The Mating Run by Leeka

Inevitable

Not once in my entire existence am I tasked with the weighty responsibility of
rescuing another person. Ettie once tells me that when faced with a dire situation,
where both my life and someone else’s are in jeopardy, I typically prioritize my
own. safety. The realization that my own concerns take precedence over others
haunts. me, especially when it comes to the possibility of someone losing their
life.

Far from denying Ettie’s words, I actually find them to be quite shrewd. How
challenging would it be to rescue oneself from trouble without relying on
someone like me?

Despite everything, Ettie and I have to attend a brief first aid course in
preparation for the Mating Run. That's where I gain knowledge on the art of using
ointments and applying bandages effectively. Honestly, in my mind, I would only
utilize them once throughout the entire run. I can't keep track of how many times
I have to resort to that now; it has become a routine.

All I want now is for everything to come to an end.

I reach out with trembling hands, my fingers grazing the blood-stained hair of the
Hider, sending shivers down my spine. As I pull apart the strands, a tingling of
fear brushes against the edges of my awareness, revealing a scene that seems
like a hopeless challenge to survive.

In her skull, there is a gaping hole, a chilling sight.

I let out a piercing scream as I scramble backward, my whole body shaking
uncontrollably. Crawling back toward her takes a few more seconds, but instead
of fear, I am now filled with concern and a flicker of hope, as I see her chest
moving up and down.

“No, no, no!"

I mutter incoherently, my words a jumbled mess, filled with desperation.

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Inevitable

With a heart racing like a galloping horse, I plunge into action.

In the midst of the chaos, my limited knowledge of first aid provides a glimmer of
hope. With a frenzied determination, I push my hands against the Hider's chest,
feeling the rhythmic thumping of her heart. It is getting weaker and weaker.
“C'mon, breathe!”

My voice quivers as I plead, barely audible as a whisper. Tears blur my vision as I
desperately pump life into the Hider's motionless body, each compression an
anguished plea for her survival.

Her pulse, feeble but unyielding, is the tenuous link that binds her to the edge of
reality. As each second ticks away, the air grows heavy with an undeniable sense
of fear, battling against the flickering ember of hope within me.

I can't determine the extent of the wound on her head or how long it has been
there. Looking back, I wish I had been more attentive; maybe then we wouldn't
be in this mess.

“Stay with me.” Urgently, my voice carries a mix of despair and determination as I
urge. “You can’t let them win, come on!”

And as the seconds go by, the pulse gets weaker, like a dying fire slowly
disappearing. Panic is squeezing my chest, trying to put out the tiny flame of
hope that is still flickering.

Just when it seems like there is no sound at all, a blaring siren shatters the
silence.

The sound of its wail reverberates through the cave, creating a haunting
atmosphere that sends shivers down my spine. The Hider's pulse, the rhythm
that has been my lifeline, fades away into the inevitable.

The Hider is dead.

I never even got to know her name.

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Inevitable

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Collapsing beside the Hider’s lifeless form, I am overcome with uncontrollable so
bs that fill the cave’s hollow chambers with echoes.

I never really liked funerals.

I just didn’t get why they were necessary. If an individual held importance to me,
why would I choose to wait until their death to prioritize spending time with them,
as I pondered in my thoughts?

Funerals were like gatherings of memories lost and futures unrealized. I stood
there, the echoes of sadness reverberating through the air, my pretense of
concern crumbling under the weight of my apathy.

It was a masquerade, a performance of insincere mourners hiding behind
sorrowful facades.

When that person who passed away was alive, did anyone ever take a moment
to sit with them, to share a laugh or listen to their stories?

It was surreal, pretending that those memories flooding back meant anything,
while standing in front of a coffin. They did carry significance, but it was because
we disregarded them when they could have been shared.

Funerals were the culmination of a tragic story of neglect.

I couldn't bear the hypocrisy, which was why I chose not to attend funerals. I
wouldn't pretend that the person mattered to me in death, for they were nothing
more than a fleeting presence in the backdrop of my life's drama. Funerals
served as a way for the living to find solace and ease their guilt, rather than
benefiting the departed.

So, I'd rather remember them in my own way, with bittersweet nostalgia and
genuine connections. I'd silently carry the weight of my regret, sparing myself
from an orchestrated farewell,

In the end, attending a funeral felt like a cruel parody of the vibrant life that

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Inevitable

once thrived, and I refused to partake in such a charade.

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As the earth yields beneath my hands, I can’t help but repeat the haunting words
inside my head. While I have a strong dislike for funerals, my hate of death
surpasses it. With trembling hands, I dig a makeshift hole, each handful of soil.
symbolizing the heavy burden borne by the fallen, cascading into it.

The burial site is adorned with berries, a small and humble offering amidst the
dance of mortality, their vibrant colors standing out against the somber scene of
grief.

My tears fall uncontrollably, their silent descent blending with the soil beneath
me, as I grapple with the abrupt conclusion of a life intimately connected to my
own.

With each pat of the soil, I can feel the weight of my grief bear down upon me,
threatening to crush the flickering embers of hope within.

Carefully arranged, a pile of freshly turned earth is adorned with a display of
luscious berries. Plucked from the desolate beauty of our surroundings, leaves
and flowers are placed on the makeshift grave.

As I bow my head in a silent prayer, a chill runs down my spine as I feel the
presence of unseen eyes in the deepening shadows of the cave.

The Hider, now one with the soil that gently cradled her remains. Since I don’t
even know her name, I can't even give her burial place a proper label. I'm not
even sure if I should have buried her in the first place. I wonder if the staff of the
run would come here and retrieve her body.

I am unsure of my next move, but I can’t bear to leave her lifeless form behind in
the cave. The burial brings a heavy cloak of finality that settles around my
shoulders. Yet, as the final handful of soil lands, a blazing fury erupts inside me.
My face, streaked with tears, twists into an angry glare as I lock eyes with the
camera.

“Are you having fun watching this f ucking show?”

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Inevitable

Frustration consumes me, and my voice emerges as a grating rasp.

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Standing by the makeshift grave, I feel the cold silence of the forest, offering no
comfort.

I realize that dealing with grief is not something that comes naturally to me. Sure,
there are tears, but they're not the graceful, shimmering kind that one might see
in movies. No, mine are usually mixed up with frustration, a feeling that twists.
your stomach and fills you with an overwhelming urge to let out a scream of
frustration.

Crying isn't something I enjoy. To me, they seem like a trap, a space designed to
manipulate your emotions, but my innermost sentiments don’t conform to those
conventions. When someone’s gone, the sadness hits like a heavy weight on the
chest, but so does this anger, a burning fire that refuses to be extinguished,
fueled by the stubborn refusal to accept their absence.

It's strange because, yeah, tears stream down my face. I mean, I don’t even
know the Hider; I barely met her, but her presence has me shedding tears and
feeling anger on her behalf. I think the tears aren't because I'm sad they died, but
rather because I'm frustrated with them for allowing this entire endeavor to
succeed.

As if they had any say in the situation. It's unfortunate, but fairness is a rare
occurrence in life.

The weight of anger can burden the heart and cloud one’s judgment. It's like an
unpredictable energy that surprises you when you least anticipate it. One
moment you're fine, and the next, I'm sprinting through the forest, the sound of
my claws scraping against the rough bark echoing in the air.

Maybe it's because she was just my age, but her untimely death leaves a
lingering sense of disbelief. It's like banging my head against a wall. The void
within me grows, a constant reminder of what could've been, the nagging feeling
that I could've saved her had I been more observant.

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Inevitable:

It's frustrating to feel powerless in the face of the uncontrollable. Death, it's the
ultimate culmination of life. I scream, my voice piercing the air, but the cameras.
remain fixed on me, unmoved by my desperation. And that fills me with
frustration.

Filled with anger, I direct my frustration towards the universe, the people who left,
and occasionally, even myself for not taking more action.

As I enter the cave, the sound of my sob s echoes off the walls. It feels like a
sanctuary where I can freely express my frustration without any criticism. And
then there’s this guilt that slowly seeps into her conscience. I couldn't escape the
guilt that weighed on me for feeling anger instead of grief. The guilt weighs on
me for not conforming to societal expectations of expressing my innermost
thoughts. It's a perpetual struggle between the emotions I ought to have and the
emotions I truly experience.

Inside the cave, the air is thick and oppressive, while the walls echo with the
constant gaze of the cameras.

I reach my limit-the overpowering smell of sweat and fear, a constant reminder
that we are nothing but pawns in this sick gameshow. When I registered, I
expected something completely different. They all assure us that it won't get this
intense, this horrible, but the reality is far worse. Each and every one of them
cannot be trusted, as they are all known to be dishonest. Looking back, I should
have had the foresight to know better.

Fueled by a desperate need, I lunge toward the closest camera, anger boiling
within me like a fierce storm.

The sound of my nails scraping against the sturdy casing echoes in the air as my
hands claw at it, searching for any opening. However, it is relentless, taunting my
feeble efforts to break away from its unrelenting stare. I grab a nearby stick, its
rough bark scraping against my palm as I swing it like a weapon.

The camera, however, stands resolute, its lens fixed on the scene before it.
“Come on!"

I unleash a scream of pure frustration at the camera, my voice reverberating.
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“You think this is a dam n show? Is that what you want, huh?”

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Desperation guides my actions as I turn to the stones, my fingers trembling as I
reach out. Each impact echoes through the cave, creating a sense of unease, but
the camera stands undisturbed, serving as a symbol of the absurdity of our

sas situation.

“Why won't you break?” I mutter, my voice emerging as a raspy whisper. “Just let
us be.”

My eyes fill with tears, a potent blend of fury and vulnerability bubbling over.
Inside the cave, I feel the walls closing in on me, the weight of the cameras
becoming more suffocating with each futile attempt to break their unwavering
gaze.

“This isn't a d amn game! We're real, d amn it!”

And yet, the only response I receive is an eerie silence.

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