Disclaimer: No matter how much I beg Suzanne Collins to give me The Hunger Games, I still do not own it. Sorry.
A/N: It's a love square...just a head's up...
Prologue:
I could feel everyone staring at me, their eyes drilling holes into my head.
"What's your final answer, Ms. Everdeen?" Mr. Calamine asked, his stern, expectant face making my cheeks redden to the point where I could overpower a tomato in color.
"I-I don't know," I slip out, a tear rushing down my cheek. Stupid. I'm so stupid. That's the first thing that comes to my mind when the crowd boos and Mr. Calamine shakes his head. And this was supposed to be an easy question. The question that I would win on.
"Mr. Tellark?" he questions, turning his gaze away from me. For the second, I feel relieved and all was well, but I soon realized that my mind was just playing tricks on me.
"Well, sir, the answer is Constantine II, of course," Peeta answers, shooting a smug smile at me. He won. Again. What was this, the eighth time? And I lost. Because no matter how hard I worked, Peeta would forever be better than me.
"Correct, Mr. Tellark! Congratulations!" the crowd applauds as I make my way over to the row of seats where the other losers sat.
"It's all right, Catnip. We all make mistakes sometime, right?" Gale says, failing at comforting me. His arm hangs limply on my shoulder and his body warmth slightly soothes me. If this was some other time, a time where Peeta didn't just defeat me once again, I probably would've enjoyed his arm around me. After all, I gave my heart to him years ago. He just never took it. But I couldn't focus on that right now. All I could think of was just how much I hate that stupid Peeta Mellark and his cocky smirk.
Excerpt:
I squeezed my eyes shut and locked in all of my emotions. It didn't work. I could still picture him in my head, with all his dirty blonde hair driven wild. As a last attempt, I plunged the knife I was holding into my arm. I was expecting the horrible, unmistakable feel of pain, but it didn't come. Instead, a sense of relief overcame me as my vision started to blur, the picture of him with it. I didn't have to stare at his accusing face any more, the one permanently etched into my mind. I could feel my resolve, no my life slipping away when I was shrouded in darkness. The pure black color only death could compose. But I could care less about whether or not I die. So I did what would prove to be a big mistake. I welcomed death with open arms, my hand thrusting the knife deeper into my hand. It was then that I wished I had thought of stabbing my heart. Because the second I moved my hand, unbearable pain overtook me.
Summary:
I love him. The feeling's not returned. He loves her. That feeling's not returned either. And she loves him. I don't think that even that feeling is returned. Because he loves me. I can't mention their names. It's too painful. And pathetic. But then again, there was a reason men invented the quote "We all want what we cannot have." (A/N: Love Square, in order to the aforementioned paragraph: Katniss-Gale-Madge-Peeta-Katniss)
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