Somewhere in her, the Career knows it will miss. It's a wild stab. If it does anything, it will be a glancing blow to the writhing creature beneath her, an attempt to do a little damage to slow her down. Wear her down cut by cut until she can go for the kill. It will be nothing, perhaps even fodder for a new kind of mockery. Twelve will laugh at how inefficient she is when she actually has her chance.
...But it finds soft flesh and buries deep...
She doesn't pull the knife out. Doesn't get up. Doesn't move.
For a moment, as she stares down at Katniss Everdeen, she looks lost. Young and confused and scared. Those green eyes ask the question she's been asked so many times today by this very girl.
Why?
This isn't what she wanted. It's not what she wants. A fight. That's what this is supposed to be. She didn't have an obvious advantage. It wasn't a hopeless struggle. Twelve could have toppled her if she'd tried. They both know it. She'd been so close to doing it.
Why?
Clove doesn't know what to do with confusion, though. She can't understand the answer that someone else might see. And since she can't be weak now, can't be lost, she twists the knife and wrenches it out before stabbing again. After a third. fourth. fifth. blow, she makes sure. She has to make sure.
She slashes the throat.
And stabs again.
The rain is pouring by now, and the blood is everywhere. On another stab -- how many now? she's lost count -- she feels the knife slipping from her hand. Blood and rain are making it impossible to hold on.
So she gets to her feet, even though she can't feel her legs. She manages two steps back and stares at what she's done. Not the first body she's left... but it's the messiest. Clove drops the hunting knife at her feet, takes another step back, turns, and runs.]
action;
Somewhere in her, the Career knows it will miss. It's a wild stab. If it does anything, it will be a glancing blow to the writhing creature beneath her, an attempt to do a little damage to slow her down. Wear her down cut by cut until she can go for the kill. It will be nothing, perhaps even fodder for a new kind of mockery. Twelve will laugh at how inefficient she is when she actually has her chance.
...But it finds soft flesh and buries deep...
She doesn't pull the knife out. Doesn't get up. Doesn't move.
For a moment, as she stares down at Katniss Everdeen, she looks lost. Young and confused and scared. Those green eyes ask the question she's been asked so many times today by this very girl.
Why?
This isn't what she wanted. It's not what she wants. A fight. That's what this is supposed to be. She didn't have an obvious advantage. It wasn't a hopeless struggle. Twelve could have toppled her if she'd tried. They both know it. She'd been so close to doing it.
Why?
Clove doesn't know what to do with confusion, though. She can't understand the answer that someone else might see. And since she can't be weak now, can't be lost, she twists the knife and wrenches it out before stabbing again. After a third. fourth. fifth. blow, she makes sure. She has to make sure.
She slashes the throat.
And stabs again.
The rain is pouring by now, and the blood is everywhere. On another stab -- how many now? she's lost count -- she feels the knife slipping from her hand. Blood and rain are making it impossible to hold on.
So she gets to her feet, even though she can't feel her legs. She manages two steps back and stares at what she's done. Not the first body she's left... but it's the messiest. Clove drops the hunting knife at her feet, takes another step back, turns, and runs.]