From the moment my name was pulled, I knew I was goner.
I didn't cry. I didn't scream.
They told me I was being brave.
But I'm not brave.
The day before the Games started, I cried my heart out.
My stylist comforted me and held me like a mother would hold her child.
My mother didn't even say good bye…
As I waited on the plates, waiting for the signal, waiting for death…
Then I ran.
Yelling and screaming and crying were behind me.
I ran off.
That first night was hard.
I was scared.
I'm not brave.
I was so scared.
The screams of agony from the other tributes haunted me.
Then the day came.
Like I said, I'm not brave.
I crept around, looking for food.
It all happened to fast.
And before I knew it, I was dying.
There was a little girl there too.
But she didn't kill me.
Instead she held my hand.
She whispered comforting words to me, but I could barely hear them.
"It'll be okay. It'll all end soon. Just think of home. Think of good times."
I closed my eyes, remembering the times I had with my friends, laughing and playing.
I knew I would never go back to those days.
Even though I wished I could.
"You're very brave. You're fearless actually."
Fearless.
I was brave.
I was fearless.
I wanted to smile, and I did.
I squeezed the little girl's hand to tell I would be alright.
She squeezed mine back.
Words mean nothing when you are about to die, but a hand to hang onto means so much more…
I was still fearless in death.
I smiled at it.
So on that day, I died.
My legacy, if I have one, shall forever be etched in memory.
Soon, that little girl joined me, with many others in tow.
And all of us, the tributes that died, the fearless and the brave, no matter if we killed or were killed, were forever frozen in time, in loving memory set apart.