Welcome to a series of oneshots, each one in the perspective of a tribute from the Capitol.
I sob into my filthy palms, my blue jacket frosty. My blonde curls hang in grease, volume and style completely gone. It's so strange to see my natural hair; it's usually in a fun wig.
It's also strange to see Capitol children in a Hunger Games arena; they're usually sitting back to watch the fun. But it's no longer fun for me. I've witnessed four brutal, gruesome deaths. Just a year ago, I was screaming at the television screen, "You idiot! Don't run, fight!" I now understand the struggles.
These godforsaken mountains are making me sick. Just the other day, I found the frozen-stiff corpse of Lilac LeBeou in a small crevice in the ice. Her blank violet eyes were equally as terrifying as the iced tears on her blue cheeks. I've seen four other tributes get slaughtered, and I quickly evacuated the area. I've never been around long enough to completely comprehend the state of their bodies until Lilac.
I look about to the vast mass of mountains before me. A blaze flickers on a mountain far from mine. Another tribute has given in to the frigid cold. A peak to my left has bloody snow scattered all around. I cringe at the site of Victoria Vesualla's end. She was the third murder I've spectated; I still have nightmares of Xander Johansen slashing Victoria's stomach open.
I had always viewed the Games as entertainment, the victors as gods, and the blood and tears as play. That's long gone. With nine of us left, fifteen families will never see their beloved child again. I regret cheering for these deaths. I regret opposing the districts. I regret falling for the Capitol's glittery facade.
So many tributes this year had came in prissy and bratty, just like a Capitol child would behave after a lifetime of riches. In the training center, some had still made sure to put together a fashionable outfit. At the camoflage station, they exclaimed, "That's not pink. That's fuschia!"
The blare of a cannon arrests my thoughts. A mountain far across is now stained crimson. A hovercraft arrives in the distance and collects the deceased. That's not fire engine red. That's blood red.