60 seconds. That's all I have. 60 seconds, then, the end. The platform beneath me rises and I close my eyes. The glass that encases me, traps me in an isolated prison, is cold and hard as the heart of the one that invented these dreadful Games. These Games where I will die.
I feel the platform beneath me come to a halt. It is only then that I open my eyes. There is an arid wasteland around me, scraggly trees just managing to get a purchase in the dry and unforgiving sand. They are wind-beaten and worn, and I am surprised that they are even alive. There is a great wind blowing, and my hair flies all over my face, obscuring my vision. Tightening the ribbon around my hair, I scan the area around me. There is little or no cover, but there are great big bits of rocks jutting out of the sand at random intervals. I feel so exposed out here. There is nowhere to hide. It will be over in no time. The sun reflects off the sand and into my eyes. There are 23 other children like me, ranging from 12 to 18 years. 23 poor children taken out of their homes and forced to take part in these games. 23 children, all out to kill me.
The glass platforms that we were raised into the arena on form a circle around a huge structure that dominates the whole landscape. It is the Cornucopia, the symbol of abundance in Panem. It is gold-coloured, or is supposed to be, at any rate. It has already been stained ochre red by the wind and the sand, one side a dull red, another gleaming gold. Its mouth overflows with tons of deadly weapons and vital supplies, without which, we would all die, as there doesn't seem to be any other sources of food or drink. Only then I notice that there is a countdown clock projected in the sky. 30 seconds left. 30 seconds until certain death.
The sky is a bright blue, seemingly too cheerful for what lies in wait for me. Red-stained clouds flit across the sky, and I feel a sense of peace, watching the clouds float towards the horizon, and for a short while, I can imagine I am back home again, on the green fields, under shady trees, picking the fruit and singing softly to myself, alone in the meadow. But then my trance is broken when my eyes drift back to the countdown. 10 seconds left now. Looking at the Cornucopia, I spot a knife, a bow and a pack that would serve my needs in the arena. I will do whatever it takes get those and be out of there as quick as I can, hopefully living more than a minute. The other players are tensing, getting ready for the dash to get supplies, and of course, for the bloodbath that follows. The countdown starts beeping as the seconds count down. My life flashes before my eyes. The people dear to me, the people I will never see again. Five, my sister waving to me in the tree-house. Four, the smell of fresh bread, for the first time in three weeks. Three, reaping a rich harvest in my home District, District 11. Two, saying goodbye to my parents, knowing I will never see them again. One, the grief-stricken look on my best friend's face, when I said my final goodbyes to him. Zero. The countdown is over. The time has come. I leap off the platform, and the area around me breaks into chaos. 24 people running as fast as they can towards the Cornucopia. 24 people eager to be the first there. 24 people determined to stay alive, at the cost of another. The wind is stronger now, as if providing a barrier to make sure I do not get there in time. I narrow my eyes and run faster. I will not let the wind stop me. Let the 65th Hunger Games begin.
