One Year Ago...

The 24th Hunger Games...

The Night after District 2's Reaping...

"Again."

Brea's chin dropped to her chest. She was in hour four of training with her father and from the way things were going, it wasn't going to end anytime soon. Sweat dropped off the tip of her nose and fell in between her legs.

"Did you hear me?"

Brea nodded her head tiredly. She huffed out, "Despite you hounding me all night, my ears miraculously still work."

If Brea hadn't heard the whistle behind her, she wouldn't have ducked the training sword aimed for the back of her head. Though it couldn't cut her, Brea's body being polka-dotted with bruises proved that the heavy wooden sword could do damage.

She glared up at her father. His blonde-white hair was tied back, but a few hairs had escaped their bounds. She had inherited his hair color and his ice-blue eyes, which burned into her now.

He stated coldly, "Your tongue wouldn't be so sharp if you were strong enough to defend yourself any other way. You are so weak, Brea, and it shows."

Brea's anger fueled her to stand. Her leg muscles quaked with exhaustion, but she stood nonetheless. "If that's how you feel, I'm surprised you spend your precious time on my training."

She bowed. "I'm honored."

The next swing came too quickly for Brea to step outside of its arc. The wood slammed into her jaw, reeling her onto her back. She saw stars, but crawled for her sword she had thrown several feet away.

Her father stalked over her as she crawled, "I train you because I refuse to have a daughter unprepared for the Games. Though, in the pitiful state you're in, I hardly doubt there's any chance of you being chosen."

Brea's hand reached for her sword, but her father smacked her wrist with his blade and kicked her sword away. "Look at me when I speak to you!" he roared.

Brea growled as she flipped over onto her back, cradling her wrist. She knew it wasn't broken, but it pulsed with pain.

He leaned down and grabbed the front of her shirt, yanking her up inches from his face. "Tenth in ranking is not where a Lockhart belongs! The eligibles that were ranked above you haven't received half of the training you have!"

Brea spat, trying to hide the shake in her voice, "I'm sorry I ashamed you for placing in such a low ranking, Dad. Tenth out of hundreds is such a cop out."

Brea's father hand flew, striking her face with the heel of his sword. She cried out and he released her, her head thudding against the mat. She curled into the fetal position and awaited his next blow. None came.

"Next year is your last chance to make something of yourself, Brea. I suggest you start acting like it."

Brea heard his footsteps as he marched away. She rolled over onto her belly and screamed into the mat, punching it until her knuckles and throat were red and raw. She remained there, wishing she could melt into it and escape to a world without the Hunger Games.