The 33rd Hunger Games

Tamar Mamet and her own brother, battle it out to become the last one standing.


15. 15)

Three days later I still lay in my sleeping bag, sipping quietly on water and eating very little. No one had died since Omarion and Upala. Surely, the Gamemakers would leave me to grieve over my brother. There had probably been fights elsewhere, that's why they had left me alone. There are six other tributes apart from myself, so the bettings must be getting higher now there was only a handful of players left.

I had decided, to avenge Omarion, I would stay alive. Make it through. To the end. What I really wondered was how he had died. I never even got to say goodbye. The last thing he had said to me was 'Go to sleep'. And now, he would sleep. Forever. 

Eventually, I began gathering all the packs together. I knew I couldn't stay here any longer. Something would find me. Go further east and find a nice tree. I force myself to eat the remaining beef. My left ankle was still weak, but I was still vulnerable with or without it being broken. 

I trek for the next six hours. After two hours I find a pond and refill both of the water bottles and shoot several fish. With no matches, I make a small fire to cook the fish on from scratch. Let them find me. I hope they do. I hope the person who murdered my brother finds me. Then I can kill them.

But I'm not a murderer. 

Or am I? I've killed lots of people in this tournament already. Who's to say I won't kill again? Not my brother. Not anyone. Out here, in the arena it's my rules, no one elses. 

The fish that were cooking were almost burnt, but they still tasted well. Unsurprisingly, none of the other tributes had come to find my fire. None of them wanted to fight me.

There are eight tributes left, including myself. But who are they? There's Aamina, Petra and Tetra, the boy from 3, the girl from 5, the boy from 6 and the boy from 10. I could take them out. I could take them all out.

I could actually win this thing. For Omarion. For Dad. For District 7. I could see Clato again...

A pang of guilt hit me: Omarion had volunteered so Clato didn't have to fight. He died so perhaps I could be a little happier when I got back home. If I go home. I will go home, either way. When, or if I die out here, my body will be collected by a hovercraft, redressed and shipped home. I hope I do die. Forever, I will be burdened with guilt for letting my brother go hunting three days ago.

This must be my first week in the arena over. It wasn't the best week of my life, and yet, it wasn't the worse. At least I didn't witness Omarion die... although I wish I had said goodbye. Tears had now flooded my face. I couldn't look weak to the Capitol and the Districts. But, I couldn't help it. Perhaps someone, someone would feel sympathy for a 12 year old who had lost almost everything.

A few hours later, still up in the same tree, a parachute began to descend. It landed on the branch to my left. I scrambled to get it. Inside was a cake, with a note attached. It read:

Dear Tamar-

 I'm sorry about your brother. I wish I could tell you how he died, but I can't. All I can tell you is he was killed by another tribute, and he died a noble death. Anyway, Happy 13th Birthday! Boy, I remember when you were just 6 years old, running around the District with a knife. Just do one thing for me, Tamar. You have to win. I know you can do it. For me. For Omarion. Kill anyone you have to kill.

Love Abel

Momentarily, I was confused. Why had Abel underlined 'boy', '6', 'with a knife' and 'kill'? 

And then, it dawned on me. The District 6 boy had killed Omarion, with a knife. 

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