AN: The number of Titus stories is underwhelming when he was such an interesting, tragic character. Thought I'd take a crack at his mentality. Please consider the rating - nothing explicit but this story is about a cannibal. I own nothing.

eat your heart out

two instances in my life defined me

BREAKING NEWS REPORT - Titus Princeton of District Six has been eliminated from the 67th Hunger Games.

An avalanche on Mountain 3 commenced at 11:13 AM and ended at approximately 11:16 AM, killing Princeton within the first minute. There is speculation he was taken out specifically by the Gamemakers for resorting to cannibalism.

Before his death, the Gamemakers would electrically stun him so they could collect the bodies without interference.

Princeton's kill streak was seven tributes, with three of them partially eaten at the Hovercraft Retrieval, including district partner Sara Graw, 17. Princeton, 14, had made it to the top ten tributes left in the arena after killing, and almost devouring, four other contenders in one day.

More updates on the 67th Hunger Games soon to follow.

one: when max died

Splayed out on his side beside an old truck tire, his underbelly coarse and matted with mud, Max resembled what we all were here: starving, filthy dogs left to die in the streets.

Max was special, though. People like my father got so cross after they started working in the automobile factories, and the entire district just seemed to reflect the same miserable attitude. But Max was always so ignorantly, annoyingly happy, even when we couldn't provide him scraps of food since that was what our supper was to begin with. We could barely afford enough food to feed our family of four, and yet I had kept Max. Maybe Mother and Father agreed to housing him because he made life a little more bearable. We envied him. Although they weren't illegal, pets weren't desirable in our district. Sure, there times when Mother threw him outside for tearing up a pair of already shabby shoes, but knowing we had something alive that was ours and only ours made Max part of the family.

Spotting his mangled corpse, I made sure not to alarm Tyche by stifling a convulsive, throat-swelling sob. It ended up coming out as a weird hiccup, but the heavy gas fumes from the automobile factories made everyone cough and wheeze. I hoped she assumed it was that, which meant nothing out of the ordinary. Like our beloved dog wasn't dead in the sludge.

"Titus?" asked my sister, clenching my arm with the hand I wasn't holding, which also tightened in grip.

"I'm all right. We passed an old car. Didn't you smell or hear it?" I tried to make my voice as casual as possible, and a real cough at the end sold it.

Even though it didn't do her any good, she turned her head, her blank yet sorrowful blue eyes staring at me. I'd gotten taller; she was three years older and I was at eye level with her. Her attention was on me, which would make someone who knew about the blind Princeton girl think she'd falter and stumble on the road, but she was an amazing multi-tasker. I was not really steering her through the somewhat crowded street. It just looked that way so no one from school would try to trip her again.

So, of course, Tyche didn't smell or hear an old truck drive by. The one I was referring to was near us on the edge of the road, with a fetid, lifeless copper-furred dog parked beside it.

Her dark brown eyebrows furrowed in suspicion. "No," she answered slowly. We were so close to home, just a block away. Just a block away from Max and that old truck and I was so stupid. Her nose crinkled in disgust. "I smell wet dog. I don't hear one, though."

We were too close to Max, then. I pulled her towards the edge of the sidewalk by the buildings. Our apartment was up ahead. I could see my math teacher from the second level opening the entrance door with a set of books balanced on her hip.

Almost dragging her to the front door of our apartment, I rushed for a reply, which ended up being, "Dogs aren't always noisy, Tyche."

She walked through the entrance as I held the door for her with our empty bag of groceries hanging limply from my elbow. Father was going to be pissed, but when wasn't he?

We lived on the first level because of Tyche. When we entered our cramped quarters, it was warm, musty, and empty. Home, sweet home. Tyche carefully placed the handful of coins that couldn't buy us a couple of carrots on the table. We'd be having tesserae grain mush again for supper.

Both my parents were still at work, and as my sister and I waited for them, Tyche listened to the static of the television while I worried about Max.

I had to retrieve him, but I couldn't leave Tyche alone. Not only because she'd be defenseless against burglars, who were real yet uncommon since none of us had anything of value, but I just couldn't tell her about Max. She'd find out eventually. But the incident would be that the dog ran off and got hit by a train or a car. Dying on the side of the road was too much of a possibility for us. She'd take it as a bad omen.

As soon as Father trudged into the room, I pulled him aside as Mother went straight to Tyche, asking about her day at school with her tutor.

I kept my voice low. "Max died. He's up towards the Square, like a block away." The factories were on the fringe of the district, as far away as possible while still being in town. No way my parents would have seen him.

My father's words ran over my heart with thick tread. "Use your head, boy. The shovel's in the closet."

The snow shovel we used in the winter? Was that what Max was to my father - dirty, burdensome snow?

Then, I realized he wanted me to do it. My stomach lurched, and the sobs I had suppressed from before came back mercilessly.

Father smacked the back of my neck and gave me a poisonous look that demanded I had to shut up or I'd worry Tyche.

Of course I had to do it. But the reality of it all hit me harder than Father's hand. Max was dead and I loved him so much and I hastily got the shovel.

On my way out, my father mentioned something to my mother. She went pale yet her lips pursed in agreement, in acceptence. Father caught up with me in the hallway and told me to bring the body back. I assumed it was for proper burial preparation, so I took the empty bag from my and Tyche's unsuccessful shopping trip and headed towards the Town Square. As respectfully as I could, I managed to carry out the deed and bring my Max back home.

We ate him for supper that night.

I watched, numb, as my mother prepared him and my father served him. I didn't protest; I was so hungry. The bit of meat was raised to my mouth and I stared at it, cross-eyed.

Tyche, unaware she was eating the puppy she had kept hidden under a pile of tattered quilts used for sewing and patching clothes until the landlord agreed we could keep him, shoveled in her supper since it was the first hearty meal we'd had in ages.

"Titus, eat your supper." Father watched me warningly over the steaming rim of his mug. Hot water. We couldn't afford tea or even fake coffee. Or meat.

"I can't."

"Titus," warned Father.

"Titus, what's wrong?" asked Tyche. She sat next to me, close, and I scented the oil from our supper on her breath.

I was starving. My stomach churned like an old truck engine chugging down the street, passing two siblings. No dog involved whatsoever.

It was just food. It was just sustenance. I needed this.

"There was a dog," I replied, "but sometimes they aren't noisy." While my older sister processed what I said, and before Father could yell at me, I scooped my portion of meat into my mouth.

Chewed.

And swallowed Max.

Tyche shook in her creaky chair. We couldn't afford anything nice or anything at all because of her. Blind children need tutors. Her tutor was expensive.

"I could smell a dog," she choked, her rusty cutlery clanging against the cracked plate full of dog meat. She didn't start gagging, though, like I thought she would. "But I couldn't hear him." Her beautiful blue empty grocery bag eyes tried to find me in the world, but she was crying too hard and she couldn't see anyway. "I couldn't hear him… I couldn't hear him, Titus…"

My sister sobbed, my mother sighed, my father yelled. And I ate.

two: when i decided to eat people

I stared down at the scarlet blood on my fingers, hands, arms, and only thought of how Tyche couldn't see it.

For a fleeting moment, a forkload of meat was in front of my face and I brought it to my mouth, stopping at the last second when I became aware of my surroundings. Around me, a snowy slope with pine trees laced like barbed wire. Below me, a dead boy. Not a boy. A tribute. A fellow contender in the Hunger Games.

Why was I reaped? It was Tyche who had the most slips, not me. We both took tesserae but she was older. And blind. It didn't matter if my sister was chosen if it meant I was still alive to work in the factories.

She couldn't see me on the television screen back home, couldn't see the blood on me and the tribute. She could only hear the whistle of the bitter wind through the scratchy pines and my stomach growling and the canon blast that announced my opponent's defeat.

A defeat. How did I defeat someone? How did I get to that?

Before the canon, no odds had been in "Titus Princeton!" 's favor. The closest thing to my disk was a piece of rope while the farthest thing was a pyramid of water jugs nestled in the Cornucopia's mouth, a sword sheath propped against it. I went an extra six feet from the rope and grabbed a dagger, then sprinted towards the forest.

I wasn't expecting to find two tributes that same night, after the ten tolls declared the elimination of those killed in the initial rush at the Cornucopia. Finally, my odds had turned. I had total control over them, I just needed to figure out when to kill them. Alliances were out of the question. I didn't trust people. They did vile things when they were hungry.

The boy was younger and smaller than the girl, which wasn't saying much, so I crept behind him from the trees. My feet felt strangely weightless in the snow and I barely made a sound as I slit his throat. A wide, bright line on his neck sneered at the girl as his canon fired. Lights from their little fire made up of twigs danced in her dark eyes along with something odd. Fear? Anger? I didn't care. It was the Hunger Games and she was next.

Except she was really, really fast. The wind that whipped my parka hood forward carried her across the clearing and into the pines. I would have pursued her but it was so cold and there was a fire in front of me and fire meant food as well sometimes.

I searched the increasingly bloody tribute. They didn't have any food either.

All I had was a twig fire, pine trees, and snow bloodstained with tribute. Said tribute gaped in my direction. He was dead, but his unseeing gaze reminded me so much of Tyche that it seemed sorrowful like hers.

So I ate his eyes.

It wasn't hard, except gouging them out with my dagger was a little tricky, but I didn't have to think about it at all. It was the Hunger Games, where the only rule was to survive. It was just food. It was just sustenance.

I was starving.

His eyes were hazel, or appeared to be in the dim firelight. I imagined what his ex-ally's fiery dark eyes tasted like. Would they be different because of their irises? My blue eyes seemed like they would taste of peppermint. I never experienced peppermint, but had heard it was both spicy and saccharine, delicious. Of course, I couldn't eat myself if I wanted to survive. That'd be crazy.

It occurred to me how ironic it was, eating eyes, when I had a blind sister. I laughed about it for hours, hoping the sound would echo throughout the forest and attract more tributes.

The thought seemed so disturbing but all I felt was apathy and a need to survive.

From then on, that idea became my strategy. Forget that hunting tributes and eating them was barbaric, because that was how I was going to remain alive. I had the most nutriment in those frosted mountains than I had my whole life.

One morning I recognized Sara Graw among the pines, nose frostbitten and gapped teeth chattering. Dark brown wisps of hair that had escaped from under her parka hood stuck to her pale forehead with sweat. Her blue eyes watered from the freezing wind. She lived two blocks away from us back home. She was the same age as my sister.

I deliberately ate her leg first, the one she used to trip Tyche on the sidewalk, after she quit thrashing and succumbed to the dagger lodged in her neck.

Blue eyes did not taste like peppermint.

I wished Tyche was with me during the few hours I felt satisfyingly full. Going home to her seemed possible while I had the energy to kill and eat.

In the arena I found myself wondering, if I had died a starving animal on the side of the road, would the people of my district scrape me off the curb and take me home to eat? Would my own family? ...Tyche? Would they prepare me, strip me of my skin and innards, and cook me like we did to my Max?

And would I do the same to Tyche under similar circumstances?

The answer was obvious when a freshly dead tribute was in my grip, or more importantly, in my throat.

But there were rules in the districts while there was only one in the Hunger Games: kill or be killed, or in my case, eat or be eaten.

So, starving people of District Six, you can eat your heart out. Better yet, allow me.