Chapter 51
Chapter Fifty-One
The Games
Elmo — Thirty-Two Years Ago
Those of us who survived the first round but failed to advance are herded into a small room at the rear of the temple.
When the door opens, I am startled to find it ordinary—a crew area, perhaps.
Wide benches with plastic seats line the walls: functional, unremarkable, nothing like the nightmare we have just escaped.
I sink onto one of the benches, both hands pressing my soaked shirt around the knife in my side, and wait to be treated. Nothing happens.
We are all in a sorry state. One boy draws each breath with a wet, rattling sound—a throat injury, by the look of it. He is taken through a side door before anyone else, which I choose to read as a good sign.
Another door opens, and someone calls my name.
Standing costs everything. My legs tremble beneath me; I keep the blood-soaked fabric clamped around the knife to stem the flow as I stagger through the doorway.
My mother stands on the far side of the room.
A sob escapes before I can stop it—she came. She is here. For one fleeting moment, I think—
Her expression wipes the thought away.
I have never seen her this angry. Disgust sharpens every feature. She studies me as I studied the skeletons: something wrong, something that ought not to be standing.
“You failed.” Her voice is perfectly level. “You didn’t listen to a single thing you were told. You ignored all your training.” She steps closer. “You were never meant to be the hero, Elmo. All you had to do was run through that tunnel, yet you stopped to save other contestants.”
“Keeley,” I manage. “The little girl. Did she get through?”
Something shifts behind my mother’s eyes, and it is not pity. It is satisfaction at having been handed exactly the right question.
“You couldn’t even clear the first round. Do you imagine that brat will fare any better? The bone boy will rip her to shreds. Only winners keep their magic. You risked everything for nothing.” She shakes her head. “What a waste.”
“Mother,” I whisper past the burning lump in my throat, “I survived.”
I did what was right.
“Yes.” She says it as though survival disappoints her too. “At least now your magic can be stripped away. You risked everything for strangers.”
“I can still make you proud,” I murmur. “I can still—”
“You are no daughter of mine.” She leans in, closes her hand around the knife embedded in my side, and pulls it free in one smooth motion.
White-hot pain tears through me. The pressure vanishes with the knife, and blood spills between my fingers as she wipes the blade on my sleeve.
“You are nothing,” she says. “Less than nothing.”
My knees buckle.
“I hope you enjoy your new life in the Districts.” She gazes down at me without expression. “The best thing you can do now is find a corner, curl up, and disappear.”
She drops the knife. It strikes the floor with a hard metallic clatter.
The floor comes up to meet my cheek.
Nobody looks.
As I slip under, she says, “Someone heal her. We need the magic.”
Then she turns and walks away.