Chapter 18: Euthanasia

I felt so alone, so vulnerable. And not the way I felt when it was just Tyler and I, along with the rocking of the waves and a canopy of stars. With Tyler, I felt alone in the solitude that we shared. It was comfortable, wrapping around me comfortably but never suffocating. And now, the only comfort I had was preserved in those memories. But now it felt like I was in my underwater cave, the darkness choking and disorienting me, rendering me unable to find my air bubble, or even a cave wall or sand bar to push off on.Panic rising deep in my chest, I looked around for anything to end it now, to escape from the suffering I was guaranteed to endure. Flashes of my pale almost-siblings, tubes and liquids, doctor's words. "A deliberate intervention undertaken with the express intention of ending a life, to relieve intractable suffering." Was this my punishment for surviving the odds once? I understood that death was inevitable, and an early end wasn't difficult for me to comprehend. I had just never faced my own mortality in such a consuming way before. I brushed my fingertips across the pale crescent moon birthmark on my left calf, marking me as human. Sucking in a breath, I wrapped my fingers around my thin wrist and felt my pulse pushing urgently through layers of tan skin scattered with constellations of freckles.I slowly slid off of the City Hall couch and sunk into the plush carpet, running my palms across it. My hair fanned out around me, the pin loose and my twist unraveled. I was surrounded by crimson pooling around me like blood.
I bit my lip hard at the thought and returned to the couch. I flopped onto my back and slid off halfway, my ankles grazing the headrest and my head on the floor, my neck at an unnatural angle. I let the blood rush to my head and tried to forget the images of doll-like tributes, their fragile china faces broken and smashed in, skinny legs inverted at the knees and ankles. Crimson linings and empty eyes. Crumpled and suspended in time, like a doll abandoned during play.
I heard the door's edge brush against the thick carpet and I quickly rolled all the way off the couch and landed on my feet before the door was pushed all the way open. "Oh, Bay..." my mother's arms were around me before I saw her face. She clung to me as if she was the one that needed the strength. My father reached his long arms around the both of us and I pressed my face into his chest. I'd never get to see my potential brother or sister grow up or even know if they made it to birth. And I felt a hollowness in my bones as I realized that the cycle would continue without me.
"Mr. and Mrs. Mullingar." a voice called from the hallway. My mother unwrapped her arms from around my neck and grabbed my father's hand unsteadily. I closed my eyes and pressed my lips together. Gently, she placed a kiss on each of my eyelids and my father kissed my forehead, like they used to do when putting me to sleep. And they were doing exactly that, in another sense.

Chapter 17: Dread

I held Rain's hand tight amidst the confusion and crowds that the Reaping caused in District 10. You think from herding sheep and cows and chickens all our lives, we would be better at herding ourselves to our proper place in the town square, but that wasn't the case. I weaved my way easily through the shuffling crowds, no one eager to begin the reaping, everyone stalling. I knew Rain would follow just as easily behind be, latched onto my hand like a lifeline. I passed under the rope that encircled the large group of seventeen year old boys. We all were ashened face, all of us reviewing our poor odds and walking home after the reapings. I didn't know a single person my age who wasn't side up for terrasae. Even the riches of our district were too poor not to.
I stood beside the rope, Rain on the other side in the crowd. We kept holding hands, kept getting that sudden jolt of fear that made us check to see the other one was there. Gradually, we squeezed hands tighter and tigher as the mere sight of th other one there wasn't enough to bring of reassurance.
A man waddled up onto the stage. He was a fat as a cow ready for slaughter, maybe even more so, with a cow-patterned tuxedo and hair the shade of grass that poked up in an odd fashion, making it look even more like grass. Yes, if there was one escort who was exceedingly proud of their district, it was Philanthrop Sparkle, District 10's escort. But why wouldn't he be proud? He gorges himself on our meat almost twenty four-seven.
He cleared his throat into the microphone and announced in his squeaky voice that reminded me of the clucking of a spooked chicken.
"Happy, happy, happy Hunger Games, District 10! Who's ready to get out there and slaughter the competition?" He makes his annual joke that only he and some drunk old man in the back of the crowd laugh at.
He continues on with his pompous speech, endlessly making puns about our District being the livestock district. About halfway through, Rain glances at me as if to ask if this was it, if we only had to endure his dreary speech and that'll be it. I give my head a little shake. The worse hasn't even begun.
The mayor steps up and gives his required talk about why we have the Hunger Games. He's a slim man with oily black hair about his mid-30s. He really is nice. A family friend, even. I remember he used to come over for dinner quite often, and vice versa. For a mayor, he wasn't at all pompous or lofty. He was very down to earth and always apologetic before defensive. \
Before I know it, Philanthrop's hand is squeezing through the opening in one of the crystal balls and plucking out a boy's name. I don't even have time to hold me breath.
"Farren Black!" He rolls the 'r' in a fashion that makes my eye twitch a bit. And then the weight of his words hit me like a stampede of cattle.
My hand hurts something fierce. Rain's gripping it with all the force her little body has, which is quite a lot, and is screaming with tears in her eyes. I don't even hear her. I scoop her up and old her tightly with her head buried in my shoulder, crying, and walk up to the stage.
I set her down as the Peacekeepers block my way up the stage. She clings to my shirt, the obvious effort she's giving to stop crying visible on her face. I give her forehead one last kiss before mounting the stage. She stays put for a second before immediately trying to get to me again. She's blocked by the Peacekeepers who she fights and beats. I barely notice when some lady appears from the crowd and scoops her up as I did, taking her back into the confinement of the crowds. It's the mayor's wife.
I just then think of the mayor, and glance his way. There's pan on his face, obvious pain. He's not one to appear tough in front of the cameras. I feel completely numb. I know my expression reflects this. At least I'm not crying, I think. Until I feel the hot tears start to drop off my face onto the cold stage below.
Philanthrop is already trying to squeeze his meaty hand into the other crystal ball. Somehow, he manages to pluck another name from it.
"Hannah Cooper!" He squeaks.
My insides turn to ice. In fear and in hate. Hannah Cooper. The girl who continuously bullied Rain even though she is my age. The girl with the unforgiving eyes and venomous words. I want to sink a knife into her black heart here and now, but I'm without a weapon. Not for long, I think, and I shudder. They've already got me thinking in terms of the Games.
The audience gives a half-hearted applause. I'm guessing its because most of them are happy to see Hannah go, and that really no one knows me as more than the serious faced boy from the sheep farm.
I'm escorted away with Hannah. I try to catch a glance of Rain as the crowd disperses, but I don't see her at all. My stomach does a back-flip that threatens my breakfast to come back up. I fear I've seen my last of her. I vow not to let it be true.

Chapter 16: District 7

I exit the house after Sander and I wince from the bright sunlight shining in my eyes. As soon as my eyes adjust, I glance around for my father but I see him nowhere. He's not even around the usual crowd that hangs in the seedy bar in the unfavorable part of town. I give up and settle with the disappointment that pools in my stomach. I should have expected this.

Sander turns when he's right next to the roped-off area for the 18 year old females. His expression has hardened into the expression it was this morning. "Well, good luck. See you after, sweetheart." I try to give him a winning smile, but it's strained instead. He give me a nod, blond curls falling into his eyes and making him look more innocent.

He hobbles off into the sides with the other family members watching and I take my place next to Evelyn Larkspur, the mayor's daughter. She sends me a quick smile and I return it as our escort, Harmony Embers, steps up the stage with a bright smile. "Hello, my lovelies! Happy Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favor!" Her cotton candy hair looks too bright against the dull backdrop of our District Hall.

Harmony's customary "Ladies first!" rings through out the square. She sticks her hand into the glass bowl filled with names. My name is in there. My name could be chosen. And it is. "Lavinia Parrish!" It echoes in my head and I can't breath. Evelyn gives me a small push and I move forward to the stage, setting my face into a calm and collected front. Harmony looks at me in delight. "Well, aren't you the loveliest thing I've ever seen?" She cooes to me, as if I'm a baby. I send her a sweet smile, hoping she doesn't see past my front to my bubbling anger. I'm walking into my death and she thinks I'm adorable.

I turn and stand to the side of the stage, looking for Sander. I find him and my heart nearly breaks. He looks broken, like he's barely holding back from either crying or punching the guy next to him. That almost breaks me, but I turn to Harmony as she calls out the male tribute.

"Teague Mercer."

Chapter 16: Blaze

I worked through the crowd, hugging and casually chatting about the Reaping, even though my name was scattered multiple times throughout the clear glass ball onstage. Despite the fact that my name was on the clothing tags of people watching the Reapings excitedly in the Capitol, the prestige I built for myself was as hollow and transparent as a glass ball. It precariously balanced in merciless hands that seemed as if they only knew how to take. At any moment, the life that I've worked so hard for could shatter.

I rolled my neck and shoulders out and stretched out my arms. The fitted blazer I wore felt suddenly constricting. I ran my hand through my hair and tousled it with my usual shake-shake-smooth. Routines were the only thing keeping me from running away without looking back. I looked at the cluster of boy tribute papers and calculated the probability. Numbers and probability calmed me down too.

A bald man with toothpaste colored skin and long lavender eyelashes with jeweled tips took the stage. Cornelius Shaker, who I met at a gathering in the Capitol. He was wearing a double lapel white tuxedo, with zippers that showed off the black second layer. I smirked. A knockoff of my own idea.

"District 8. An...interesting place. Hopefully, I'll be here again, escorting my victor through the Victory Tour." His smooth voice was interrupted by a nervous chuckle. He squirmed and glanced at the stairs. "And our girl tribute is..."

He fumbled for the paper. I realized that his lips looked oddly pink against their mint backdrop.

"Fliss Burroughs" the name rolled off his tongue so effortlessly that I forgot that he basically sentenced her to death. A tall, willowy girl put a face to the name. She had long, perfectly straight hair that was a deep chocolate brown. She had fair, flawless skin that stretched across high cheekbones. Naturally pouty lips parted over straight white teeth. Her dark catlike eyes stared straight ahead without emotion. A girl that I could have easily scouted and coached in runway strut. The wasted potential made me bite the inside of my cheek.

"She looks determined. Time will only see how far this will take her." Cornelius said, accidental darkness in his smooth voice. He realized this, and quickly reached into the second glass ball.

"Loueh Tate." Confusion made his voice thick. He whipped his head up, and stared at me, the tips of his eyelashes gleaming. He probably thought I was from the Capitol. Reality made him flustered, and I hope he realized how people in the Districts watched their friends and family get Reaped.

All eyes on me, I walked confidently up to the stage, hoping the camera got a full-body shot, especially one of my bum. Hiding my emotions and thoughts was what I was best at, and I pretended this was another runway show. Everything existed in energy and light. I took my place next to Fliss, the two of us looking like models: poised, beautiful, envy-stirring. I put a charming, confident smirk to win over possible sponsors. Not like I needed them; they were probably all wearing my designs at the moment.

Chapter 15: The Interview

I sat in the plush chair on stage, the interviewer Reedmore Dolly sitting daintily on the edge of his, as if a poisonous spider was lounging near the back of the chair. He felt the tension of the District 13 tribute interview, knew that one wrong question, one misinterpretation could cost him his head. If only he knew how many times worse it would be for me if my tongue slipped, or if something came out a different way than it sounded in my head. And even though I should be as tense or more than Reedmore, I was very relaxed. Comfortable, even. I knew President Snow sat watching, just as relaxed as me. We were both confident in my ability to speak without having the wrong thing come out. Hopefully not over confident.
"So Nightshade, how does it feel to be the last girl tribute for District 13 in the Hunger Games?" Reedmore asked, the trapped look in his eyes masked by the millions of sparkles his smile caused his eyes.
My smile wasn't even forced though I felt my pent up rage boil near the surface. I gave a light laugh that slipped naturally from my lips. "To be honest, I little tense." I looked at the audience, the quirky people of the Capitol, and gave them a lopsided smile. "If I don't put on a good show, I don't think anyone will even remember me!" I make sure to exclude saying "remember District 13", in case its taken as a sign of rebellion-stirring.
The audience laughs heartily and comforts me with words of "But we already love you!" and "Forget you? Surely you jest!". It was true. Ever since I was nine and a half year old prisoner of the Capitol, I was, in their eyes, an adorable, quirky little girl with a side-splitting sense of humor that followed the President around like a clumsy toy poodle. To them, I had been an icon for five years now. And I fed off of the attention.
Reedmore seemed to relax at the good mood of the audience, and he continued with the questions, getting his vibe back. We chattered back and fourth about the Hunger Games, being a tribute, my training. I unconsciously avoided any details that wouldn't appeal to the Capitol audience, such as the taming of the mutts or my continuous nightmares. President Snow was smiling.
"How about that dress? Isn't it stunning?" Reedmore chimed. The audience went wild with agreement.
I shrugged as I laughed along. "You know, to be honest I'd rather be back in my normal clothes."
"What, a prison jumpsuit?" The words slipped from Reedmore. I don't think he even notice, but I knew the reality of the words would sink in soon.
I was quick in my response. "Are you joking? President Snow wouldn't allow me to wear anything unfashionable in his house!"
The camera panned to President Snow. He was chuckling and nodding. "It's true." The audience laughed. My line would be a little inside joke with all of the Capitol for weeks.
The interview was rapped up after a few more questions. I said my goodbyes to the audience and blew them some kisses. I knew when I watched the recap of my interview, I would be disgusted with myself. But for now, my overly dramatic interviews were just as much about survival as fighting in the arena.
I met back up was President Snow. We said nothing to one another as we drove home in a black car with blacked out windows. When we returned to his house, I went directly to my room to fix myself. I shut the door and pulled off my dress and scrubbed the makeup off my face. I soaked my hair in the shower and shook it dry like a dog. I changed back into my normal clothes, a white shirt and khaki pants, and stared at myself in the mirror. With my pale face, dripped wet hair, and tired features, I looked more like myself than ever. I crawled into bed with my hair still wet and instantly fell asleep.
I dreamt I was in the arena, running from some tribute who was after my blood. I tripped and stumbled, falling to the ground. I seconds, the tribute was upon me, knife raised to strike the killing blow. And that's when I got a good look at the face.
It was me.

Chapter 14: District 4

I felt the crackly static of the microphone before I heard it. It wrapped around my chest and tightened, taking my breath. It was beginning, but part of me kept screaming that this could be the end. The oddity with dark plum lips that curled up at the corners, with multicolored hair resembling parrot feathers, introduced herself as Lyric Adalynn. She tapped her long, pointed nails on the microphone, each echo rocking through me like a heartbeat. I squeezed Tyler's hand before ducking under the rope.

"I can feel the excitement in the air," Lyric trilled in her bizarre Capitol accent. "So let's start! Ladies first, as always." She crossed the stage with a dramatically rehearsed walk. In almost slow motion, she playfully covered her eyes and reached in, her talons arching and snagging a piece of paper. Every heart stopped as she pursed her dark lips and leaned into the microphone.

"Basil Mullingar." she cried out, a parrot among seagulls. I pushed all of my concentration into watching my feet, but it felt like I was tethered to my body, a soul floating along behind. Onstage, I felt vulnerable, like I was in front of a firing squad.

"And now, for our gentleman." She clasped her hands in front of her as best as she could with her barely functional hands that had probably never labored in her life. I thought of Tyler's hands, probably clenched in his curls. She reached into the other clear glass ball, and plucked out a name.

"Tyler Olive." her voice rang out loud and sharp, like a sword slicing through Tyler, his tattered mask finally splitting, if only for a second. Like only someone who's being doing it every day, he composed himself quickly and managed to place himself on stage without falling. I felt as if we were at the gallows.

Was this just a twisted nightmare induced by my mother's screams of grief muffled by a thin wall? Last miscarriage, I had a dream where Tyler was floating on his back, suspended by seaweed protectively looping around him and weaving through his curls. He was gently carried by the soft swaying of the ocean. I wasn't sure where I was or what form I existed in, but I watched my best friend in the safety of solitude and with the knowledge that nature held him from slipping under. And like reality, always slicing our lives up the middle when we've found our peace, a sleek, cruelly beautiful fin glided through the water. The shark swam like I did, without disturbing the water. "Tyler!" I cried out with my nonexistent voice. But it was hopeless anyways. And at the split second where dream and reality touched, I realized that I was the shark.

Right now, as we tried to avoid each other's eyes, I could feel his presence in the air. I could feel it like an instinct, like a shark felt it's pray. And right then, I realized that my existence insured his destruction, just like in my dream.

Chapter 13

It was a difficult thing for me to wake up. My head throbbed dully and I felt about as out of it as I could possibly be. I sat up slowly, hand going to my head and pushing the hair back out of my face. Hadn't I woken up already today? What was I doing back in bed? My thoughts were muddled and everything around me had this odd shine to it that I thought I had to be dreaming. I got out of bed hesitantly as if expecting myself to begin floating to the ceiling. I made careful little paces mover to my mirror, warmed by a slight little breeze. For some reason, I felt rather weak, but I couldn't quite work out why. I looked at myself in the mirror as I always did. I had an air of cleanliness I wasn't used to; a glow about my skin that made it seem so unnatural. Oh that's right, I thought. I'm dreaming. I poked curiously at my cheek. It was soft and much more plump than I recall. I looked down at what I was wearing: a light, springy dress with soft hues of yellows and greens and pinks. It was frilly and light and absolutely stunning. I allowed myself to gag. When would I, even in my right mind, wear something like this? Again, I remind myself its only a dream.
That's when I notice it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sigh of the thing, laying ever so daintily upon my small dresser that my mirror was perch above. I picked it up ever so cautiously, as if it might bite me. It was a rose. A blood-red, thornless, beautiful little rose. Funny, I think. I don't even like roses... Why would I be dreaming about them? Then again, I never dreamt I was in my room, a prisoner of the Capitol, with the cars zooming and honking on the streets below my balcony...
My blacony! Why hadn't I noticed before? The ajar door, the slight breeze in my room! I crept over and peaked outside. There stood President Snow, hands held behind his back in a formal-like fashion. I try to creep away when his voice makes me freeze.
"Glad to see you up and about finally, Thirteen. Your friend and I have missed you at mealtimes."
Slowly, I inch out onto the balcony and stand a wary pace behind him. "How long have I been asleep...?"
"Three days," he answers, as if the number were insignificant.
But it's not. Three days. The reaping's had begun.
"It's your big interview in a few hours." He finally looked at me. I allowed myself to look into his eyes, allow myself to get trapped, but for some reason, I'm not trapped, and his eyes shined dully with what I could only explain as pride.
I could tell he expected a response. "Oh...." was all I said, my voice a hushed murmur.
He took a gentle hold on my shoulders and straightened them. "Chin up, eyes bright." He instructed.
Those four simple words brought me back. To when I was little. A little girl in a strange world as a prisoner of the Capitol. President Snow had given me speaking lessons. Instructed me on stage performance. Taught me how to please a crowd like a small, mindless dog.
I lifted my chin and erased any emotion from my eyes, leaving them smiling.
"Big smiles." He said. I gave him a dazzling smile full of good humor and pleasure.
I saw the tiniest twitch of his mouth that was his equivalent to the expression on my face. I felt that pang again, heard that little voice. Did this man really despise me as much as I convinced myself he did? I tried to push away the thought that he might actually be fond of me, but it wouldn't stay subdued.
"They'll love you." He says as almost an afterthought as he gave me one last look over.
It's that little comment that I use to shove down the thought of him being fond of me. By "They'll love you", I know he means when I'm fighting for my life in the arena.
He turns and begins to escort me to my interview. It was customary for the President's favorite of the District 13 tributes for the year to sit and watch the reapings live with Reedmore Dolly, the puffy-lipped, comical-faced talk show host of the Hunger Games. I was almost glad it was me President Snow chose to have be interviewed. For as much as I accepted my fate in the Hunger Games, I wasn't about to go down without causing as much trouble as I could. I was almost positive I could get the Capitol audience to like me, to be one of their favorites. I was going to play these games like it was possible for me to win.
My dazzling smile became more of a dark, smug, scheming smirk. Let the games begin, resident Snow. Let the games begin.

Chapter 12: Haunted

I took concentrated, careful steps, even though I walked on these worn wooden planks every day. Head down, hair curtaining my face like a veil, I watched my feet and pretended my skin was see-through, muscles smoothly carrying me without the thought of where I was headed. It was like I was forced into marrying the darkness. I was walking down an aisle in my white dress, marriage to hopelessness waiting for me.

And I look almost pretty, with my hair brushed out in soft waves loosely framing my face. The front piece of my hair was twisted and pinned above my ear. My seafoam eyes were wide and sparkling, the sparse sun finding the gold flecks in my eyes and making my eyes bright. My eyelashes were dark and long, brushing my skin as I looked down. I wore a creme dress that I sewed seashells onto the hem of. My feet looked unnatural, suffocated into never-worn shoes. I looked as innocent as a doe, right before the arrow sank into it's heart.

I passed Tyler's boat and I couldn't help but think of all those nights looking up at the stars. If we died, where would those memories go. I bit my knuckle, trying to fight back tears. I reached where the worn planks transitioned into cobblestone. I kissed my parent's foreheads, never meeting their eyes. Sound didn't exist in the Reaping Square. I silently stepped into my section, 15. Slipping through tightly packed people without brushing against them, I stood on my tiptoes by the rope dividing me from the 14s. My heart twisted as I spotted Tyler's curls.

Our eyes met, and I watched the emotions cross his face. He reached under the rope and took my hand. He turned my hand over and traced delicate patterns on my palm

with his fingertips. I thought of his hands being cold and lifeless, no longer able to run through his curls when he was frustrated. Unable to make gesture wildly when he was excited, his hands unable to catch up with his words. Hands that could no longer wipe the tears from my eyes. Crystals of ice flowed through my veins, and I shivered, even though a warm salty breeze lazily weaved through the crowd. We were lined up like livestock ready for slaughter. Impulsively, I ducked under the rope and crashed myself into him.

"Please...", my voice was quiet and raspy, urgent. "Remember that I love you. They can not take that." He protectively wrapped his arms around me and I listened to his heartbeat, feeling his chest rising and falling with each shaky breath.

"Always." he whispered, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

Chapter 11

I woke up but didn't want to open my eyes. I tried to cling to the last wisps of my dream, but like smoke through my fingers they slipped away. Still I lay motionless with my eyes shut, trying to recall every detail of the face in my dreams, the olive skin, the sun-lightened hair, the stunning olive green eyes; I remembered how it looked down to the light sprinkling of freckles across his nose.There was something else, too. Some detail about him that was simply so unreal and so magical it couldn't possibly exist in anywhere but my dreams. Though I couldn't quite picture what it was. I crinkled my nose in concentration as I tried to remember more, but the details were fading fast. I sighed. It was useless to try any longer.
I opened my eyes and stared back at the white ceiling that poised above me, watching me intently. For some reason, this little detail disturbed me deeply and I ripped myself from the covers of my bed and took my footing on the plush white carpet. I surge of paranoia rattled through me and I wanted nothing more than to break something; everything. My hands grasped fervently at nothing, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling with the sensation of being watched. I whirled around to face the suspicious, plain wall and immediately felt threatened by the wall I had been facing previously, my gaze snapping towards it.
I stood absolutely still, waiting for something to happen, for some unseen force to try and choke the life out of me. But as an hour slowly passed and I was left unharmed, I forced myself to move on and start my day. I let out an uneven sigh that left me feeling hollow and drained. I walked over and looked myself hesitantly in the mirror. The dark circles around my eyes were slowly fading. I was finally sleeping now that the Hunger Games were near. Not because I was relaxed. Much the opposite. But because President Snow was slipping some sort of sleeping drug into my food. I was sure of it.
I washed my face, my brain still mulling over what details I had from my dream. I couldn't recall, now, what the significance of the boy was, or what he was doing, but thinking of him gave me a feeling of serenity. And safety. Brushing my bed-head into something more presentable, I walked over to my closet with my brush still working out the tangles and tried to decide what to wear. After a few minute of being unable to bring my mind to think of clothes, I decided to surprise President Snow with my choice of clothing.
Not long after, he knocked on my door. We were breakfasting later now. So that we'd rest up more. So that we looked less like zombies when the Games came. So that we'd provide more entertainment in the arena than being killed in our sleep as we caught up on much needed rest. I opened the door and greeted him with a broad smile that was very much out of character. He soon learned the reason as he gave me the once over. I was still in my pajamas.
I had never really looked at President Snow before. I've never really wanted to, afraid I would end up lost in his snake-like gaze and my soul trapped forever. But the bewildered expression on his face now was so comical in my eyes, I couldn't help but absorb every detail of this face, of this moment, into my memory. He has thick dark hair that he keeps slicked back by gels that make it shimmer. Already it has become more of a salt and pepper color; premature aging due to the stress of running Panem. His eyes are colorless, even at close proximity. They're cold and dead like a snakes. Vicious like a snakes. His jaw line is well pronounced and lines faintly show on his skin. I know soon he'll have himself altered to restore youth to his skin, keep his face looking like a ruler's should. For a man of such high stature, the rest of him doesn't quite seem to match up. He was small in stature and rather thin with no obvious muscle tone. The suits he wears, with their angular shape, hides this while still fitting her personality.
I take this in in a brief few moments, and then President Snow has made a full recovery.
"Good morning Thirteen. I trust you slept well." He acts as if it were just another day, taking my little rebellious act in stride. I follow him as I always do when he walked off to the dining room.
He only tolerates me because he knows how terrible my death will be, I think. A small voice suggests that maybe he was actually amused, that he enjoys the little charade we share. I glare unconsciously and try to bury the voice. It's the voice of a weakling.
As we enter the dining room, I halt dead in my tracks. Something isn't right. I can tell by the way that President Snow casually pours himself a cup of coffee, sits in his black leather armchair and looks at me, that he expected my reaction. That he's savoring this moment.
I swallow with great difficulty. The dining room is empty except for me, President Snow, and the array of food on the elongated table.
"Something wrong?" he asks after a much too prolonged space of silence.
I don't know what's wrong. But something's not right. Something's definitely wrong. I give a small nod.
"Your friend will be here soon. He needs his sleep." He adds, and I imagine his calculated expression as hiding a smug smile.
My stomach lurches and then explodes into butterflies that fly into my throat and choke off my voice. It takes a second for me to register why. Your friend. As in one friend.
I don't have time to compose myself when he walks in, the plain boy who is my same age. He doesn't halt like I did. He just woke up. He's too caught up in drowsiness to notice what's wrong.
Somehow, no matter how much I had braced myself for this moment, no matter how heartless and emotionless I had convinced myself I was, this simple moment completely shook me like a table, and the delicately balanced glass of my grip of coolness spilled over. Before I knew what was happening, I was running down the hall at the full out sprint.  Before I could gain control of my feet, tears were spilling out of my eyes that had been dry for years. Before I could wipe them away, I was running for the door and the escape from President Snow that waited outside. My hand grabbed the handle on the door. Without warning, I blacked out completely.

Chapter 10: Nothing to hide

The air is warm and the breeze is cool. The shelves above the counter are overflowing with guaze and recipes for tinctures and syrups. I wear a smock over my prettiest red dress, the pockets filled with herbs and small bottles of rubbing alcohol. It's a pretty sight. Almost like those pictures one hears about from the Capitol. But today is reaping day. Nothing is pretty.

And because it's reaping day, it's the first time this year my brother willingly comes to see me since the accident. He walks in with only the slightest limp, his one crutch holding up most of his weight from his ruined leg that is wrapped in gauze even now, months later. His eyes are hard and his scowl is ruining his handsome face. Even he is damaged by reaping day.

I say nothing as he hobbles over next to the counter where I'm making a salve for his leg. He takes a stool, sits to rest his leg and simply stares at me. And I know why. It's my last year. The last year I must wait in anticipation for my name not to get called. But Sander worries. He always does even if he pretends not to for my sake.

"How are you?" He's much too polite as I move the salve from the bowl into three smaller bowls, using my work as an excuse to ignore him. But he keeps staring at me so I respond.

"I'm fine." My voice is too high, to forced as I finally meet his eyes. He knows I'm lying, but he won't make me answer truthfully. Not today. Sander's eyes soften as he take one of the small bowls I offer him. "How's father?"

He shrugs, staring me down. Our father is not okay. Not since Sander's accident. Not since his wife was killed. Sander thinks I'm stupid for even asking. Maybe I am. I turn around to place the bowls on the shelves behind me as Sander starts talking.

"He was supposed to go out early to trade with the baker and the butcher. He hasn't been back for two hours. I bet he's off somewhere getting drunk, and he's going to leave us alone again until the reapings over today." His voice is causal, but there's a slight edge of venom that frightens me.

"Sander. You shouldn't say that. Father has had a hard time-" "We've all had a hard time! Don't even start with me Lavinia!" His quick change from normal volume to shouting is startling, but I've grown used to it in the past few months. It still upsets me though, and I can't help but let my bottom lip tremble in an effort not to cry.

Sander notices and he looks regretful at his outburst. "Hey. Why don't you go and make yourself look pretty? More so than usual, you know." He attempts a weak smile and tugs at my golden blonde hair. I give him a grateful smile and take off my apron before hanging it on the hook. I give him a quick kiss on the cheek before I run upstairs to the living flat.

I turn into the bathroom with our dusty little mirror and look into it. I see delicate bone structure with fair skin. Pale gold curls and chocolate brown eyes. I could be wearing a sack and I'd still be the prettiest girl in the District. But. But if I am reaped today that means nothing. These looks do not mask the nature of a scavenger, manipulator or murderer. I am too weak. Too kind-hearted and gentle for this. My beauty will be worthless unless it's hiding a monster behind it. I suppress tears once more as I grip the counter as if it's my lifeline.

My thoughts on reaping day are never cheerful.

Chapter 9: Loueh

With one hand on the door handle, I hesitated and gave myself a quick once-over, head to toe. I flicked my dark brown hair to the side, smoothing it out, and then decided to just tousle it. I winked my navy eyes, deciding that the left looked better. I smirked at myself, surprised at my sense of humor considering what waited for me. Reaping Day.

I straightened my long wine colored tie and tucked into the navy blazer I wore over a crisp white button down. My fitted tan pants that I rolled up at the ankles flattered my bum quite nicely. Imagine all the Capitol hearts that would break if I was reaped. Finally, I laced up my worn brown leather shoes and snapped my suspenders with my thumbs. I pushed down the fear that gnawed on my insides like the true Tate I am. I rolled my shoulders up and back while cracking my neck and swinging out my arms, my classic routine. Finally, I pushed open the door of my apartment in The Square, being met with all eyes on me. Leave it to Loueh to bring a small smile to the people's faces even on such a difficult day.

In District 8, I was much different than everyone else. In a city where everyone works minimum wage in dark, cold factories, I was more Capitol than District 8. I practically lived there, too.

At the higher-end factory I worked at, we supplied fabrics for the Capitol's basic clothing shops. Higher-ranked people would buy from boutiques that I only dreamed of. Every year, I eagerly watched the Capitol's designers smugly wow everyone with their Opening Ceremony designs. Maybe someone with status noticed my fine care and craftmanship with textiles and name- dropped me to their friends, because my factory got a lot of requests for W.2018, a.k.a. Loueh Tate.

One day I was messing around and I created a simple shift dress, killer if worn with confidence (and 6 inch heels). I snuck that in with an order of textiles, and I got hundreds of requests for it in this size/color/fabric/length/etc.

And here I am today, taking a train to the Capitol weekly, meeting and discussing with some of fashion's finest. I went above and beyond the shift (although it remains my most requested) and I am starting to see potential in everything. I hand-pick and coach my own models, some of whom are jealous of my confidence and my long, leggy strides.

But no amount of natural charm or dark, alluring eyelashes could prepare me for what today would bring.

Chapter 8: Him

“Cora!” the mysterious voice shouted.
His voice was the first thing that struck me. It was gentle and full of love. Yet it screamed strength and protection. I yearned to see the face behind this angelic voice. I turned ever so slowly to meet his eyes. The first sight of them sent a shiver through my body, as the sun brilliantly shined down on them. They were as blue as the ocean, but showed signs of sadness deep within. My eyes slowly drifted and zoomed out to show his whole face; which was soft and kind. It was sculpted with intricate detail making sure to not be overpowered by the short dark brown hair that was ruffled ever so slightly. He wore long, semi-loose khaki pants that had become darker in a few spots around the knees. This showed me that he worked in the fields. His shirt, royal blue in color, hugged to his chest and arms showing off the well-built body that hid underneath. His voice suddenly flashed me back to reality as he said my name again. The only reply I could come up with a combination of sounds and letters. He started laughing, and I did too.
“I’m Thomas,” he said as we stared at each other with locked eyes.
“Cora,” I replied in a nervous tone, “But obviously you knew that.” I gave him the best smile I could with my nerves on fire.
“You and I,” he said, “We have a lot in common. Both of our families are dead, and now we must run.”
I had been so focused on him that I didn’t even notice the smoke rising out of 5 houses, one of which was mine. I knew we didn’t have much time before the men found us, and by the look on Thomas’ face he was thinking the same thing.
“Quick, follow me. I have a secret underground tunnel built to take us to District 1. There’s no time to explain my plan now. You’ll just have to trust me,” he said in a voice that made me feel like everything in the world was going to be all right.
The strange thing was that I did trust him, and when he started running…so did I. We ran past a burning house hearing six bullets as we rushed by. I made sure not to look, but I could tell by the sound that it was
the same gun used on my family, an M-16. This thought sent a shiver through my body, but also helped lead me on. After a few minutes of running, we arrived at an old tree stump. It had been cut down a few years ago noticing by the mold and decay. The stump was huge though, most likely belonging to what once was a marvelous tree. Thomas pulled up on the stump by its once living roots. Underneath was a hole. It was the entrance to the tunnel Thomas had mentioned. I climbed in, Thomas came after me making
sure to reposition the stump back afterwards.
“Keep moving!” he yelled, and I did just that.
We moved through the tunnel like it was second nature. Soon enough we had reached what was another opening. Thomas opened the hatch and peered outside. He stepped out and gave me the cue to follow. This
was it…District 1. It was an amazing sight, or as amazing as any district could be in these times. The sky was blue, and there were a few small houses with a backdrop of a giant city. It was the Capital. Just the sight of it made me shiver.
I remembered my family, and what had happened to them. Anger ran through me. It was a good feeling that filled me with power and determination. From that moment on, I knew that it would be important to remember everything that I had seen and known because it would fill me with hate. It was a weapon I could use to my advantage. A weapon I could use for revenge, and that, was something no one could take away from me.
“Where are we going to?” I asked in a curious yet scared sounding voice.
“Just over past that house,” he replied pointing to an old shack that looked to be abandoned.
We crept farther until nearing some bushes that we used for cover. Quickly, we rushed into the house
and entered. The inside wasn’t nicely furnished, but it was better than nothing. The house had obviously been abandoned a while ago by the thick layer of dust that covered the house, and filled the air. This was a new home, a new life. I had to change; so I dyed my hair blonde and gave it a small trim. I stared at myself in the mirror and thought about what was to come. Thomas and I agreed changing our last names would be a smart idea. I become Cora Gray, and he became Thomas Hunt. This was who we were now. Tomorrow we would go get new ID's in the black market. For now though, we chose to go upstairs in hopes that it would be harder to spot us from the ground.
I sat on the bed; while Thomas took the floor. I tried sleeping but each time I shut my eyes nightmares came;so I decided sleep wasn’t that important for now. I peeked over at Thomas. He sat bolt upright, with eyes wide open.
“Couldn't sleep either?” I asked in a gentle, caring voice.
All he did was shake his head.
“Each time I shut my eyes nightmares appeared. I saw them all. Heard all their cries for help. Hearing my name over, and over again as they tried to save themselves.” He said to me in a voice almost like a whisper.
“What exactly happened to your family?” I asked in a caring voice much like his that would hopefully make him relax. I knew what power these thoughts could give him, the same power I felt it give me. I had to know
why so I could keep making him remembering; so I could keep him from feeling like there was no purpose anymore. I had a feeling Thomas was going to play an important in my life, but I just wasn't sure how yet.
“Well, that’s a story in its own.” He replied.
I smiled, and then sat upright by the edge of the old bed. “Time is the one thing I happen to have right now,” I said.
“Then I’ll start from the beginning,” he replied gulping in between the two sentences, “When it all happened.”

Chapter 7: May the odds....

It was a glorious day. A fiery red sunset rose over the horizon, tainting everything a rusty shade. The rays spilled in through the window and gave me a blood-lust kind of look. I snarled at myself in the mirror, flexing my muscles. I pretended to smash in the skull of an invisible someone while simultaneously stabbing another behind me. My face continued to change in the mirror. A fierce glare. A handsome smirk. A patronizing stare. A maniacal, knowing grin. A smug yet winning smile; the one I would use when I would mount the stage as District 2's boy tribute.
I could hear it now, my name rolling regally off the lips of Winston Beauty like a magic spell as I mount the stage. I turn back to my mirror, putting on a viciously bold face.
"I volunteer!" I say, making sure my voice is clear and bold and steady, without a hint of urgency, and I continue o practice to make sure I'll be the one to say those words first and the fastest.
Come evening, I would be on my way to the Capitol, to the Hunger Games, to fame and fortune.
I saw my little brother appear in the mirror behind me.
"Warrick? Can I please please please help you prepare?"
I gave him my mounting-the-stage-and-waving-to-my-nation-wide-audience smile. "Of course, Vahe." I say. He's my biggest fan. When I win the Hunger Games and move into Victor's Village, I'm going to let him live with me. Then when he get's older and volunteers, we'll be neighbors.
Vahe wriggles with pride and excitement. "O-Okay! Wh-What do I do?"
"Alright.... let's see..... how about you name anything that could be in the arena and I'll say how to deal with it."
"Snakes!"
"Kill them for venom."
"A big war hammer!"
"Not the best weapon because of weight, but great for taking down large animals or wounded prey." And when I say prey, I mean other tributes.
We continue until it's time to go to the town square for the reaping.
I can't wait.

Chapter 6

I let myself go and left the conscious world entirely. I was floating somewhere. Somewhere peaceful. My dad was laughing somewhere, and I heard another voice laughing with him. My voice. Their voices were faint and muffled, as if I were only hearing the echos of their words.
"Look Nightshade, it's you!" My father's voice was all humor, like I remember it always being.
I heard my own giggle. "No its not Daddy! That's a flower!"
"Oh but this is a special flower," his voice softened into a confidential whisper. "This is a nightshade."
I could picture my pale blue eyes widening in wonder. "Nightshade..."
"It's so beautiful, isn't it? But guess what?" His tone is so convincingly urgent I can see myself leaning forward to absorb every word.
"What Daddy..?" I ask, matching his whisper.
"This pretty little flower can be made into the deadliest poison."
I can hear myself breath out in wonder.
"Remember that sweetheart..."
My false reality is shattered at the loud sucking sound of the vent above me. The tracker jackers buzzing around me are sucked out of the room. Not a single sting was left on me. I look over at President Snow through the glass walls. This is how I defy him, with my ability to tame his muttations. I can get Jabberjays not to mimic me. Have tacker jackers all around me and never get a single sting. Even his most vicious of muttations that looked like they had been through a paper shredder simply sat there growling the whole time, despite the meat hung around my neck. I smirked as I remembered that time. I had fed the ugly things the meat when my trial was up and even scratched one behind what I was pretty sure were the ears.
The door opens with a whoosh of the airlocks and I step out, the smirk still playing on my lips. President Snow's face is amused. In a way that wants me to run and hide.
"You certainly have talent." He says. But I can tell he wants to say: 'Wait to you see the way I have planned for you to die'.
I don't know, maybe he does mean it when he says I have talent. In the five years I've spent his prisoner, he has seem genuinely impressed with my way with his muttations. I want to think that I hold a special spot somewhere in his heart; a spot that isn't blacked and evil. The way he watches intently every last minute of my trials with his mutts. The hint of reluctance when he talks about how this Hunger Games will be the end of me and District 13. I mentally punch myself. No! I say. Don't fall for it! Don't let him into your head!
He dismisses me to go back to my room. I do, taking extra care not to rush. When I reach my room, I shut the door and lock it. I take a hot shower to try rid myself of the goosebumps on my arms and the chill down my spine. After I wash my skin raw, I wrap myself in a towl and leave my hair wet. Leaving a trail of water, I walk onto my balcony. I know that the rest of the Capitol can't see me. Some sort of technology blocks the outside's view of me. I watch the sun set with apprehension. I don't want this day to end. I don't want the last of the fiery rays of the sun to melt below the horizon. I didn't want tomorrow to ever come. My stomach lurched as the sun gave one last twinkle, one little mocking twinkle, before disappearing and leaving twilight behind.
Tomorrow was the official start of the 5th Hunger Games.

Chapter Five

In a world so artificial, who would think that something so raw, so beautiful as stars would be allowed to exist? I let the waves rock me as I grabbed at handfuls of my curly hair. Something concrete. It bothered me a bit how much reassurance I needed to know that this was reality. I let out a choked laugh. A harsh, bitter sound that resonated from somewhere deeper than my body.

I laid on my back in my family's small wooden boat, on a worn gray tarp. Sometimes the silence between my parents was louder than their screaming could be. I propped myself up on my elbows, watching the silhouettes move harshly, and then collide. A wave of nausea hitting me, I rolled over and put my face in my hands, pushing at my eyes with the heels of my hands.

The boat didn't shift even a little bit, but I knew she was there.

"Hey, Tyler." I could hear the smile in her voice, even in the darkness.

"Basil." I let out an almost imperceptible sigh of relief. She was the only steadiness in my fragile life. She laid down on her back next to me, and I cleared my mind and traced patterns in the stars.

"The parents?" she asked, and the way she said it, I could tell she knew the answer.

"The parents." I said, my voice cutting through the thick, salty air.

"Mom's pregnant. Again." she said, and I knew what she meant by that.

"Oh...", I said, knowing the worn-out cycle. Mrs. Mullingar got pregnant, had a miscarriage, crumbled, gained hope through another pregnancy, and fell even harder than before.

We sighed, as if it was possible to exhale away the cracks and inhale a way to fix the hurt.

"How would you feel if time stopped, and all we accomplished up to this point was what we were remembered by?" I asked, and her silence answered the question for both of us.

I knew her well enough to feel the way she sucked in her stomach, holding her breath for an impossibly long time.

In that small boat, next to her, I felt her shaking breaths as she exhaled. She had so much sadness saturated in such a small body.

"I'm sorry." she turned to face me, and I could see her eyes flash in the starlight.

"For what?"

"For dumping all my sadness on you. You shouldn't have to deal with this. To deal with me." She sucked in a slow breath again.

I found her hand in the darkness. "Don't...don't think that I'd ever want you to put on a mask around me. This is the only place where I don't have to be tough." My voice broke, and I turned my face to the stars again.

She rubbed her thumb in soothing circles on the back of my hand. And it was true. Here in this patched up wooden boat, wrapped in the thick sea air, and suffocated by what we wanted to forget, this is where all of our layers fall away. This is where we exist in pure emotion.

Chapter Four: Basil

Head-first, eyes-open, I fearlessly took a running dive off the pier and into crystal blue. My long blonde waves floated lazily around me like seaweed. As I lithely propelled myself through fisher's nets and tangles of aquatic plants, I looked out for fishing hooks. Light shone on the water's surface and cast dancing patterns on my skin. My subconscious propelled me to a curtain of seaweed with tiny, translucent fish weaving in and out. Glancing over my shoulder, I streamlined my body and shimmied through a tunnel of rocks and into my underwater cave.

Forgetting that I was human and not a fish, the back of my mind registered that my lungs were dully burning. I treaded water and took my time bobbing in the air pocket. Water droplets gathered on my eyelashes and I wiped the saltwater away with the back of my hand. My heavy breaths echoed on the smooth walls of the small cave and bounced back almost musically.

I slipped back down, submerging myself in the silky black. I felt around for clusters of oysters in the cool sand and slipped them into the rope tie belting my tunic. Satisfied with how many I had collected, I pushed back through the seaweed and re-emerged, straight into a school of fish. I couldn't help but laugh, bubbles of precious air floating upwards. Slightly heavier from the shells, I kicked through the water and made a clean slice through the surface, bobbing gently in the waves. I floated on my back in the general direction of the dock, my hair fanning out around me. I patted my belt, checking my inventory of shells and predicting the probability of them all containing pearls. The sun was warm on my eyelids and I smiled to myself, feeling like I would be lucky today.

I gracefully climbed out of the water and wrung out my long, tangled hair. Salt-water streamed down my body and onto the already-soaked, sun-lightened wood beneath my bare feet. I self-consciously pulled my soaked, clingy tunic away from my body. I wiggled the oysters out of their nestling place in the curve of my waist and threw them into a rectangular wire crate with a frayed rope handle. Shifting my balance, I hoisted it onto my shoulder and swept my hair to one side of my neck. I absentmindedly untied my rope belt and retied it in various complex knots on my way home.

"Hey Bay," my mom smiled at me, using her favorite nickname for Basil. I set down the crate by the door to lightly and quickly crossed over to her. I kissed her on the cheek, carefully curving myself away so I wouldn't drip onto her.

"You look worn out" she gently stroked my salt-crusted cheek and I nodded, pressing my lips together.

Once in my room, I stripped off my tunic and draped it across the window frame to dry. In front of the mirror, I tilted my head and studied myself. My frame was small and slight, aerodynamic and able to do whatever and get wherever. My collarbone was sharp and defined, and I traced my eyes over the curve of it. My ribcage bumped beneath my skin and I pressed my fingertips to my heart and counted the beats in a raspy whisper. A slightly hollow but taut stomach transitioned into jutting hipbones. My knees were knobby and raw from sand, my feet narrow with tough soles from being barefoot all the time.

I stepped closer and tucked a loose piece of sun-lightened hair behind my ear. My long blonde waves normally fell to my belly button, but now my hair was tangled and knotted. My skin was tan from countless hours of sun, and the bridge of my nose and my shoulders were sprinkled with freckles. Now, my face was blotchy from salt water. My nose sloped slightly and the tip was peeling a little. I stared into my seafoam green eyes and leaned closer, pressing my nose to the mirror, so I could see the scattered gold flecks that stood out especially when my eyes were red from saltwater or from crying. My dark eyelashes were clumped and wet. I pulled back and traced the faint scar on my jaw with my pruny fingertips. I shifted my weight and let out a small sigh, before twisting my hair high onto my head and securing it with a length of twine. I slipped another tunic over my head and crawled under my light sheets, pulling them over my head despite the humidity. When I closed my eyes, I dreamt that I was swimming in phosphorescence, with no distinction between my body and the water.

Chapter 3: District 10

I let out a shaky breath that puffed a cloud of steam from my mouth. The freezing rain poured down in silent icy sheets and the open meadow left me with no protection from it. I pulled my sodden coat tighter around me to try and conserve some left over warmth, but it was useless. My hands were clamped over my staff in a frozen vice, and the blood circulated painfully slow to them. I tried to take my mind off the freezing cold by watching the sheep graze the soggy grass. How they could stand this sort of weather, I will never know. I lean my shepherd's staff against my shoulder as I bring my hand to my mouth and try to breath some life back into them. The warmth was short in living.
Its not long before the sound of footsteps sloshing and squelching through the meadow greats my ears. I let out a sigh that makes another cloud. The footsteps stop as my relief comes over and I hand him the staff. My shift is over.
"Try not to let them graze for much longer or you'll freeze to death!" Its an attempt at humor but the words hit too close to reality and I'm too exhausted to really feed the humor into them. My relief gives a tight nod and I know he takes the joke seriously. Oh well. No big a deal.
I trudge my way back to the town. Its deserted. Not a single soul in District 10 would dare be outside in this weather. Well, besides us unlucky souls who have to watch their livestock. the only sound in the silent rain is the steady thumps of the butchers at work. I make my way home, my pace quickening at the thought of a hot meal and a warm fire.
As I open the door of the small shack and pull the thing shut, I'm immediately tackled by my little sister. This is Rain.
"I thought you'd be an icicle by now, Farren!" She said as she lets go and looks at herself. She's now soak and wet just from hugging me.
"Get over to the fire and dry off this instant..!" I try to be stern but I'm simply too amused at the face she pulls that I'm not too convincing.
I hang up my coat to dry and join her over by the fire. She's made us both a mug of warm tea and I'm grateful as I wrap my numb hands around it and take a sip of the sweet liquid.
It's just us, Rain and me. The rest of our family is gone. We had an older brother, Kane, but he was killed in the third Hunger Games. It took a heavy toll on all of it. The grief killed my mother and my father had long been dead from a stampede incident. As much as I wanted to simply curl up and grieve for my brother and my mom when they died, it was Rain he kept me from doing so. I had to take care of her. Lucky for us, a good friend of my family, Lurch Gibstale, go me a job at the sheep farm. He lied about my age, said I was 19, but it wasn't too hard to believe. I was huge for my age, a towering 6 foot 7 and build like an ox, my mother used to say. Even when Kane and I were little, everyone who didn't know us thought I was older. I guess my attitude didn't help me look younger either. I was always stern and serious-faced, even as a baby.  So I worked a job full time to feed my sister and me starting at the age of 16. I was 17 now, nearly 18. Rain was only nine. I would turn 18 the day after the reaping, in exactly a week.
Once the cold had been lifted from my body, I got up and started preparing some dinner. It was very late, but I hadn't eaten in hours and I knew Rain could use a little more meat on her bones. The cupboard wasn't exactly full, but it had enough to keep us going for a week or so. When it would be nearly empty, I would receive my pay and be able to restock it again. I hated to leave Rain without food, being gone most of the day six days a week. She was a tough one, Rain, able to fend for herself and never one to give in. It got her in trouble on several occasions, all of which I had to bail her from, but ever since our mother died, she's been careful and conservative about where she uses her spunk and quick tongue.
 made up a simple meal of bread with some meat spread and gave Rain the bigger piece. She dug into it ravenously, but just to make me smile. That's why most all the people of District 10 love Rain. She always knows how to bring a smile to your face when you need it most. She slowed her pace and the two of us ate in silence. She leaned on me when she was finished, staring at the window and watching the rain wash over it. I joined her. Before the hour was over, Rain was fast asleep.
I picked her up and carried her to bed and crawled in beside her, she nuzzled against me and I help her protectively close. As exhausted as I was, sleep was hard in coming to me. My stomach gave a churn as I thought of the reaping that was only seven days away. I lost count of how many times me name would be in that ball. I fell asleep only by remembering Rain was safe. She wasn't old enough to be entered. No matter what happened, Rain would be okay.
I dreamt I was gone, and that Rain was left homeless and alone, starving in the freezing cold.

Chapter 2: The Beginning

Eleven. To most it’s just a number, but to me it’s everything. I was 14 when it happened. It was the day President Snow had my family slaughtered… the day I’ll never forget. I close my
eyes and let the memories flow through me.

I remembered what father told me, and where to hide when they
came. Suddenly, the door crashed open and men wearing black suits flooded the
house with M16s specially designed for Capital use only. My father had been
prepared, we all were. I was young at the time, a mere ten years old. All my family pulled
out weapons to defend themselves. My older brother had his bow, my father his
gun, and my mother grabbed the knife from our secret compartment. That just
leaves me now. My weapon, well mine was special and unlike anyone else’s. Mine
was knowledge. The knowledge of what had caused my father to be such a wanted
man. Knowledge of the things he had been doing down in our basement. It carried
a heavy burden, for good and bad. At this moment I doubted myself, that I was
worthy of knowing such information. Questions rang through my head. What if I
got captured? I’m not strong enough to survive being tortured. Everything my
father did, everything he risked trying to gather. It all changed when he
shouted, “RUN CORA!” and I did, to the very place I always kept on my mind in
preparation for this day. My body jolted forward in one swift move, but my
heart screamed stay. I had to run though, for my life, and for the sake of my
family. That I would one-day carry on what they had started.

The basement was a dark and eerie place whenever I went down, but father’s training had prepared me well for this. Every day he gave me the signal, without warning; which meant
run to the spot. I had done it from every single square inch of the house so
that now, I knew it by heart. For most finding my hiding spot was almost
impossible, mostly because I had designed it specifically for myself. The brick
walls had been built so that only my hand could fit through between two bricks
to reach the key. The door was only big enough for me to crawl through on hands
and knees. No soldier of the Capital’s would be able to make it through. That
is unless they use little girls as soldiers. I quickly moved to the wall
that had three old tables propped up against it. Only one of them wasn’t a
table, it was a door. It was hard to tell that the one far right would have
been a door. It had stains from the years of use, and the oak finish had worn
off. On the left side of the table was one specific brick that I pushed ever so
slightly in until I could reach the key. Then I moved to another exactly seven
bricks to the right, and seven bricks up. I had designed it that way because
seven was a very unlikely number to choose making it harder for others to find.
I easily found the brick, and pushed it in just enough to find the key hole on
the left side. There I inserted the old key. The table and wall opened as
silently as a fox hunting its prey. I slid in and shut the door after me.

The tunnel was dark, and the dirt had become moist. I put on the jacket hanging on a hook, and kept crawling though, until I reached the exit hatch. Slowly I opened it up, and peeked out. No one in sight. I hurdled myself over the hatch; which was disguised as a memorial to those
killed during a district 8 bombing years ago. I pulled the hood of my jacket
over to cover my head, and walked sloping over with my head down. Surely, no
one would notice me. Not even my friends…but someone did.

Chapter 1

I couldn't have slept if I tried. It was much easier to watch the painfully slow progression of the moon through the night sky than it was to try and evoke sleep upon myself. The soft rays of the pre-sunrise made the candy colors and sharp hues of the Capitol seem almost natural. A soft breeze met me on the balcony and gently whispered its good mornings. It still carried the bite of night's chill, but I was too numb to feel it. Numb was good.

It wouldn't be long before I would be sought out. Called to breakfast. Made to participate in careless conversation. Soon my routine life as a prisoner would begin its cycle. I sighed. I couldn't stop it from beginning.

Turning from my view of the Capitol, I headed back into my room. Plain. White walls. Wreaking of artificiality. This is where I spent my waking hours. I looked at myself in the mirror as I tried to tame my windswept hair with a brush. Pale skin, blotched with freckles, jutting cheek bones and nearly sunken cheeks; this is what I knew as my face. A normal look. It was not healthy, nor unhealthy; not beautiful, nor ugly. My hair, rich brown with hints of blonde and red, draped limply to just below my chin, shadowing the sharp lines that constructed my face. Everything about me was plain and unexciting. Except my eyes. My eyes were stunning. Bright blue. Clear as the summer sky. Shinning with life and smoldering with a deep-set hate and lust for revenge. Not hunger or exhaustion or defeat could dull them. My father's eyes.

A sharp succession of knocks rapt on my door. It snapped me from my thoughts, my daily evaluation of myself. I opened it. There was President Snow, sporting his wispy smile that hinted of cruel humor and eyes that could see right through you.

"Morning Thirteen," he said as he always did in his voice that lacked emotion but couldn't be called monotone. He gave a chuckle that lacked good humor as he began walking off, expecting me to follow.

I did. Thirteen; it was his pet name for me. The thirteenth prisoner from District 13. I was reminded of that every time he said my nickname. Reminded of the explosions. Of the running. Of the panic. Reminded of what the Capitol did to my home, my friends. To my father who was the reason I hadn't died with them. That nickname was what kept the rebellion burning in my eyes.

We emerged into a room with a table spread with food and a huge window spanning the whole wall giving us a view of the whole city. Two boys already sat at the table. These were my fellow prisoners. Together, we were the entire surviving population of District 13.

I sat at my place and began to fill my plate. I took a few handfuls of a strange orange fruit that I knew had a sweet and salty taste to it and snatched a full loaf of light airy bread for my own. President Snow sat on a black leather armchair in the corner of the room, sipping a cup of some dark, steamy liquid. I eyed him warily as I ate, trying not to show how hungry was, trying to keep from showing weakness. I couldn't help but feel uneasy with him watching me; or, us, I should say. No matter how many years I had spent the object of his gaze, I couldn't get over the shivers it causes me. He was like a snake. I never knew when he would strike with fangs gleaming.

I avoided talking with the other two prisoners, both boys. I knew what was going to happen. We all knew. It was easy to deduce. It had happened many times before. The Hunger Games were approaching fast. There could only be two tributes from District 13. And there couldn't be only a single tribute for the next Hunger Games. One of the two boys weren't going to see the start of this Hunger Games. I tried to decide who it was going to be. So I would be expecting it. So it wouldn't affect my performance in the Hunger Games. So I wouldn't give President Snow the satisfaction of seeing the mortified surprise on my face when he announces the made-up reason for the prisoner's death, 

I size up the two boys. One's about my age. Tall, healthy, though nothing impressive. Not like the other one. The other boy has muscles that make his shirt tight across his arms and chest. He towers above us and President Snow. But for his intimidating appearance, he's not at all intimidating. He's lost his fire. His shoulders have that defeated slump about them. Back when I was younger, when we all lived happily back in District 13, I would feel sympathy for someone who carried that air of defeat. But I'm no longer who I was in District 13. I feel no pity, no sympathy, and no shame in out-showing him. My imprisonment hadn't smoothed out the edges in my personality. It had sharpened them into a deadly weapon. In a sense, I had become amoral. But I hoped not. I believed that the girl I was back in District 13 is now buried beneath a more vicious person, someone more intent of survival and self-preservation than the silly things I cared about as a child.

President Snow's voice broke into my thoughts, bringing me back to the breakfast table and my sad life.

"Alright you three. I expected you back here are one o' clock sharp. Don't be late." His tone seems casual, but his eyes reflect the deathly warning in his words. Don't be late. If you're late, you won't see the next sunrise. Or the next one. Or the one after that. You get my drift.

The three of us stand simultaneously. This seems to amuse President Snow to no end, in a cruel, viscious, cause-you-to-shiver sort of way. I leave quickly. We all do. I can't wait to slip into the city, into the crowds. Just to disappear from President Snow's snake-like gaze for one minute. I shudder a bit. Somehow, I feel like that's impossible to do.