[30-DAY WRITING CHALLENGE] Prompt #2: “He's none of the things I expected, but I feel so right in his arms.”

Prompt  #2: “He's none of the things I expected, but I feel so right in his arms.”

Loving him is red

Pit. Pat….

The rain thrummed on the tree top, bouncing from green leaves to the ground and forming small puddles of muddy water.

Splash. Splash.

A foot stomped hard. Water splashed, wetting the already damp clothes.  

“Where is she?” – A gruff, angry voice barked out, followed by a string of curses and tripping shuffles.

Cris pressed herself against the cold stone cave, desperate to make her smaller. Her heart beat wildly, desperate to escape the prison of her chest as ragged, shallow breath puffed out of her mouth. Wet clothes clung to her emaciated form and her hair stuck to her neck and forehead.

Fourteen days had passed in the arena.

Cris closed her eyes, curled up in a tight ball on the cold cave and hid her face in her knees. The wind hollered outside the cave, and Cris’ thin arms hugged her body, too tired to even shiver. There were no more sounds but the pounding of the rain.

One left. She would be home soon.

“On the 25^th anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children are dying because of their own choice to initiate violence, every district was to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it.”

The President’s power-white face was void of emotions as she made the cruel announcement. Inside her small shack at the edge of the field, Cris could see, as if with her own two eyes, herself stepping on the metal platform leading to the Reaping stage, small and thin, just a 16-year-old girl against the sea of dark faces. She could imagine the looks of the people of District 11: cold, apathetic stares mixed with occasional flashes of relief. A few people would have the audacity to grace her with pity, as if it weren’t they that condemned her to her certain death.

No Volunteer, as usual.

And she would steel herself, and stare back at the mass of faces. Silently condemning their cruelty.     

After all, who would sacrifice their life for a good-for-nothing orphan like her?

Liquid sunlight poured down the arena, bouncing off dew drops on the green leaves and painting the dirty puddles with blue patches of the sky. Cris unfurled herself from the cave’s ground and stretched to remove the stiffness of her joints. Her stomach rumbled and her throat screamed for fluid. She shucked the dark plastic-like sack from her shoulders and emptied its contents to the semidry cave floor. Boxes and plastic bags spilled out, small and scattered:

A plastic bottle, filled with river water. A half-eaten box of cookies. Some dried strips of beef jerky.

Cris ran her fingers through her meagre belongings. They were not much, but she didn’t plan to stay in the arena for much longer.

Her hand touched a tattered, almost shapeless ribbon, the colour of which faded and pale. Dark eyes lingered on the piece of fabric with an indiscernible gleam, then flitted away as if it burned her to look.

Her hand retreated, and the ribbon lied lifelessly on the ground.

Eventually, she came across the last object in her possession: a hunting knife, the only weapon she had ever wielded in the arena. Cris hesitated, hand hovering above the cloth-covered blade before snatching it up. The cloth was coarse, hardened with dried blood. She winced and the blade fell from her shaking hands.

She knew exactly whose blood was clinging onto the weapon. Clinging onto her hand, her heart and her memory. Tainted a red that no water or soap could ever cleanse.

She turned away, refusing to let the ugly vision cloud her thoughts.

Her hand found the ribbon and weaved a bow into her braid.

The two weeks in The 25^th Hunger Games was more brutal than she could ever imagine.  In just seven days, 16 children were killed, by each other, by deadly plants and creatures set up by the Gamemakers. More than once, Cris had woken up in cold sweat, the canon’s sounds booming in her mind and the vision of her face on the sky flashing behind her eyelids.

Cris had embraced the tactic of hiding and running. She moved from place to place, stealing food from the Cornucopia and sleeping on trees with one eye open for potential threats.  She saw with her own eyes the way the Careers attacked and killed any living things in their ways, and saw their number diminish with wasp stings and poison berries. She kept half an eye on Beks, the sturdy, quiet boy from her district. It came as a shock when he, the town’s favourite, the gentle wealthy farm boy, volunteered for the Hunger Games. But Cris knew. She had seen Beks with him. The Punk, the one chosen and saved from sharing her fate. She had heard his screams and cries and Beks’ soft whispers of home and coming back and promises of a better life. And at that moment, when she sat alone in the cold room next to them, listening to all the endearment, the empty promises, the naked love and devotion, Cris had resented them, envious and bitter that they, at least, had each other.

Beks died on the 4^th day. Maybe he was impatient. Maybe his determination to come back made him reckless. But Cris watched him charge at the large boy from District 9 and didn’t intervene when he fell to the ground and the other boy’s knife plunged into his flesh. She left the scene as the canon boomed with dry eyes and a blank face.

Cris didn’t mourn. She had no reason to.  

She didn’t meet that boy from 9, Devin, until 4 days later.

Cris backed up against the tree, lips pulled back in a feral, frantic sneer, eyes searching for any weapon to defend herself. The Careers’ large body shadowed her own, 2 boys and 2 girls surrounding the smaller girl from all sides. Cris was trapped, and she was going to die. Stabbed to death and left to bleed out like a wild animal.

There was no way she could get out of this.

Maybe she would rot in hell afterward, but she wouldn’t surrender to these sick games without taking all of these bloodthirsty fiends down with her. Her eyes zeroed on the knife dangling on one of the girl Careers. If only she could get it…

Cris crouched, and ready to attack, even with just teeth and nails.

A snarl tore out from her throat.

The next moments went in a blur. A movement of a large arm, a swish, and a cry of pain. A large body jumped in front of her, blocking her from the other tributes. A roar of anger and three figures rushed forward. Her hands moved on their own, yanking a dagger from her saviour belt and aiming straight at a Career’s chest. Precise and fast, sharp metal met flesh and blood darkened the arena clothes. A canon boomed, once, twice. Cris snarled, the boy raised his other knife, and the remaining Careers retreated.

She eyed the new boy warily, recognizing the murderer of her District’s tribute. The boy – Devin, Cris reminded herself – didn’t spare her a glance and came to retrieve the two knives embedded in the dead tributes.

“We should move before they come to take the bodies.” – He said to seemingly empty air, wiping the blood away and promptly ignoring the wary glares Cris threw his way.

“Why are you helping me?”

“I watched your reaping. It’s unfair for you to be thrown away by your people.” – Devin’s voice was calm, almost emotionless, but there was an underlying softness to it. He still didn’t meet her eyes.

Cris’ breath hitched. Her thoughts screamed with doubts and disbelief. Cris shut her mouth and swallowed down all the things she wanted to yell at him.

‘This is the Hunger Games. It’s not supposed to be fair.’

‘Didn’t your District pick you too? Why do you feel sorry for me only? Why don’t you just kill me like you did Beks?’

‘I don’t need your pity.’

Undeterred by her eyes boring a hole in his forehead, Devin continued:

“And I’ve seen you in the training centre. You’re not as bad as you let them believe.” – He ignored Cris’s unamused snort and stuck out a hand. – “So, you want to be my ally or not?”

“What???”

Cris’ life was one of mistakes. From the moment of her unwanted birth, she had never seemed to exist like she was supposed to. Always at the wrong place at the wrong time, and now, her decision might have made a turn to the worst.

She should never have accepted Devin’s offer. She should have walked away, or stabbed him right then and there. He should have killed her when he had the chance. Their meeting, from the beginning, was already meant for pain and heartbreaks.

Love was for never meant for the likes of Cris.

But, alas, greed was always human’s second nature. And as much as she detest Beks and his beloved boy at home, she wanted what they had…

A week had passed since the makeshift ally, and two days from that incident. Cris thumped her head against the cave’s wall, trying in vain to let the physical pain drown out her emotions. A tear rolled down her cheek, invisible in the dark.

She missed the golden light of District 11, even though the place had never been a home.

Cris had a conflicted love-hate feeling for the colour of her hometown. Basked in the golden sunlight, painted with fertile wheat fields and underlined by dry sand-colour ground, the place’s only dots of darkness between the glaring light was its people: the dark, exhausted faces disappearing between the yellow fields and trees.

Cris hated that site. She hated the depressing looks on those sad, thin faces. She hated the white Peacekeeper uniforms that marred the golden space. She hated that, despise the cheerful colour, District 11 was still a gloomy and cramped place with no escape.  

But Ro’s favourite colour was yellow. And she loved Ro more than anything.

Cris gently brushed back the tangled brown hair and tied it up with the Ribbon, the shade of which had turn daffodil from use.

“There, all done.” – She jingled the long tail, tickling the boy with the coarse ends. He giggled and batted her hand away.

“Thanks, Crispy.” – Ro beamed, slender face lit up with unadulterated joy. Without the long hair getting into his eyes, Ro’s youthful features showed like a beautiful moon, big clear eyes and cheerful smiles. The smile slid off his face as the shrill voice of the orphanage’s manager filtered through the half-closed door of their room. Ro grimaced and tugged at his beautiful ponytail. – “I’d have to cut my hair soon. SHE doesn’t like it when I look ‘like a girl’”

Cris frowned, a surge of irritation and hatred swelled in her heart. It was so unfair when a sweet boy like Ro was condemned and ridiculed just because he wanted different things from other boys. It was so cruel give yourself the right to judge Ro, to judge anyone, for simply wanting to be themselves. If it were up to her, she would give Ro a life he deserved where he was not oppressed and abused for his appearance.

And that moment, in a tiny room that housed more than a dozen children, when the manager sneered and yelled profanities about nuisance, the 12-year-old Cris had made a vow, that she would one day get out of the orphanage, make her living and take Ro away from the judgemental glares so he could finally be free to be who he wanted to be…

Three years later, Cris stepped onto the Reaping stage without a glance back, the Ribbon, now completely faded white, clutched tightly in her fist. Ro wasn’t there.

She didn’t get a chance to say goodbye….

More tears flooded her eyes and streamed down her face. She gnawed on her chapped lips to supress the sobs and hid her face in her palms. She knew cameras were everywhere, and the last thing she wanted to people at home, the last thing she wanted Ro to see, was her being weak and hopeless. The moment she set one food on the stage, she had vowed to win, return to Ro and give him the luxurious life of a Victor.

The Ribbon on her hair slid down, pooling on her shoulder. And she could almost imagine Ro’s small hands around her, pulling her into a soft hug.

Ro, I am so sorry….

I failed. I didn’t keep Cris alive. I didn’t return her to you.

I’m sorry….

Devin was all of the things Cris expected from a Hunger Games’ survivor: strong, fast and skilled with a knife. But he was also the kindest man she had ever met. He killed when he had to, but he trusted Cris even when she didn’t trust herself. He helped her when no one else bothered to, when Cris herself knew she didn’t deserve to be helped. He formed an ally with her, a wayward stray nobody else spared a glance. And day by day, when Devin taught her to fight and Cris showed him how to snare, when they scavenged together for food and huddled close in the cold nights, Cris found herself falling deeper and deeper in Devin’s gentle soul and soft caresses.

Devin deserved the world, not a place in this messed up nation with a sadistic game. And Cris? Cris was a good tribute, but she was not a good person.  

“Why aren’t you asleep? Stop wiggling.” – Devin’s voice was rough with sleep, but he still tightened his arms around her waist, pressing her back against his warm chest. Cris didn’t reply, just turned around to snuggle close and nuzzled her nose in the crook of Devin’s neck. The first nights, she had tried to tell herself that it was for warmth, that nights in the arena were cruelly cold and she could never form an attachment with anyone. But she also knew that she could not fool herself, that even though meeting Devin was never in her agenda, she never felt so right in his arms.

She was frightened.

The non-Career tributes were all dead, somehow dragging the boy from 4 with them. Cris remembered feeling both glee and dread when three canons boomed successively on the cold, damp morning two days ago.

Three left.

And two more to kill.

Cris breathed in, taking the musky scent of the boy she came to love in the last 5 days. She tightened her hold on his shirt and felt his arm strong around her shoulders.

Her sign was blatant in the stale quiet air.

Cris hated herself.

Devin’s heartbeats were calm and steady.

She quietly reached for her knife. Devin’s knife.

It was her first weapon. Her first kill.

How fitting? When the old Cris would die when she wielded it tonight.

She never liked the colour yellow, but sometimes she wondered if red was worse…