When I saw them advertising I was excited. The Hunger Games, finally! We'd all been waiting for some real entertainment and here it was, at last. At school my friends and I talked about it, discussing the last one. We remembered the emotional times, the gory times, and the spectacular times. We remembered when the tree one of the tributes was hiding in caught alight. It was gruesome, listening to his screams as he was cocooned in flames. Of course, then I was a little younger, a little less mature. Being fourteen, I was now able to partake in adult conversations, discovering my own opinions, my own voice. However, my opinion of The Hunger Games had always been that it was entertaining. If the Districts didn't deserve it, President Snow wouldn't have allowed it. And so, as the beginning of the 74th Hunger Games was looming, excitement was all the emotion I could muster.
It began. Death. Blood. Sorrow. Grief. What I had been taught was wrong and I knew it. But, as I sat with my parents, watching the bloodbath, I said nothing. Katniss Everdeen, I think her name was, drew my attention, as she did to everyone else. Everyone talked of her love for Peeta, her lovely dress, but I only saw the pain in her eyes. Everyone talked of how emotionally intense it was when Rue died. Her death only made me despise the Games more. But I remained silent, sure this was just a phase. It went on like this until I couldn't take it anymore.
"How can they do this? How can they kill these children?" I screamed at the dinner table, rushing up to my room.
My father followed me and as I threw myself under the covers of my bed he came in and sat down at the end of it.
"Pearl, my sweet girl," he said.
"They're dead, dad," I said through tears.
"Pearl, look at me," he ordered softly, gently pulling back the covers.
I leapt into his chest, coiling my arms around him, weeping into his shoulder.
"Why are those children being killed? What did they do?" I asked, weeping uncontrollably so that my words were barely audible.
"Those are not children; they are the product of a failed rebellion. They brought it upon themselves. Dry your eyes, sweet girl," dad comforted me.
I sniffed back my tears and put on a brave face.
"You're right dad. And besides, it's no life in the districts. Who wouldn't want the chance to live in luxury?" I reminded myself.
"Good girl, Pearl. Are you coming back downstairs?" he enquired.
"No," I said, "I'm pretty beat."
Dad left the room pleased with himself, pleased that he had extinguished my rebellious thoughts on The Hunger Games. However, the flame of my disgust burned even more fiercely. I knew that The Hunger Games were wrong. I also knew that, no matter what, I had to stop them.
End of Part 1