to turn back the clock. They had to bring him back and kill me.

“BRANT!”

But, no matter how hard I squeezed his frail body in my arms and screamed his name, he would never hear me. “Please, Brant,” I sobbed into his shoulder uselessly. “Come back…”

The canon had already spoken for him without consulting me. He was dead. I was the victor.

This was all wrong.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Vaguely I heard Plutarch Heavensbee’s voice boom throughout the arena, “May I present to you, the winner of the Seventy-fourth Annual Hunger Games, the Capitol’s own tribute: Rixa Hart.”