#plsibeg

But weren’t those childish whims? When the idea of killing someone was simple and guilt was not to follow. They were just children and those who fell got back up again. 

Not here. Those who fall, fall from great heights. This game was all so simple, they spoke of honor, of life and of victory. Not the blood or the pain, not the fire or the ice, not tendrils of your sanity that are torn from you with claws of iron

Was that why he was carelessly playing with the blonde boy’s life? Was it pride or desperation that made him do this? Did he really want to go home?

Life was the gift, the light, the answer. But it wasn’t really his anymore. Would he be able to sleep at night knowing there are grieving families all still awake?

He gripped the boys throat harder, after all this time, he still hadn't learned his name. 

He imagined himself living. The honor of surviving and doing good by your district, never to be reaped again. The inevitable favor asked, the loved ones slaughtered at your refusal. The twisting of something once so human. Bringing someone so innocent into a world so filthy and tainting the pristine condition of their minds, that is a deed not to be done.

So he would not live.

But why were his fingers still wrapped around the boys throat?

Give up. There is nothing left for you.

An arrow aimed at his head, a life in his hands, a hundred voices in his head. He hoped death would be peaceful. 

“…Just one more kill”

One more heart to stop, minuscule in comparison to millions of other still hearts. Maybe his mother would cry for him. Maybe.

His fingers held tight. 

There was one last death to come. There was one more step to take. Cato could not remember a time when he felt truly alive. So why did he hold on so tight? He could let go himself. 

You want to succeed, just as much as you want to die. Old habits die hard.

An Arrow flies, and he paints the world in red.