Happy 125th Hunger Games!

This lowlife maggot? Ohhhhhh, this is going to be exciting. I straighten up and shake his hand, gripping it tightly and releasing it only when I see a look of pain come over his eyes and he begins to wince. He seems nervous, but not overly so. Obviously trying to act tough, but I can see right through it and despise him even more for it. I turn away from him quietly and look at the crowd, surveying their emotions and reactions to the people on stage and my eyes wander over to the 15s section that I had just come from. No one volunteered for me... not really a shock; I wouldn’t really want them to anyways. Not when I have this guy as so called ‘competition’. Ray Bronson. I cringe every time I even think about him or hear his name, so being this close to him makes me want to hurl. I angrily brush my hand off on my dress and sit down while our lovely Princess Songbird over here is speaking to the crowd. The way she had gone all wide eyed on Ray was kind of disturbing. Maybe I was reading too much into it, but she definitely looked at him more than normal people would. I mean…he’s not that attractive. Especially not to me… So gross. I must have grimaced at the thought so I quickly composed myself and put on a smile for the cameras.

I glanced over at him again to see him fidgeting with his arms, not knowing where to place them. He was kind of odd, didn’t really fit in anywhere at school, which was good for me, because if he had been popular or special, it probably would’ve sent me over the edge. Looking at him now with a sort of lost look plastered on his face, I almost pitied him. Then I came back to reality. Of course I don’t pity him. I scowled but corrected instantly, and allowed my mind to wander instead of focusing on my fate.
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“Honey, do you want some toast?” I heard my father yell across the house to my mother, who was casually sitting next to the fireplace and knitting, not far enough away to warrant his booming voice. I never quite understood why she knits in her spare time, I would think she gets enough clothes making done in a day, seeing as how both of my parents work at the factory. Whatever she likes I suppose, her life. She smiles back at him, her face paler and thinner than normal, but otherwise very pretty in a wise sort of way.

“No honey, I don’t want to waste the last of our bread, save it for the kids, they need energy,” she winked up at me and I reluctantly trod down the stairs, unhappy that she had noticed me hiding.. okay.. maybe spying.. from behind the flimsy railing on our second floor. I loved to remain hidden, and watch others, learn their movements and learn about them just by their actions. Sometimes my friend Jill and I would sneak up to the top of our building after hours (which was not allowed, by punishment of a public whipping) and look out at the city, watching people hurry to their homes or casually stroll along the road, choosing to reach their destination at a leisurely pace. I would imagine different scenarios for them, what their lives were like, why they dressed and acted the way they did. Well, we did that before she stopped talking to me at least.

More than just analyzing regular people though, I was interested in learning about tributes in the Games. Every year 24 children went in, and only one came out alive. Yes, it was gruesome, but it had been a hobby of mine to try and pinpoint all of their strengths and weaknesses, what they did wrong, how they could have been different and ultimately succeeded even. People made the clumsiest mistakes; I would have to choke back laughter much of the time. One year, a girl was in a tundra terrain, not exactly a crowd favorite for the games, but she was following her handsome ally when all of the sudden he fell through the ice. Mistake one for him was obviously not noticing he was on thin ice. Her mistake was trying to save him. It would have been nearly impossible for her to pull him out and get him to a temperature where he wouldn’t freeze to death- just to die later anyways. Her second mistake was instead of instantly dropping and dispersing her body weight evenly on the ice, she drops to her knees, leaving her heavy backpack on, and leans forward to try and pull him out. How stupid. The ice obviously cracked under her and she tumbled into the water. Two cannons, two minutes. Two unfortunate tributes lost to the freezing depths of the arena.

In school, I wasn’t very popular, but the friends I had were dear to me and I cared about them. We would read all the books we could about the history of Panem, and especially the Games. We were so fascinated in fact, that we would fill our pastime with ‘pick the poisonous fruit’ games, or even make wooden swords and fight with them. There wasn’t a lot of excess wood, so we would just fashion something up with random household items and pretend they were swords. That was back when we were kids though; back when I actually had friends.
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This realization brought me back to my hatred of the boy sitting next to me, seemingly oblivious to the havoc that his family had wreaked on my own. As we stood to the crowd’s final cheer before we were ushered off to our holding rooms, I made a silent promise to myself that I would make him pay for what he did to us, to my mother, to me. I would make him pay, or die trying. There was no question about it. I came to terms with it just as the guard opened the door to the room I was to be staying in, and quickly shut it behind me.
Time for goodbyes.