I don’t want to wake him, but I really don’t want him to draw any attention to me. I don’t mean to be selfish in his time of need, but I can’t risk being found by another tribute and attacked. Nothing good can ever come from that. 

I leave him in the tent, but I take my things. Heading upriver, I let the fresh air flow through my lungs. The landscape drastically changes into a forest, and I wonder how something like that is possible. Coming to the edge of the mansion, I veer west a bit, deeper into the forest so that I can conceal myself. There’s plenty of foliage here. Mother nature provides the best cover. I lift my things into the boughs of a tree, positioning them in a small nook that the intertwining branches have formed. 

Supplementing the camouflage that I already have on me, I use my paints to add some greens and muddy, earthen tones, so that I can balance out the yellows of the savanna. I wish I could wash the paints and the plants from my hair, but it makes me much too easy to spot. I rub the little piece of white hair that I cut off earlier in between my thumb and forefinger. It’s nice to have reminders. 

I know that there’s a mixture of shock and adrenaline in my body that’s keeping my sanity in tact. I assume that it will last throughout the duration of the arena. If I were to live (and we all know there’s like a two percent chance of that happening), it would most likely wear off pretty soon. So that should be very exciting and interesting. I hope hell (and the Capitol if I somehow don’t die) have excellent mental wellness facilities. Although something tells me (every piece of information regarding the subject that I’ve ever come across) that nothing would be able to help me get over murder. I have a sort of double consciousness right now, where I know that I’m in shock and that I’ll have a breakdown soon enough. I’m supposed to be a wreck right now, as I am usually, but I’m not. Great. Amazing, honestly.

I have no choice but to serve naked mole rat couture now.

The cage lowers to the ground and the roots unravel to reveal an escape route. I am selective with what I take. My own knives, gloves, baton, syringe, recording device, water bottle, first-aid kit, and rope. Shepard’s taser, a pair of his brass knuckles, his matches, bandages, water, fruit bar, and machete. I’ll sort through everything in a more thorough fashion but for now I would rather just not be near his corpse. I take one final look at my wig before exiting the cage.

Just as I escape from my prison cell, a silver parachute lands at my feet. Opening the gift, I find yet another super heartwarming note. How nice. Inside are medical supplies. Should be a fun time. I disinfect the needle, threading it. Looking at my reflection in the machete (I look absolutely amazing) I sew my nose back together. It seemed really unnecessary for Shepard to tear about the cartilage there but whatever. This feels horrible. Which is good. I move onto my shoulder wound. With the tendon having been sliced in the middle a bit, I know that I can’t put much strain on it for the rest of the day. So I stitch that up and move to my thigh wound, followed by the gash at my hip. I look like a doll that was torn apart by an unruly yet well meaning dog. Nice. Afterwards, I bandage everything and it’s a good feeling when I don’t have the sensation of the life literally leaking out of me. Surprising, I know.