(Please help me make this better! Honest thoughts are greatly appreciated! I'm busy all tomorrow so I only have a little of today and Sunday to work on it...)

When Steve was a child his mother used to sing him a song. It helped him sleep, she said. Each night he'd wait in his bed in anticipation for the elderly woman to come in, her hair sloppily pulled back in a bun as she leaned down to kiss his forehead. Once she made certain the other kids were fine she'd go and sing him to sleep, her voice leaving trails of imagination and angels behind.

Thrum, thrum, goes the drum.
Cheeky chat, goes the rat.
Boom tomb, goes the moon.
Over the woods the old barn looms,
And quite a fantasy stirred up in dust,
As one went out to cut a brush,
Broke his bones and cut the top,
With a knife so big and sharp.

Each lyric was old, about three hundred years old to be exact. Still, that simple song worked fine. As Steve waited for the Games to begin he wished that he could hear her voice singing one more time. Her sweet voice, clear like a bell, had been the most affectionate thing she had. She used to sing during Harvest. Her and...Shelia. Shelia, with her beautiful alto and Mom with her soprano.

Steve's bones were set on fire. The memories destroyed his edge, leaving him lost in a daze. He lay back on a white bed sheet that resembled soft petals. His legs tightly filled in the small spandex pants. They were supposed to stretch, but it seemed they had issues doing that over his build. It was cold, too cold. Something rubbed up against his leg--the sharp prick of a rose thorn.

It wasn't a rose.

Whatever flower it was...that dark grey thing left a sickly-sweet taste in the back of his throat. A shiver coursed through him as he realized the flower was effecting how he breathed. You're so ugly I can't even breathe, he imagined himself saying to it. Your momma must've been a skunk. She stinks so bad that when she went in for a professional bath the aides turned her out saying, "No animals allowed!"

The joke felt off. He knew it was off. It was something he'd just have to deal with.

Lately he had a lot of things to deal with.

With a knife so big and sharp. The cursed poem wouldn't leave his mind. It stuck in his head like the dim retellings of songs. The poem was meant for nothing but enjoyment, yet suddenly it felt sinister. With a knife so big and sharp...

I miss Shelia. The thought came out of the blue. Without warning. Just like she does. She'll hide out behind the grains to surprise me, kissing me on the lips before telling me to get back to work. She cuddles me at night and--

"She's not here," he whispered.

The words were forced. Each breath, strained. God, I'm running out of air!

It had been almost ten minutes since he'd began waiting for the Games to start. "Why--what's going on?" he asked, coughing.

Weakly, Steve hit the glass. His arms were numb. Something rushed past outside, like water coursing over a plate. Again he hit the glass, listening as it thudded dully. He squinted, yet it was entirely dark outside. There was no lights. No arena. No tributes. No Games.

With a knife so big and sharp. It wasn't going away. Shut up! Focus!

Nothing existed, nothing but the thin air and the glass bed that he laid against. His nerves raced. With each second that ticked by Steve had less and less air. The world stayed still, dark, motionless. If he was going to escape...he'd have to do it soon, before he died in there. I don't want to die. The world was no longer one big joke. It was real, harsh, and ready to suck him away until he couldn't breathe and his lungs failed, until he was a mere skeleton fading away in a world of black and gray. I'll win. I'll go home and make things right...I have to.

He slammed against the glass, listening to the vibrations throb. He did it again, and again, and again until a hairline crack formed. More things rushed past through the dark. It drew him in ways he couldn't explain.

Just like the song. With a knife so big and sharp. And quite a fantasy stirred up in dust, as one went out to cut a brush, broke his bones and cut the top, with a knife so big and sharp. Except he wasn't stirring up a fantasy. Steve was stirring up death, just as death would be soon be stirring up everyone in it's sly grasp of hate.

The next hit cracked it more. Beads of water formed along the cracks, combing as they ran down the sides and wet his fists as each and every hit broke the glass more. With no warning it sprayed in all at once. Glass sputtered in and sucked itself out, exploding outwards in every place possible as Steve was engulfed in water.

Boom! Boom! Two quick shots fired. He'd just gotten into the arena and people were already dead.

It filled his nose and mouth. A choke burned his throat as acid rose. Salt stung his eyes, instantly reddening them. His feet flailed about, thrashing in the thick liquid until he managed to begin swimming. Though he'd never done it before his body understood what to do--kick until he reached the air again.

The water was so black it was impossible to see through. Seconds ticked away as hours down there, leaving him drained. There was no way he'd make it. The water felt grew thicker, denser. His body cried out for justice. At the very least he had two minutes of air.

His tender body radiated bolts of searing pain that came in waves. It was superficial, it had to be, but Steve's mind wouldn't believe that. With every stretched movement his taunt legs stiffened at the knees before knocking backwards. While the force was enough to move him a few feet, it left a freezing near-numbness that tickled his fingers and rushed through his bloodstream.

I have to move! Quick, quick! He swam like there was fire on his heels. Like molten lava fell against the sea that swallowed him and shoved him forward. With a knife so big and sharp, I'll cut them down just like tarp. Their bones will break and they will fall, and then I guess I'll win it all.

Steve brushed up against a dead body in the darkness. Slimy, blood coated skin floated around it, sticking close. Instantly, he kicked the dead boy away and tried to swim faster. His heart beat faster and faster. Each second strained his lungs. Every loud cannon and shriek of another tribute about to die startled him.

He could hear others in the water but his eyes were useless. Nothing helped. The shrieks were making him paranoid. I really have to get out! Fuck! Where's the exit?! I can't breathe!

His lungs burned with each aching second away from the precious oxygen it desired. His ears popped as the water became thinner and suddenly he was thrust upwards.

The sea foamed against his head as he gulped down air. His throat was ragged and his arms still felt numb. Whatever was in the flower left him pained and sore all over. His chest had a stone inside of it that grew with each passing second.

The stone wasn't really in his chest. It lined the air bubble he'd found himself in. Sharp and dull alike, some bigger while others were only the size of a fist. The brushed against his legs and he shoved past them until he finally was able to keep his shoulders out.

All this sea and I can't sea a thing! Hey, what did the ocean say to the other ocean about the reef? I'd hit that! His mind buzzed. Each thought fizzed and dissipated. Finally he had air, but it was still dark. He didn't trust himself enough. Don't talk. Don't make noise. Shh. Shh.

As Steve hid in the rocky "pond", he caught glimpses of fire. Some guy had managed to catch some dried seaweed and dead flowers on fire, and he was warming himself before it. Oranges an greens kissed the air in long tendrils before snapping off in waves. Heat pulsated in the air. The guy was around six foot, with curly black hair and a scared smile. He seemed to be jumpy about something. Steve had seen him in training. He had been nice. Goofy, but so was Steve.

What was his name? Al? Something like that. I'll make an ally. Steve took a deep breath, preparing to go up and talk to Al, when a girl ran screaming up to him. What the-

It happened almost too quick to process: The ebony haired chick from One ran up with a sharpened rock in her hands. She stabbed him, only to be pushed away by Al. He tried his hardest to hit back. Allium was too fast. Her dark blue eyes practically glowed in the flickering light. Each grunt and growl that passed her lips was a battle cry. She was speaking words, something about a Dad and hate and death. None of it made sense to him.

Al began to cough on blood as it gurgled up from his throat. With a sickening plop Allium dropped Al to the ground, watching with satisfaction as he died. Fucking hell.

Wide eyed, his body froze. Though he had oxygen he didn't dare breathe--rather, he kept himself as stiff and silent as the grave. A cannon sounded in the distance.

The girl stalked back off into the caves somewhere, leaving Steve to close his eyes and pray that she wouldn't come back.

A minute passed in complete silence. Then, two. Three minutes passed before Steve managed to drag himself up onto the shore. A cool draft rushed out from the caves and winded itself around him. Chiller.

The fire was warm and crackling. It beckoned to him, pleading for Steve to lay down next to it. Come, it spoke, sleep. I'll keep you safe.

"Jesus, I've been in these fucking Games too long already," he said. His voice fell harsh against the rock solid walls. I'll just take a nap. One little nap, and then life will be fine. I can do this. I'll survive.

His eyes saw white dust as he fell back against the green-seaweed coated rocks, tasting red in his mouth. Navy blue eyes colored his thoughts. And finally, the dark, dark gray world began to spin.