We circle and slash in a frenetic dance, brought here in our final hour. They have forced us to this bloody showdown with their nightmarish creatures, engineered to be vicious. Just like me.

I fly forward, and he parries my strike. We both step back and warily face each other, still light on our feet, prepared for another blow. His blond hair is damp with sweat; his face bloody and bruised. I know that I must look the same way. Once this boy and I were in the pack together, once we were allies. But none of that matters when it comes down to the final two.

Bathed in fake moonlight, we stare at each other's blades. This is what we are—just two Careers doing the only thing we know how to do.

My arms ache, and suddenly I feel tired. Tired of fighting, tired of killing, tired of living. This is the harsh reality of the Games. The victors make it seem so daring and glorious that you can't help but long to volunteer, but they never tell you about the nightmares the Games bring. About the guilt, the brokenness, the scars that will never fade.

He lunges forward, and this time I am too slow. Unprepared. His blade slices through my torso as I collapse to the ground. Beside me, I can see the dry ground quickly absorbing a warm red liquid. Is it really my blood?

He leans over me, hesitating, and I stare up into his gray-blue eyes. They are hard, so hard, eyes without mercy. Eyes of a dead person, eyes of someone incapable of loving.

I wonder if my eyes look like that.

But with the clarity granted by my imminent death, I can see beneath that hardness, and it frightens me. I see a monster—a primal creature fighting to get out, fighting for my blood, for more blood.

The Capitol turned him into this. They turned me into it, too, and I never realized it.

"I know you," I rasp. "I know what you've become."

His face tightens; he doesn't understand this. I knew he wouldn't. He just wants to finish this now, wants to finally win his Games. But my accusing gaze, my knowledge, it scares him. And I know that this moment will haunt him for the rest of his life.

He brings the sword up one last time and plunges it into my chest. My world spins.

Now I regret so much. I regret not spending the time to live in the world of my imagination as children should; I regret not admiring the flowers growing in front of my house. I regret not appreciating the innocent smile and the clumsy steps of my baby sister before she too was turned hard by the training and the violence. But for me, it is too late for regrets.

So what if I die? I knew that it was a possibility from the moment I volunteered. My arrogance, my blindness led me to underestimate the power of the Games. Now I will pay for my mistake.

And he may win, he may be showered with wealth and attention and adoration, but he will still be dead; he will still have died beside me in this arena.

No tribute can escape the Games alive. He may have beaten me, but I am victorious. I just hope that maybe, maybe he will one day see what I have seen.

I am calm. I have finally seen my life and the Games for what they are, and that satisfaction soothes me.

My breathing slows and my surroundings fade until his face finally disappears, but I am not afraid.

And as he looks at me in bitter triumph, I smile.