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Haymitch was never the only living victor of the Hunger Games from District 12. Three years ago I won. I was only twelve. The youngest victor ever to win the Hunger Games. My name is Cardiff Sarasate. And this is the story of how I survived three Hunger Games.

I was an orphan who had lost all of her family in the same mining accident that Katniss and Gale lost their fathers in. I had nothing left to live for. So I decided that on the first year my name was to be put into the pool of tributes I would volunteer in whoever's place. I wanted to die. Until somebody gave me a reason to want to live.

We marched in single file as the Reaping was about to take place. I was nobody special. I was just some half-starved orphan. I blended in with all of the other kids who had grown up in the Seam - black hair and olive toned complexions - except for one thing. I had green eyes instead of grey.

My physique was that of an athletic girl. I was angular in the hips and shoulders, tight and flat in my abdomen, and had long-limbs. Even though I was not exceptionally attractive, I still had great symmetry in my face and a well balanced body. Standing at five feet, four inches gave me the appearance of someone much older.

I was never one to speak much. I only spoke when spoken to.

We were all standing by age group in, youngest in the front and oldest in the back. At least I won't have far to walk when I volunteer there is no chance of her missing me once I do.

Effie Trinket strutted onto the stage and gave her signature speech and the anthem played. The same dull, yet heart-wrenching ceremony every year. Effie made her way to the bowl full of the girl's names.

Please pick me. Please pick me. I silently wished.

Effie reached into the bowl and drew out a name.

"Anine Scribe!" she announced.

A group of teenagers from the back of the section gasped. A pretty girl about the age of sixteen made her way forward. She had long brown hair and large brown eyes. You could easily tell it took all of her strength not to turn around and bolt. Well pretty soon she was going to be put out of her misery.

She slowly mounted the stage with measured steps. Effie beckoned her towards her and had her face the crowd. Then came the question I was waiting for.

"Any volunteers?"

"I volunteer." I called out in a strong voice.

The crowd seemed to cease to exist. Then Effie let out a shrill cry.

"Who said that?" she asked the question with a little too much enthusiasm.

I raised my hand. And the whole crowd turned to look at me. But the face I never forgot was the look of Anine Scribe. She looked at me with such gratitude. Never in my whole life had I ever received that look. And it was too bad that I would never receive it again.

The next name she called was another boy from the orphanage. Roman Cede.

We were ushered into the Justice Building.

I waited in the room for my visitors. Of course I would not be receiving any visitors. Or maybe so I thought.

The girl I had volunteered for cam running in. she grabbed me and wrapped me in a tight embrace. She pulled back and held me by my shoulders.

"Thank you… thank you so much!" tears were pooling in her eyes. "Why did you do it?"

I shrugged "I'm an orphan."

"But even orphans want to live."

"Look, I didn't do it because I cared about you; I did it because I have nobody left."

"Oh, I know. It's just," she looked behind her at the door "I've seen you throw knives. You can win."

I looked at her in disbelief. "When has anyone ever seen me throw knives?"

"Your not the only one who sneaks around the district after curfew. Look, I just know you can do it. I've seen you. The only thing that's not in your favor is your age. But whatever you do, don't go into the cornucopia.'

"Don't you think I know that already?"

"Yes. I can tell. You're smart. You've managed to keep yourself alive in that thing that they call an orphanage. Just go for the back-pack closest to you and you run in the opposite direction. Do you understand me?"

"Yes."

She grabbed me and held me against her. "You are the bravest person I have ever met. God have mercy on your soul. I will pray for you every night."

Then the guards came and took her away from me. I was always a loner, but now I knew that if I did come back, I would have a friend.

We were now on our way to the Capitol. We were sitting in the dining room car. A picture of President Snow hung at the far end of the room, above a bowl of fruit. I sat at the table across from Effie. Roman sat in an over-stuffed arm chair in the corner. He was curled up in a ball, crying most likely.

Roman was a sickly fifteen year old boy. His short black hair and sunken grey eyes made him look like an underfed puppy. He was still pretty tall, but growing up in an orphanage where almost all the children were starving didn't help either. I was lucky. I began sneaking out of the orphanage to scavenge for food and practice my knife throwing away from the prying eyes of the peacekeepers.

Effie was nice enough, maybe even too nice. Maybe it was because she was too eager to have a volunteer who was twelve. Haymitch was just drunk as usual. I understood why though. After the games, your mind gets eaten by so much grief that you need some way to cope.

"Well, well, well," Effie trilled. "Aren't you fascinating. The first volunteer of District 12. Oh, we can play that up. Can't we Haymitch?" she turned and looked at Haymitch who merely grunted.

I stared evenly at her.

"Well don't you speak?" she inquired.

I was the strong silent type. Not some preppy girl from District 1.

"I prefer not to speak to capital trash," I retorted.

Haymitch began to guffaw, spewing his hazardous fumes into the air.

"Well!" Effie huffed,"You tributes never come with proper manners."

"Maybe we would have some, if the spoiled, overprotected, slipshod, idiotic, fashion-obsessed, altered, and ignorant citizens of the Capitol weren't so busy stuffing themselves with the food we grow, and keeping themselves warm with the coal we mine, and wearing the clothes we make. Then maybe you can speak to me about manners! And you think the Capitol is so merciful, killing innocent children every year! How about offering your own for a change!"

"That is treason!" Effie shouted. "You could be killed for that.'

I looked at her in disbelief. I lurched forward, acting as if I was going to dive across the table and strangle her, "Excuse me, but they are already sending me to my death."

"Well, you should have never volunteered." she whimpered, shrinking back into her chair.

"I had my reasons." I replied sitting back.

"Well she's a fighter," Haymiitch huffed in the corner.

We both turned and looked at him.

"How do you know?" Effie questioned.

"Effie, have you ever had a girl, let alone an orphan, from District 12 challenge you? She volunteered for a reason, and when she is ready she'll tell us."

Huh? Maybe Haymitch wasn't as drunk as I thought he was. Haymitch stood and stumbled toward me.

"The girl you volunteered for told me you were good with a knife."

I simply stared back at him.

"Show us what you got."

He then picked up the knife that was on the table and tossed it to me. My hand shot out and snatched the knife from the air. Years of practice had made knife throwing a second nature to me. It was how I survived.

I looked evenly back at Haymitch, debating with myself whether to throw the knife or not. But instincts won in the end. I drew my arm back, flicked my wrist, and exhaled as the knife flew from my hand. It stuck just where I had aimed it. Right in between the eyes of President Snow.

Effie gasped, Roman looked up from his curled position, and even Haymitch let out a low whistle.

"She was right."

We had now arrived and been at the Capitol for a day. The opening ceremonies of the games were the same as always. Roman and I wore those ugly miner's jumpsuits on the chariot ride and were booed by the crowd.

Today we were going to go to the training room to meet the other tributes officially for the first time.

The careers were all glorious. The fiery redhead girl and the angelic faced boy from District 1 were both deftly talented with all of the weapons. The tall, dark haired girl from District 2 was built for hand to hand combat. Both of District 4's tributes were tanned, golden haired gods from Greek mythology. The rest of the tributes were of no matter, except for the sixteen year old, male tribute from District 2.

He was built and bred for the games. He was tall and muscular, with thick sandy colored hair. But unlike the other careers, he was smart and calculating. He would definitely be the person to beat in the games. He was an imposing person. His name was Cota. Cato's older brother.

I stuck to learning about traps, knot tying, gathering, and other forms of survival. My combat was fine as long as I learned a few things in hand to hand. I had learned how to dodge various object while I roamed the streets of District 12. More often than not, various items were thrown at me to stop me from scavenging in the towns people's garbage.

I did not need the careers marking me as a target, so I practiced my knife throwing in my apartment.

One day while I was working in the knot tying section when a large body sat down next to me. I did not look up from my work. We worked next to each other silently. He never spoke and I never did either. But there was something strangely comfortable about the boy from District 2.

The night of the interviews were here. Effie had been teaching me how to walk in heels and a formal dress, while Haymitch tried to give me pointers on how to appeal to the audience.

"Smile more." he demanded.

"What's the point? Everybody is just going to want to know why I volunteered."

"Well, tell 'em."

Effie was even more annoying.

"Head up. Shoulders back. Chest out."

The only exciting thing for me was when my designer brought in my dress.

It nearly took my breath away. The soft, ice, light blue bodice was adorned by sheer lace and hung off of my shoulders, accentuating my my collar bone. The sleeves were long, bellowing out ever so slightly to create a bell over my wrist. The white material underneath the lace was cut straight across.

The back of the dress dove down into a deep V. A belt off satin was tied around my waist, defining my narrow waist.

The dress's skirt was made of satin, pleated and floor length. The exact same color as the lace.

It was the complete opposite of what the tributes would ever wear. Usually they wore anything to play up sexiness and appeal.

My dress made me appear innocent, beautiful, and fragile. And yet somehow powerful. Like ice.