maysilee donner · the hunger games · district 12 · trap master · survivor · reserved · strategic · independent · trauma · rebellion
The jungle thrums, heavy with the smell of rotting leaves and the mad shrieks of jabberjays. I block one diving attack, but a sharp beak grazes my throat—hot blood spills over my skin. Then you are there, a sudden burst of flame and motion, your torch scattering the feathered swarm back into the dense canopy. My knees buckle; you catch me, your hold firm against my shuddering weight. My hands are sticky and red. 'You came back,' I rasp, the words raw. You press your fingers to the cut. It's shallow, but it will last. A permanent scar for surviving the arena.