The Perks of The Hunger Games

For the Fan-fiction crossover competition. When Charlie is reaped into the Hunger Games, he really doesn't expect he is going to win. He's quiet, small, and not the bravest, but definitely the most observant. This is his journey through the games. In the style of Stephen Chbosky.


8. Day Two

Dear Friend,

I had been asleep for a few hours, when the cannons went off. I count eleven of them, and crawl out of the cave as the anthem plays. Their faces appear in the sky. No careers dead. Lydia. No Aspen. Ten kids I don't know killed today.

I crawl back in, but I can't get back to sleep. It is unbelievably cold, and I feel fortunate for my coat, sleeping bag, and the warm, insulating walls of the cave. Others will freeze to death out there in the snow. And who knows what horrible creatures will be crawling around at night.

After a few more hours, I hear the cannon, and suspect that someone didn't get shelter tonight. I guess they wished they'd taken the fire-making course. If there was anything to make a fire with, that is.

In the morning, I decide to sort myself out. I am sweaty, tearful, and muddy, and covered in Lydia's blood. She lies on the floor, a few centimeters away from me, and I decide to move her.

Gently, I drag her freezing body out into the open, and lie her on the top of a hill, among the snow and ice. There are no flowers, or plants for that matter, so I zip up her coat, covering her wound, and kiss her white cheek. I pull back her pretty blonde hair, and whisper a short prayer in her ear, asking God to look after her beautiful soul in the meadow where she has gone to. She's safe from danger now.

The hovercraft moves in as soon as I'm out of the way. They scoop her up, roughly, and she's gone. I cry again, hot, angry tears that won't stop. Lydia is dead. She's gone. They took her.

I walk back to our cave, and sit and stare at the spot where she died, with dark patch of blood where she lay. Looking through my bag, I see what's in it. A water bottle, a lighter, some gloves, rope, a knife, antibacterial wipes, and some small packets of food, but they won't be enough. I pick up the knife that killed Lydia, and know she's have wanted me to keep it. I carry it outside and wipe off the blood in the snow, then throw it in my pack, hoping I'll never have to use it, or see it again. My slingshot lies forgotten on the cave floor, and I realize if I'd never have gone back for it, Lydia would never have seen me, and she wouldn't have gotten the funeral she deserved. I hug it to me.

Taking one last look at our cave, I set off up the mountain. I need to move on, I'm too close to other tributes.

I walk all day, over mountains and hills, and steep, slippy rocks. There are no trees, or lakes, or animals in sight. As the sky turns dark, I find a new cave, and curl up for another cold, painful night of remembering. I only feel myself drifting off when I remember the pebble in my pocket, and feel it for a bit.

I hope you are well, because I am not, both mentally and physically. It's happening again, and this time, there is no one left to save me.

Love always,



Join MovellasFind out what all the buzz is about. Join now to start sharing your creativity and passion
Loading ...