I heard once in the mill some chick got her hair caught in one of the gears. Ripped her head clean off. I guess that's why they make them wear their hair up.
I don't mind it. I like those little bobbling balls on top of their heads. I like watching them as they work.
Liked.
Ha, it was fun to bat at them on their way back from their lunch. I mean they weren't amused, but I sure as hell was. That's my way of flirting. It usually works, too.
They got all sheepish and pink and their cheeks turned into those round little mounds. They'd titter and swat my hand away, and sometimes I'd leave them alone. Sometimes I'd grab them by the waist and whisper something naughty in their ear. They'd usually smack me in the chest, giggling, and run away to their friends.
Then they'd meet me later in the wheat fields, and I'd make them giggle, then sigh, then moan, panting, mewl and scream. Go limp.
And I'd leave them there. They all knew my reputation. Knew they wouldn't last longer than a night, knew they wouldn't get the intimacy they daydreamed about when they first learned about their precious virginities and how they were meant to lose them. But they all came around anyway, sacrificing their perfect, post-marital, first-coital experience. They all deluded themselves into thinking that they'd be the one, the one of hundreds, who would change me.
And when my name was called, when I was escorted onto the stage, when some of them gloated at my misfortune and others showed indifference or feigned worry, I realized that the last four years were wasted seeking minutes of immediate satisfaction. No one would truly mourn me, because no one had truly known me. And now, they wouldn't. Couldn't.
Any big shot can be gunned down. That's the point of the Games, I think. They keep our hubris in check.
The cannon roars. Gunned down. Ha.
I'm struggling over a backpack with the girl from 12 who earned an 11 when the knife pierces my back. I can't help but feel amused by how death equalizes us all, and no one is who they seem.
And so, it ends.
A/N: This series of vignettes will chronicle the last thoughts of the 74th Hunger Games' 22 losing tributes.
Please let me know what you think. I'm trying to portray a different personality, level of development, and region with each tribute. Any critique is welcome.