Toby had ran until his feet collapsed under him, breath heavy and harsh in his throat. The air was pealing away his skin layer by layer, squeezing his body tightly as he tried to pick himself back up. A tree became his shelter, lifting him only for his fingers to slip and him to hit the ground again.

I'm going to die. It wasn't a slow relaxation, nor a fast one. It was simply true. Pain. Hurts. Words so simple they couldn't possibly be real. His body ached all over, a bad tooth that had to be pulled but had no way out. It spread and burnt, frost turning his core solid as his head fell into it, eyes rolling back. Quiet. It's so quiet. Death is boring.

An hour passed like that--him waiting for it to end, his body growing colder, and the urge to pee gradually growing larger and larger. Shit. I can't piss out here. What if it freezes?

It was that urge that led him to try standing again, his fingers near numb as they fumbled with the zipper of his pants. My fingers aren't working. The air must've been at least negative zero degrees Celsius outside, more than likely negative three if he was being honest with himself. Finally. The frost lined air bit at his tender skin, but after a few seconds he was covered back up and fully awake.

"Shit," he whispered, "I'm waiting until this is over next time." In his head he added, If there is one.

It was a thought he didn't like to hear.

His feet led him away from his resting place--away from the coven of snow that kept him safe for hours. Toby shivered as he walked, looking around and trying to find something--anything--that could help him. His eyes would go from seeing perfectly to seeing dots. Still, he pressed on, feet trudging through the snow, life telling him that it's not worth it and his body telling him that he can't stop.

Toby went passed a small pond covered in a thin layer of ice. A huge hole lay gaping in the middle, with bloodied water and snow all around it. As he passed he whistled lowly. I'd hate to be the sucker who fell into that hole. A dry laugh left his mouth, yet his heart was stone. He knew that whoever, or whatever, had fallen in must've been dead. That, or had a severe case of hypothermia.

On the bank of the pond, lightly covered by a thin layer of snow, was a trail of footsteps mixed with blood. It wasn't Toby's intention to follow it, but he did. He needed something to keep him alive and warm. If it's from a tribute, there might be a camp here. Maybe even a fire. Food. God, my stomach feels like I was hit by a train.

His thoughts made him distant from reality in a way. It was as if he knew what was happening, knew how serious and real it was, and couldn't understand how to deal with it. His thoughts were loud and greater than the problems his body faced. In his head, Toby was the same as ever. He couldn't be troubled. But it is real...isn't it?

"Maybe it isn't real," he whispered. It was a Toby whisper, though, and much louder than he intended. "I'm asleep in bed. I'm watching myself in a dream, imagining these people..."

Words died as he found what lay at the end of the trail--as did his feet. A tribute.

Curly brown hair was half frozen to the boy's head, bits of glazed over water glistening in the dim. Coat ripped open, probably by wolves, through the sliced shirt Toby saw the yellowed scabs. That chest was rising and falling slow and steady, breath caught in puffs that floated in the chilled air. His eyes were moving fast, and caught Toby's before he could back away and move--the dark brown roofing him to the spot.

"Toby," he said, voice a rasp. "We're...we're friends, right?"

Everything about the way he said it was wrong. Sickening. As if he was a dead man already, speaking words long lost. Toby's fingers itched to peel the skin away from the bone, his heart wanted to burst from his chest, he wanted to crawl on his knees through glass--anything but to hear Cole speak again.

"I'm dying."

Oh God.

"I can't." An awful, wracking cough left his body, propelling his chest forward and back down in the most violent way possible. "I...can't stand the pain, Toy."

Bile rose in his throat.

With an elevated heartbeat, Toby tried speaking to him. "What--what can I do?" he asked. "How can I stop the pain?"

Cole shook his head slightly, coughing again. His mouth was wet with spit as he talked, "There's a backpack on the other side of the pond. There...there might be somethin' to stop this. Pain killers, a blanket, food...gauze, anything. Look--look for leaves and cloth to bandage my head in. I can hardly move."

"Sure."

Toby didn't know exactly how, but he managed to pull his feet out of the snow, twist his body around, and start walking back. I could just leave him there. The air felt stiffer, more dense. Everything was making it harder for him to walk. Just pretend I never saw him. He passed the pond, stopping only to sneeze. There's no way he's going to live through all this.

Even his treasonous  thoughts couldn't stop him from getting the backpack and using his still numbed fingers to slide the zipper open. Inside was a small blanket, rolled up and tied with a cord of twine, a water bottle and a sealed tube. It wasn't much, but Toby knew it was better than what they had before.

Back at the makeshift camp--which consisted of some fallen logs leaned up against a tree to create a sort of teepee--Toby lifted Cole and steadied his body up with a ball of snow. From there, he took off Cole's clothing until they found his undershirt, which he tied around Cole's head before dressing the boy again. Then, he placed the blanket gently over Cole and gave him some of the water inside the bottle. It was cold, but fresh and tasted better than anything Toby had drank before. He only allowed himself a little of it, knowing the other boy would need it more.

Now, for the tube...

That was more complicated. Getting it open required using something sharp to break the seal and to cut through the plastic lid. His fingernails were too bitten off for that, but luckily his teeth managed to get a tiny hole in it. A match fell out, as large as his hand and about as thick as Toby's middle finger.

"How can I start a fire from frozen wood?" he asked, frowning. Cole offered no help, but alive silent. "Fuck. I'll tear some of the twigs from underneath the trees...those shouldn't be covered with snow."

"My...my shirt...burn that," Cole said. With a gasp he let out a chilling cough. Toby shuffled about in the snow, not certain if that would work.

"Wouldn't they melt? They're not made of cotton...?" Toby's mind whirred as he dug into the snow, building himself a pit as his fingers worked their way into the ground. The dirt was pulled up onto itself until Toby couldn't hardly move them, and he quickly pulled some twigs and pine leaves from a tree close by and pressed them into the dirt. His breath was falling and rising faster as he struggled to keep the match from falling into the snow.

The first strike against the tube didn't light the match.

Neither did the second, nor the third. He cursed loud and threw back his head, letting out a cry that shook his insides. "We're going to die," he said through gritted teeth. Cole gasped for air again, a low choking noise coming from him.

One glance to the boy showed Toby that blood was running down Cole's face in long lines, snow and frost hardening it but not reducing the flow as it fell into his mouth. Each gasp pushed some of it back out, along with spit, but it wasn't getting any better. His makeshift shirt bandage was soaked completely through with blood.

To make matters worse, he was trying to talk again. Each word was sickening, a thick, garbled noise that made Toby's blood boil and his body tense. "Toby...the games...are death," he managed to get out, "we...are death." Another cough left him, louder and harder than the rest. "Our lives are...failing...I'm dying, Toby...oh god, I'm dying."

No tears came from either. They were silent in this knowledge, knowing it was true and wishing that it was not. Cole shifted, his face growing paler as he lost his precious life blood.

"Don't...control you...it destroy you," Cole whispered. His words weren't making any sense, which only made Toby angry. Hot tears began to roll down his cheek, burning him up and killing him inside. If Cold noticed he said nothing on it. "My...girlfriend left me...she...smart. I not make it. My life, I--so much I didn't get to do--so much I had planned--can't--nothing left."

As his words turned to must and his body shook in pain, wringing about upon the pitiful slush of snow that called itself his bed, Cole's eyes flickered.

Toby couldn't stand it.

His fingers once again dug through the snow, this time to lift a rock from it's baggage there and carry it over to Cole. Pain's too much. He's speaking gibberish. Convulsing. Cole must be dead by now--post death nerves. Still, he held the rock up high before bringing it down on him. There was a hideous crack, then nothing. Toby wasn't strong enough to finish him off.

Muscles taunt and body rigid, he repeated the motion. That time it worked a bit better, yet Cole continued to twitch. His mouth opened, slick with blood and saliva, and let out a small gasp. He's not dead yet. The revelation did little to stop Toby, who only repeated his motion several more times. Blood poured from new wounds, and Cole began shouting, but Toby wouldn't stop.

He's not dead yet.

The rock was slimy with bits of skin and gore, yet it continued to bash through the skull. Bone cracked and it didn't stop. A cannon sounded, startling Toby, but he ignored it. Cole's head fell through the bank of snow and hit the ground, Toby's forceful motions continuing and growing stronger as a ferocious cry left his mouth. It wasn't anger, hate, compassion or anything. It was pure emotion, every emotion, and nothing could stop him. Not until the brain lay scattered about and blood coated his arms and torso did Toby stop.

I'm warm, he thought. I'm warm. I'm alive. He's dead. I'm alive. I'm warm. A slow rising laugh left him, catching every ounce of light he held within him and holding it hostage in a far away places. Tears ran freely down his face, and the laugh turned into a deep sob as his body collapsed to the ground.

There was little strength left in his bones. "I killed him," Toby said. Speaking the words made them real. "He was my friend. I killed him." Both statements were true and yet his mind couldn't connect them--couldn't make either real enough. It's just death--no. No, it's not just death.

Toby was a killer, which was something he'd known was going to happen from the minute he was reaped. Then, he'd gone up, stoic as he had waited for himself to wake up. It was more than real. The games weren't just games. They were not child's play, not something just anyone could partake in. They stole away lives and taught the winners to love death and that their survival mattered more than anything. They were molding Toby, taking him away from home and showing him true loss, true sorrow, true pain. Before, the emotions meant little to knowing. Just words on paper, or spoken when customary to do so.

But as Toby lay, blood coated and breathing heavily, everything came into focus. I want to survive. I want to live and feel more than I've ever done before.