Agony of the Mentor
AN: This isn't my first story, but this is the first story I've ever posted on this site. I hope you approve. Enjoy.
Again, the time of reaping had come, and my new tributes piled into the tram to be carted to the Capitol as new merchandise. My senior mentor eyes me with practiced coldness. I understand that I must present these children as true entertainment worth. The people must be eager for their new play things. They have to be to survive.
The girl was as innocent as snow- whatever clean snow actually looked like, in a world of blood. When I looked into her eyes, evaluating her chances, I saw love, hope, and such sweetness for the smallest things in the world. I saw them flicker to the food on the table, grateful for every morsel she would be given until her death.
Shuddering, I moved on to the boy.
He was better; his dull eyes were hard and cold like steel, as if they had seen enough. They met mine and challenged me, daring me to comment or shudder as I did for his District partner. When they met my partner mentor's, they were just as cold.
He may be better, but neither have a chance.
Soon, I will see his skull bashed in by Seven's ax, or maybe her blood running with the river in the arena. I think of that- will they have a river? How else will by tributes find water? I doubt they know how to do that at home, where industry is key. And if they do not drink, they will die.
Die. That won't be a surprise.
For the actual Games, I find the girl killed in the bloodbath of the first day. I wince as she screams for mercy, thinking "Stupid child! Stupid, stupid- run-!"- and she is silenced with a metal blow to her skull. I curse her killer's name, whatever it may be, as I cry for her. Pride was the only thing the Games couldn't take from you. Yet its players had ripped it away from her.
The boy survives until the very last day. Then, the Career pack corners him. They let him die slowly. The audience is drawn in, I can tell. Limbs are hacked off. They rip gashes all over his torso until he's painted blinding red. He still doesn't cry. I want to cry for him, but I throw up instead.
The blade swings like a whistle and- thunk- his head falls like a heavy mess. It rolls and the camera moves for a picture. He has died with a snarl on his face, and the fire barely fading in his eyes.
I know he is gone. I know they are gone. I am still proud of them. Yet, I do not remember their names as the next morning rises and the smiling winner from District Two is announced, waving a hand soaked in my tribute's blood.