There were so many other names in the bowl.
How could she be picked?
Nobody volunteered to take her place, but it wasn't surprising. District 11 was just like 12. Winners were sparse, and any volunteer would be going to their certain death.
The male tribute is called, and once again, silence rolls around like tumbleweed.
He looks at her with pity in his eyes.
She looks at him with courage in her eyes.
Then they shake hands.
"Don't eat with your hands!" shrieks the male tribute's stylist.
She lunges across the table, reaching out to grab the lemon tart straight out of his hands.
"Honestly, did you ever learn about manners?"
The small tribute smiles and picks up her own lemon tart – no fork involved – and stuffs it into her mouth.
If she won, she could have all the lemon tarts she wanted.
The dress is itchy as she hurries to shrug it on.
Her stylist had wanted to try and tame that monster of hair on her head before having her line up for her interview.
The stylist gives up when there are five minutes left, simply tying a pretty blue bow into her hair and sending her off.
Nerves and anxiety is strong as she stands in line. Her fellow tribute pats her gently on the shoulder as the line inches forward.
When she's out there on stage, the interviewer smiles and laughs and does everything to have her open up.
She's asked about her odds; how she thinks she'll survive.
"I'm small compared to everyone else, and fast too. I can even climb high into the sky, so don't count me out."
Despite the interviewers word's of encouragement, she knows that he and possibly everyone else thinks she'll be dead in five minutes.
District 12's female tribute had caught her eye from the beginning.
She reminded the small tribute of home for some odd reason.
When she had the chance to form an alliance, she didn't bother thinking over it twice.
The Mockingjay pin was all she needed to decide.
They became close in such a short time, sharing food, laughter, and stories of their lives.
She even got to snuggle close to her when they slept that night.
It was probably her best night in the arena so far.
As she was making her way towards the third pile of wood, there was a net that caught her eye.
She was only twelve, so who would expect her to just walk away from it?
It snaps closed when she trips down onto it. She's trapped.
The signal echoes around the arena, and the second time she can hear her ally's whistle.
"KATNISS!" she screams out, thrashing about in her net.
What leaves her lips next is a sound so horrible, she didn't think it was possible to make.
The spear is imbedded into her abdomen and it hurts so, so badly.
Her ally comes in the nick of time, shooting the killer in the neck.
He falls instantly.
The young tribute is freed from the ropes and her head rests on her ally's lap.
She always knew she would die. Being the youngest had its disadvantages.
"Don't leave," she whispers.
And so her ally stays.
There is silence for a few moments before the dying girl speaks again, "Can you sing to me? Please?"
And so her ally sings.
As death comes to take her away, she feels warm.
Not cold, but warm.
She can almost smell the flowers that are protecting her, the shade of the large willow tree, and the grass tickling her skin.
Darkness does not take her away from the world, but a bright and peaceful light shining like the sun.
A/N: and now 710 words of failure! i'm on a roll!
