Chapter Text
I feel like my soul is rapidly being torn in half. Ideals on both sides tugging at me, pulling at me, relentless in their quest to have a whole me. And the rebellious side is winning.
No one can see the struggle I’m going through. All they know is that I, Lyme Amalie Lachlan, am competing in the Fifty-Second Hunger Games in an effort to out-do my mother.
They also can’t tell that my heart’s just not in it anymore. Well, I hope that they can’t tell. If they could, there’d be trouble.
I’m stuck guarding the cornucopia while the others get to go do all the dirty work. I wouldn’t have it any other way, even though it’s wet and rainy and cold where I am. But whatever. I’d rather be soaked to the bone than have more blood on my hands.
This is what they don’t tell you about the Hunger Games: it’s absolutely soul-sucking to kill people. To end someone’s entire existence - their entire being - just so that I can have the chance to make it out of here alive. It’s terrible. Swinging a sword at a living, breathing human being is a far cry from swinging a sword at a training dummy that can’t even comprehend what’s happening.
If I’d known that this is what it would be like, I would have preferred to step off my pedestal a second too early.
But alas, I didn’t do that, and now I’m obligated to see this through to the bitter end.
This arena, a half-sunken city, is the exact opposite of my mother’s. I’m willing to bet that I’m feeling the exact opposite of what she did, too.
We’d always been opposites, my mother and I. She’s the loud, playful, boisterous one. I’m the quiet, responsible, reserved one. Her bedroom is a constant explosion of unwashed clothes and old food wrappers. Mine is neat and square. She makes friends easily. I don’t.
She was able to win her Games with a constant smile on her face. I haven’t smiled once since I got here.
Everyone’s expecting a show from me. Mom gave them a good one. I have massive boots to fill. It’s quite hard to top not just a gunfight, but also banging through the saloon doors, screaming “WHERE YA GOIN’, PARTNER?” and successfully lassoing her final opponent in one try.
I just… can’t. I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to be here. I just wanna go home, back to my neat bedroom and pretend that none of this ever happened, that it was all just a nightmare.
But I’m too far in to back out now.
When Mom signed me up for training at the Academy, she told me that when - not if, when - I entered the Games, it would be the most amazing experience of my life. I would get to learn all sorts of cool fighting techniques, how to use all those awesome weapons. In the arena, I would bring the utmost glory for my district. I would have achieved one of the highest honours ever: being a Victor. And when I emerged victorious, every person in the entire country would know my name. I would be showered with riches. I would get to have my own house.
It would be the raddest thing ever.
She didn’t technically lie to me, because she was so convinced of it herself.
I should have seen the first red flag when I asked the other Two Victors what being in the Games was like.
Matty used to babysit me sometimes as a kid, so naturally she was the first one I asked. Her response was, “It was fine, I guess.” I never thought to ask any follow-up questions.
Garland and Torrent shared my mother’s sentiments. Magnus and Ludo just snapped at me to stop bothering them and to also get off their lawn because I was trampling their grass. Medea gave a very polite, but minimalistic answer. Hermes got this haunted look in his eye, but he was smiling so wide that I foolishly looked past it. And Brutus told me that it would change me.
He didn’t specify whether the change would be good or bad, but I guess he was still technically right.
I can kiss the Lyme I used to be goodbye.
I’m not entirely sad to see her go. The old Lyme was idiotic enough to believe that killing people would be fun.
I’m interrupted from my thoughts by a shrill scream emanating from one of the nearby buildings. It’s so chilling; injected with so much fear that I feel like I’m the one who's afraid.
A cannon quickly follows and I can only hope that whoever screamed at least had a quick death.
I stare in the direction of the building. My conscience tries to continue its war on itself, but it’s pretty clear who’s won.
Loyalist vs Rebel? Well, the loyalist in me died along with that scream; the scream that represents everything wrong with the Games.
There is only a rebel.
A rebel who will find a cause.