Prologue

Six years ago.

I awake with a start; the memory of my nightmare still flashing before my eyes. I can still picture blood and knives before my eyes, but I don't remember why.

I sit up, pushing my damp hair off from my forehead. Something feels wrong; as if some unwanted presence is near me. I glance anxiously around my bedroom; my eyes flickering over the flowery wallpaper and the whitewashed furniture that line my room.

There is nothing there that I can see. I feel under my pillow and my hands grasp the cool metal handle of the knife that my mother insists that I sleep with.

My fist clenches clumsily around the hilt and I look down at it with uncertain eyes. It has always been an unspoken rule in our house that you sleep with some kind of weapon. The fear in my mother's eyes had drilled that into me and so every night before I let myself drift into sleep I check that the knife is safely underneath my pillow. Just in case.

I force my trembling legs to stand up, feeling stupid brandishing the knife in front of me. An intruder would hardly be intimidated by the sight of a skinny eleven year old in a nightdress decorated with printed pink butterflies.

The floorboards in the hallway creak as they always do, and I wince as the silence of the house amplifies the sound. But I shake my head impatiently, feeling frustrated by my own cowardice.

If my mother is downstairs and someone is inside the house, then she will stand no chance. Not the day before the Reapings.

But I know her; she'll most likely be passed out in her bed, morphling racing through her veins and burning in her blood, keeping her distracted from the thoughts that turn her into a stranger.

That was how I liked my mother best. She was less of a liability when she was unconscious.

I take a hesitant step onto the stairs and listen cautiously for the sounds of someone moving around downstairs. I'm slightly surprised that something like this hasn't happened before; we live in one of the most prestigious houses in District 4, and the Capitol ensure that it is always well stocked. This was the privilege of my mother's position – one that I know she doesn't enjoy.

My fingers brush along the wallpaper, tracing the shapes of waves and mermaids. Sometimes I think that this decor is something of a cliché, but it's still pretty.

I focus on the thought of the intruder, and my feet continue to take gentle steps down the stairs. I remember which ones are the squeakiest, and these are the ones which I avoid.

My heart thuds wildly in my chest as my ear identifies faint sounds coming from the direction of the living room, and my palm becomes so sweaty that I almost dropped the knife. I lurch and hang onto it tightly, not wanting to give myself away. But my feet seem to have become glued to the floor, and nothing I can do will free them.

The darkness of my house seems oppressive and the shapes of pictures and ornaments that are so familiar to me have suddenly morphed into unfamiliar shapes. My eyes pick out the silhouette of a wolf's head on the wall, and a tiger crouched behind the door.

My heart rate accelerates in panic, and I make myself recognise the shapes for what they really are. Not a wolf and a tiger; just a couple of photo frames and a vase.

Don't be stupid, Nerine, I tell myself determinedly, and manage to take a step towards the living room.

My eyes spot a flickering light through the crack of the door illuminated on the walls of the living room, casting an eerie glow over the hallway. I jump violently as everything goes suddenly dark and then the light flashes back, brighter than before.

That's when the scream starts up. Mum! I thought that she would have been safe in her room. I know that I should've checked, but something that basic hadn't even crossed my mind.

The scream sounds again, and an identical one tears from my own throat, "Mum!" I immediately clap a hand against my lips, and curse myself for being so stupid.

I burst into the room; my eyes wheeling around wildly and a sudden breath of relief escapes from my mouth; the world spinning in a sudden wave of nausea. The screaming is coming from the television, and it takes me several moments to work out what I'm seeing on the screen.

The blood and the weapons could mean only one thing. The Hunger Games. And then I notice a familiar looking girl standing in the midst of the bodies, wiping a blood drenched sword on her orange shirt.

This is mum's games. But why would she have been watching it?

A gong sounds suddenly from the television and the familiar voice of Claudius Templesmith is broadcast from the speakers, "Congratulations to Marina Leith. The winner of the 53rd Hunger Games."

I have seen this footage many times before, because everyone delights in telling me how proud I should be of my mum, and so I force myself to watch this footage over and over, to see if I might actually grow to be proud of her.

But as I watch the expression on my younger mother's face, I can't evoke pride because her eyes seem so distant, and empty. In fact, it's the expression that is often on my mother's face even now. I know that the ghosts of her Hunger Games still haunt her.

"Mum?" I find myself whispering, because I still can't quite shake the feeling that something is wrong with this scenario. Why is my mother's Hunger Games playing away to itself at 2.00 in the morning?

"Mum?" I raise my voice this time, but there's still no answer. I glance around the room; my eyes searching yet not finding anything.

Then, suddenly, they alight on something in the corner of the room. Just slightly out of sight behind the sofa.

A hand.

I dart over, my legs trembling so violently that I almost trip myself up.

I shut my eyes. I don't want to look. I can't look. What if she's done something stupid?

Now, I instruct myself firmly, you have to look now. She's probably just passed out like normal.

I blink my eyes back open and my knees buckle as I see my mother. She's lying sprawled across the floor; her legs stick out at a strange angle and her skin is pale and waxy. My knees give way and I thud to the floor beside her, my fingers searching hungrily at her neck for a pulse.

There's nothing there.

How can there be nothing there? I see her hand curled loosely around the syringe, but she always takes too much and it never does her any harm.

My hand returns to her neck. There must be a pulse there somewhere. It's just hard to find because I'm not a doctor.

"Mum?" I find myself whispering desperately, "Mum, please wake up. You're scaring me." I tuck a strand of her dark hair behind her ear and stroke her cheek softly. She looks so much more peaceful like this; I've never known my mum without the pain that always lingers in her eyes. The lines of her face, which are usually so harsh and worn, seem to have softened and disappeared, making her look younger than I ever remember seeing her.

I glance again at the syringe in her fingers. I've always resented morphling; it can take away her pain while I am left feeling helpless. Only able to observe as my mother loses her grip on reality, and I can do nothing when I see the madness takes over except get myself out of her sight, before she starts seeing me as an enemy.

A sigh escapes from my lips, and I touch my fingertips to her eyelids, closing her eyes softly.

But instead of sadness, it's only anger that surges within my limbs. It's anger that tightens my jaw and clenches my fists. Because in that moment I hate her for taking the easy way out. She's given up on life, but more than that, she's given up on me.

Hatred rises within me and I glare down at her; my hands trembling violently as I try to control this powerful wave of emotion.

I don't let myself cry.

She has left me alone to face the threat of the Hunger Games that will always hang over my head because I am the daughter of the victor.

She has condemned me to the arena.