When I asked him why he turned to morphling, he stared at me with clouded green eyes and said, "You have never truly experienced colors until you let go of the grey." I knew then that he would be a worthless mentor. I was right. He got me no sponsors, although that may have been because of the metallic, clunky chariot costume, and the stuttered interview. The arena was grey, the color of the dead. But the grey quickly turned to bright red, with blood spilling everywhere, coating the gold cornucopia. Twenty four tributes rose from the ground, thirteen left alive. Among the dead was my own district partner, Quentin. I hid for the whole games, tucked away in rocks, nestled in hollowed out logs. By the sixth day I was starving. I could barely walk, and you could see each individual rib on my chest. All around you was dead grey tributes that flashed across the dead grey sky every night. The feast did not look dead. Bright purple and green grapes, red pork, brown bread. But I knew better. Everything here was dead, even the victor. You never truly lived once your name was picked. So I ran from the feast, with only the growling of my stomach to keep me company. Three faces flashed across the sky that night. Four left. Mutts, grey birds with their flesh peeling off of them, attacked every tribute. I petted mine, and befriended it. We parted in peace. Two more pictures that night. Two left. It was me and the boy from district 5. The fight was anticlimactic. Two starving, terrified children with no weapons facing off in an arena of death. It was easy to win. All I had to do was kick in his head. Cannon. The nightmares came, each one leaving me frozen in bed, stamping my head with the grey. So I tried it; I let go of the grey. And the colors were wonderful, flooding my thoughts and dreams, sweeping away the grey. It released me, and I don't regret it. One color stands out, a vivid yellow flower. I think I painted it. But then, they were gone and all that was left was the grey.