A/N: Okay, this is the story of the Final Hunger Games, with the main character being President Snow's Daughter, Eliza (I named her). I hope it is okay, and it is hopefully going to be quite long, so enjoy. If you read this, please review – it means a lot to me, and I promise to read/review your stories, or at least reply to your review. Thanks a bunch!
Disclaimer: I own none of this – the characters names and basic idea was mine, but it is all based on the book by Suzanne Collins (who is AWESOME), so yeah. I own nothing.
I wasn't ready. Wasn't prepared. Didn't want to do it – to go out there. But I had to – it was either do it, and most likely be killed, or DON'T do it and definitely be killed. Even a fool would know what to choose, and let's just say this – I am no fool. I studied myself in the mirror, satisfied with the dress that my mother had chosen for me. It was an emerald green, with a sweetheart neckline, falling to just above my knees in waves of flowing material. I didn't look half bad in it, which was a start, and the colour made my green eyes stand out and my blonde hair glow in a slightly ethereal manner. Mother said it 'suited' me. Great. So looking nice on the day of my death sentence: check.
Fantastic.
Ever since it had been announced that there would be one final hunger games – for the children of the capitol – I knew that it would mean me. It was well known that the Mockingjay hated President Snow, and it had been passed around that the fact that I – his granddaughter Eliza – was still alive, was one of the key reasons that the Mockingjay had voted yes for another hunger games. To get back. At the Capitol…and at my good-for-nothing granddad.
I didn't understand how SHE of all people, who KNEW about how unfair it was to be punished for another's actions, how awful it as to be told to 'kill or be killed', how disgusting it was that kids were being sent to die. She went through it, twice, and now she has the AUDACITY to inflict that kind of pain, suffering, and torture on others – their family, friends, community, and on the people themselves.
"ELIZA, TIME TO GO," my mother yelled from downstairs.
I sighed, gave one last glance in the mirror, and headed out the door.
Towards the reaping.
Where I would be told, properly, that I was to be a participant in the final hunger games.
It's really depressing to realise that your death equals the happiness of others – because once I die (and be sure of this, I will die – I am sure that the Mockingjay will make it happen one way or another) the people will think that justice has been served to the Snow family.
No one cares about me, no one cares about what I want, or think, or believe; all anyone has ever seen is that I am President Snow's granddaughter, and that I MUST die, to atone for all his wrongdoings. Because, oh no, I MUST be exactly like him – there just isn't another possibility. I have been labelled, since the Uprising. And that label has been stuck onto me with super glue.
I can't change it.
And no one wants to.
All they want to see is what they believe is going to make the past better.
And I hope that once this is over, they will never do it again. I hope that if I die, this will all stop. That no one else will have to pay for what my family did – that no one will face the consequences that another deserves.
This thought is what I held on to as I walked out the door and towards the reaping. But let me tell you this, even with me holding on to this idea as tight as I possibly could, this still occurred to me:
It never is, and never will be, a good time to die.