rematch.— [cleome/prop]

[Deleted]

I have to admit, my pride was wounded in more ways than one after five finger fillet. Not because I got second place, but because of who I got second place to. The girl who beat me looked like the lower district version of some sort of socialite. She was the kind of girl who never worked out in the fields. The kind of girl who didn't play dangerous games. The kind of girl I normally avoid for the peppiness.

Yet, she didn't seem overly peppy. And she somehow won five finger fillet despite looking like she's never even touched a knife before. And the way the announcer brought up Six, I felt humiliated more than proud. So during the bonfire when I saw the girl sitting there, I knew I had to take the chance to redeem myself. Maybe it wouldn't be anything official, but it would help my bruised ego if we won.

I didn't know her name or even her district, though I was sure she knew exactly who I was. Anyone present for that event knew who I was after what that announcer said. Maybe they didn't know my name, but I look just like him. And that announcer confirmed the suspicions. Maybe O'Malleys have a natural skill with blades, after all Six cut that girls ear off. And maybe I would watch this girl lose a finger. I took out my pocket knife as I approached her and said one word.

"Rematch."

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[bailee]

cleome hayes.

Lookin' over West Virginia
Smoking Spirits on the roof
She asked ain't anybody told ya
That them things are bad for you

You recognize the boy immediately by his flaming locks of hair. The O'Malley's were an odd group - the kids you bowed your head and avoided eye contact with, in fear one of them may come up and try to speak with you. Your own long, ginger hair often had you mistaken for one of them. Older folks of the District would often approach you and ask who your parents were - and promptly shrug their shoulders when you said your mother was the passed Ruphalia Hayes, muttering under their breath that they could've sworn you were one of the O'Malley's that seemed to litter District Eleven.

The harshness of his voice and the way the curse word flew off the tip of his tongue surprised you - weren't they supposed to be kind, gentle church kids? Yet here you were, straight off the adrenaline rush of Five Finger Fillet and Prop O'Malley was demanding a rematch from you.

Your days are numbered, you think to yourself, and maybe one more game of Five Finger Fillet will just prove that you have more luck than you think.

You look to the boy and flash him a sly grin. "Only if you think you can handle it."

[Deleted]

She was pretty, I'll give her that. But, she wasn't the type to do a game like this. She was the type of pretty, soft girl to avoid guys like me. Games like this. Maybe she was trying to break away from that mold, but some molds exist for a reason. She was going to get hurt eventually doing dumb shit like this, and it's better to get a cut on a finger as opposed to losing an arm.

I kneeled in front of a small wooden table, meant for one person to set their plate on for the bonfire. I tried to look around for any sort of clock or way to keep time, but couldn't find anything. Well, that wouldn't have been the end of the world. Besides, we already established that her dainty little fingers gave her a time advantage over me. And, what's the fun without a little blood?

"Same rules as before, but with a little twist. I don't have any way to keep track of time, so whoever cuts the most fingers loses. If we both cut the same amount, we go another round until someone wins. I'll go first again so you know the number to beat. Guess I'm just a gentleman."

And then I went for it, determined to beat the girl. Part of me hoped that I would see her again after this. There was a one in three chance we were from the same district. But the issue is, why did I want to see her again? Maybe because she intrigued me. Maybe because I just needed something to distract me from Six.

fingers hit: three fingers

G9qGlgthme1-1200


injury on finger one: deep gash
1-10


injury on finger two: shallow cut
1-10


injury on finger three: deep gash
1-10

1-1200·1-10·1-10·1-10

[bailee]

cleome hayes.

Lookin' over West Virginia
Smoking Spirits on the roof
She asked ain't anybody told ya
That them things are bad for you

You had to admit - he was charming. You admired his ability to remain cool and collected - especially after watching the announcer taunt him over Six O'Malley, the young kid who was viciously murdered not even a month prior to the county games. You wondered what he had been through before to remain such a cool composure - or if he was putting on a facade for you.

He was cute, but he was also an O'Malley. Even you knew to stay away from the O'Malley kids, even if you were dying and had nothing left to lose. They were nothing but a cornucopia of bad news - even if Prop seemed to be the most laidback of them all.

You watch as he brought the blade to his hand - he seemed to be a little more reckless than he was last time, taking less time and nicking his fingers three times. Five Finger Fillet wasn't your strong suit - you just seemed to have luck on your hands at the fair, even if it wasn't on your side at the best of times.

"Not bad," you snicker, with sarcasm edged in your words. "but you're supposed to avoid your fingers."

You gingerly take the knife from his hands and with exuding as much false confidence as possible, you look up at Prop and smile, "I'll show you how its done."

cdIPAAqkPT1-1200

1-1200

[Deleted]

Normally the sight of my own blood - or anyone else's - didn't bother me. Usually I liked the pain of fights, the adrenaline rush made me forget everything else in the moment. But as soon as I saw the blood from the two deeply cut fingers, the adrenaline faded and I felt light headed. As the blood poured out, everything else around me faded and I stared at my own hand.

Cleome went, I didn't watch. Cleome spoke, I didn't hear. Time went passed, but I was frozen. I was frozen not in that moment, but in the past. I was there, on the couch. I was sitting next to my little brother. My parents were in the room. And on the television screen was a close up of Julian Le Roux's spear. The blood pouring out of my finger was gushing out of Six's neck instead, there was so much blood.

"Not bad, but you're supposed to avoid your fingers."

Those words were blocked out by the rain both outside the house and on the screen. I had never had this reaction to blood before, but there was a first time for everything. My brain told me to move, to react. My brain said that Cleome was right there, I had to do something. But my heart said moving, reacting, would be unfreezing the moment. And as soon as time moved, Six's death would come. Six was still alive for a minute after Julian stabbed him. I couldn't let that minute pass.

But it did, and I took a deep breath. My hands were shaking as I turned towards the redhead girl. My gaze was cold. This was the second time she had embarrassed me like this. And now I needed her help. Whenever I had gotten into fights Six or Lock or even Fly had always been the ones to fix me up. But, none of them were here right now.

"...You don't happen to know how to use a first aid kit, do you, Red?"

The irony of an O'Malley commenting on someone else's read hair is palpable, I know.

[bailee]

cleome hayes.

Lookin' over West Virginia
Smoking Spirits on the roof
She asked ain't anybody told ya
That them things are bad for you

Oh fuck.

You were so entranced by the friendly competition you had failed to notice the blood bursting from Prop's fingers from where the knife nicked him a little too hard. You look at Prop's pale expression in astonishment - he was that dedicated to beating you that he had sacrificed his fingers to the competition.

In that moment, you knew Prop was different from the rest of the O'Malley's. He had seen things - done things, the other O'Malley's had been protected from. The way he spoke, the authority and confidence in his tone, the way he wasn't panicked although you internally could not stop shaking - you knew this was probably not his first rodeo with poor decision making.

And you could almost see yourself possibly wanting to spend more time with him - surrounding yourself in his company could definitely reap its benefits. He was the type of daring and brave soul you had been seeking to wrap up your time as cancer continued to overtake your body. Perhaps he was the missing piece to your dissatisfying life.

"Oh, I-" you stutter as you quickly whip off your backpack, immediately handing the flannel covering your shoulders to him to stop the blood that stained the rest of his clothing. Inside your backpack, you grab your emergency kit - one that you had always brought with you in case, y'know, cancer decided to remind you that it was still there and that it was still detrimental to your wellbeing.

You didn't know how to stitch a wound, but you did however know how to properly dress one. Years of being poked and prodded at with cheap, experimental cancer treatments taught you how to properly take care of a healing wound.

You press some anti-septic to a piece of cloth. "This'll sting." You gingerly move the flannel out of the way of his bleeding fingers and press the alcohol-covered cloth to his skin as you steady his wrist in your other hand.

"I'm really sorry about your brother," you blurt out. Your eyes widen at the stupidity of his question - you doubted he wanted even more people to feel sympathetic towards him. The wound was even fresher than the blood gushing from his fingers. "I mean, that the announcer... said something like that. That was uncalled for."

You look up at Prop and gaze into his eyes. "Y'know, I was rooting for him. We all were. I mean, District Eleven, that is."

[Deleted]

Once she noticed my fingers, she finally dropped the act. I wish I could say I was surprised, but I wasn't. She looked like the kind of girl to stutter out at the sight of blood. I almost felt bad for her. Almost. But that required pity, and pity was my least favourite thing - for myself or others. Plus, she wasn't the one with bloody ass fingers, now was she?

Honestly, I was glad she knew what to do. I didn't even put pressure on the wound, let alone use something to stop the blood. I remember one time I got hurt and Six actually yelled at me. He kept yelling at me to keep putting pressure on it since I kept getting distracted. But, he wouldn't be able to do that anymore. He was gone. He was gone because of District One. I'd never forgive them for that, any of them.

What surprised me most about this whole thing was the emergency first aid kit she had on her. There had to be a story there, and I was nosy. I definitely wanted to know why she had it, but now wasn't the time. As soon as she pulled out disinfectant I made a face. I've been stabbed and beaten and I've had broken bones. Yet there is no pain worse than disinfectant. Okay maybe that's an exaggeration, but it sucks.

"I'm sorry about your brother."

And I'm sorry I thought you were different, really. I hate that phrase. Ever since he died all I've heard is apologising. It's sickening really. None of them meant it. None of them have ever cared about us. The same people apologising are the ones who bullied Six. The ones who spread rumours about us and told their kids not to play with us. None of them knew him and none of them meant it. They said it not to make us feel better, but to make themselves sound like a good person.

When she looked into my eyes, I was glaring. Yet, strangle enough, I felt my glare soften for a moment before I forced it back. Her rooting for Six, that honestly helped. At least it helped more than the lies everyone had been shoving down my throat. But, did she mean that? Or was it just more self-indulgence to boost her own ego? I wanted to think poorly of her, but here she was, talking to me. She was from Eleven yet she wasn't avoiding me like the plague.

"Don't say you're sorry. You're not sorry. You don't really care, so don't act like you do. We're both adults- well almost adults- so let's act like it. You aren't sorry and that's okay. But... thank you. I'm glad someone outside the family was rooting for him. So, who are you? I don't recognise you from school, then again, you don't seem like the kind of girl to hang out with the kind of people I do."

[bailee]

cleome hayes.

Lookin' over West Virginia
Smoking Spirits on the roof
She asked ain't anybody told ya
That them things are bad for you

"Who are you?"

Who was I?

You are Cleome Hayes, hailing from District Eleven. You are the daughter of Ruphalia Hayes. Your uncle died in the 62nd Hunger Games. Your mother died of alcohol poisoning. You were the child of death, the one girl with cancer. You were the tragedy of our society, suffering from an ailment so easily treatable to the rich, yet you and your poor grandfather could not afford the luxury of health.

You were the girl who saw a young boy with flaming locks of red hair brutally murdered on live television and was reminded of yourself. You saw yourself in Six O'Malley, a boy just too young to truly discover who he was, a boy who was robbed of life so early. But the difference was you were counting down the days. Six didn't have the luxury of time.

And here you were, wrapping his older brother Prop's fingers as he claimed you didn't feel sorrow towards Six. You did.

But he couldn't know why. That was one thing you and Prop had in common. You both didn't want sympathy. So you cleared your throat as you press gauze against his pale, freckled skin.

"Cleome, Cleome Hayes," you tell him as you take your gaze away from his piercing stare, "I dropped out of school as soon as I turned 18, so I'm not sure you'd know me..."

He was right. You didn't hang out with the same people he hung out with.

But you could see yourself by Prop's side more frequently.

[Deleted]

Cleome Hayes?

The name rang a bell, though I wasn't sure if it was her first name or last name or both. Though, we were close to the same age. Even if we never acknowledged each other, I've probably at the very least heard her name at school. Before she dropped out of course, which was surprising. She seemed like a smart girl with her whole life ahead of her.

"You dropped out?"

Why?

I wanted to ask why she dropped out. Sure, as a farmer you don't need to use any of that shit. But doesn't she have dreams of doing something? Something more than farming? No matter how far-fetched it may seem. Dropping out makes that so much harder. But, it wasn't my place to ask her. Even if she regretted it years from now.

I looked down at my newly bandaged hand, then back up at her. The fact she waited until she was eighteen to drop out was telling - whether she realised it or not. Her parents didn't let her drop out any earlier, she had to wait until she was an adult. On top of that, she did it despite the little time she had left before graduation. Why not just wait it out at that point? Maybe she wasn't who I thought she was, and that's a little exciting.

I reached into my back pocket and pulled out a cigarette and a lighter. I couldn't smoke super often here, too many little siblings running around. But, I doubted I'd see any right now. After she had helped me out, I didn't want to suffocate her with my smoke. I was an asshole, but I wasn't Cliff or Cain. I wasn't a fucking bastard.

"Do you mind if I smoke, Cleome? Don't want to upset a pretty girl. Besides, this shit causes cancer."

[bailee]

cleome hayes.

Lookin' over West Virginia
Smoking Spirits on the roof
She asked ain't anybody told ya
That them things are bad for you

Your heart palpitates as he draws the cigarette to his lips and asks if you mind. You wish you had the luxury of not minding, the feeling of nicotine dragging through your lungs as if you didn't already have cancer overtaking your body. You thought for a second maybe, just maybe, you wouldn't mind, and you could spend a little more time in his company. Especially after he called you pretty.

But seeing the cigarette in Prop's hand reminded you that he had the privilege of his youth on his side. He could fill his body full of carcinogens now and not have to pay the price until he had already lived a fulfilled life. That made you angry. And suddenly, the sight of Prop in your vicinity made you feel ill to your stomach. Your face went pale and the overwhelming urge to empty your stomach purged your insides.

You stand up suddenly, Prop's wound fully wrapped and dressed. You quickly pick up your first aid kit and pack it away, sound in your backpack, throwing it around your shoulders in a frenzy of chaos. You needed to leave, now.

"I actually have to go," you stammer, looking away from Prop, "I'll see you around, maybe."

You quickly march away, but before you do, you turn back around to face him one more time.

"Oh, and make sure you redress that and clean it, you don't want it to get infected."

And you turn your back to him once again, leaving him and his cigarette behind.