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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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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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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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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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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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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