I always pictured Glimmer as a beautiful girl with a tragic, unhappy life before the Games. Some of the chapters will be about people after the Games, and some will take place way before they even got picked for the Games, like Glimmer's, and some after the Games, like Finnick's. And I don't think I will be writing about the tributes in order by their districts, it'll just be whoever I get the ideas for first.

A day in the life of Glimmer, tribute of the 74th annual Hunger Games.

Enjoy. ;) Jasmine

I sighed myself awake and rolled over in my bed. Another day where I had to pretend to have something to live for, even though I obviously didn't. Who needs anything to live for in District One, where even the poorest of the poor are too rich to give a shit? I sighed again and walked to my window where I could see the sun's early morning rays struggling over the horizon.

Walking down the hallway, I saw one of our "maids", Chalcedony, emerge from my father's bedroom door. I wasn't stupid. I knew Chalcedony was one of my father's mistresses, and he knew that I knew. It was kind of an unspoken secret between us: I pretend not to know, he pretends that it doesn't happen. She was one of the better ones, though. She always tries to leave before I wake up, but that rarely ever happens-I get up with the sun. As she walked past me, she averted her eyes, and I averted mine. I noticed Chalcedony was wearing khaki shorts and a tank top-which seemed unusual for District One's chilly morning air. At least she had the decency to put some clothes on- some of my father's "friends" think it's acceptable to walk around in my house in their underwear during breakfast. Talk about a disturbing visual. Chalcedony slipped quietly through our back door, clutching her waist-length blonde hair to the side.

I walked quietly into the kitchen; no doubt my father was still asleep, even though his door is so soundproof it would take an earthquake to wake him up-and maybe not even that. I stepped outside onto the gray stone sidewalk that led from our front door to the road. As I walked the length of our driveway, the thick canopy of trees above me let loose a few drops of the cold morning rain, raising gooseflesh onto my bare arms. I shrugged into the jacket that was draped over my arm and finished the rest of the walk to the street.

I stopped at my favorite café and ordered a small breakfast cake, then walked along the boardwalk that showcased the beautiful ocean that bordered our district. We're not fishermen like District 4; no fish swim in these seas, only treasures, waiting to be turned into luxury items for the Capital. As usual, I got waves from the friendly pearl divers along the docks-and stares from the creepy ones. By the time I made it to my school the sun was just getting comfortable in the sky; the moist gray morning still hung over my head.

Like always, I was the first one at school, and I made my way to the basement of the building, one of the only places in District One that wasn't spotless. Here was where old books, old desks, and old chairs were stored, covered in a fine layer of dust. Really, the whole space was covered in that same layer of dust-except for one trail of footsteps that started at the basement door and ended at another. I opened the brown wooden door, and ascended the long spiral staircase that went up the inside of the sidewall of the building and ended in a large attic. My studio. My space. My haven. I came here every day, and over the years, had eventually made it my own: Restoring splintering easels to sturdy shining ones, soaking paint-covered brushes to expose the gleaming mahogany handles underneath. I was, as far as I knew, the only person who knew about this place; if someone else did they stayed well out of the way, knowing that it always has been, is, and will be my place, and no one else's. My artwork hung on the walls; though only two of them. I liked to think of myself as a true artist; one that doesn't finish a painting or sculpture in a week and think it is perfect; I will work on a creation for months until I know it is perfect.

I turned to the small alcove I used as my painting corner, towards my current project. I swept the canvas cover off my easel and looked at oil painting I had been working on for the past month: a portrait of a weeping woman. I looked at the faded photograph pinned to the side of my easel: my inspiration, the only proof that I had a mother at some point in my life. I never knew what the hell happened to my mother; never met her; never saw a picture of her, except for this one. This was my special possession, the only one I truly cared about. Most people would look at the photo and wonder how the painting is supposed to be modeled after it; the painting is of a weeping woman, the picture of a woman giving a small smile. But most of those people aren't able to look at photographs the way I am. They're not able to capture the person's real feeling, or find contradicting signs on their face. Like the way I can find lines of sadness on my mother's face, even though her mouth is smiling in the picture, her eyes are not. Most people would look at my painting and say that it's long past done, but to me it's not even close to being finished. There's so much more to add: the slightly differencing shades of colors in my mother's hair, the spiraling kaleidoscope of her sparkling blue eyes, the very, very faint lines of sadness etched into her face; the only thing that gave away how unhappy she was with her life. Of course, I'm sure no one else noticed them, with her pretending to be happy and having the time of her life with her new husband, disguising how unhappy and depressed she really was. How do I know she was unhappy? No one told me. I can read it in her face. And I'm sure that news of my conception only made it worse: now she had to be responsible for another life, as well as her own? How does one take care of another if they don't even have the will to take care of themselves first? I suppose the reality became too much for her, and that's why she left, leaving my father and I to fend for ourselves. Even if I had the chance, I had no desire to meet her, not because she left me, but because I just know her sadness would add onto mine, and I just don't know how I would be able to bear that.

I opened my large selection of oil paints, mixing a light gray with a deep purple and adding shadow and depth to the background of the painting. Self-consciously, I added the color to one of the larger streaks of tears on the face of my painting. As I delved more into my mother's unhappiness, I dove deeper into mine as well. I looked at the picture one more time and wasn't able to bear it; I suddenly slashed my wrists with the sharp silver end sticking out of my paintbrush. I whirled around with my eyes closed, holding my arms out, letting the physical pain overtake the emotional. I collapsed against the wall and sat there for who knows how long, letting my wrists bleed themselves dry, drowning out my thoughts of suicide and other horrible things.

I suddenly jumped back up and started madly painting. As I added more colors and tears to the painting, I found myself crying a few thousand tears of my own.

….

By the time I finally left my studio, the school day was halfway in session. I still had time to get to one of my classes and be there for a half hour yet, but I decided to wait it out and start my school day the next period. It's not like the teachers will care-most of the kids don't show up half of the time anyway for school.

Instead of waiting in a quiet, empty classroom like usual, I went into the bathroom and directed my attention to the cuts I had made on my wrist. They were ugly, jagged red cuts, and the severed skin on the sides flapped open to reveal more blood, dried and wet. I pressed wet paper towels to each, looked to the ceiling, and tried to keep a secondary round of tears from overtaking my eyes.

I didn't know what to do. With my life, with anything. I wanted my life to end, though I could not bring myself to actually end it myself, though I had thought about it plenty of times. I envied those who were reaped for the Hunger Games; and I envied them more when I heard their cannon blast. I suppose I could volunteer as tribute, but that would only draw more unnecessary attention to myself, which I got enough of here.

I had nothing to live for here. No one to live for. Though people often thought they did, no one truly loved me. And I loved no one in return. My father was never someone I really loved; he had just always been in the background of my life, inserting input when needed or wanted. I never needed to go to school; no one really does in District One, where everyone has so much money from inheritances anyway that there are never any needs for jobs. Except for the pearl miners and diamond miners of course, but those are mostly filled by teenage boys who have nothing better to do or young men who actually want to do something or go somewhere with their lives.

I finally left the bathroom, bumping right into the girl that I guess I would or could call my best friend, more or less.

"Oh, hi, Belle," I said dismissively.

"Oh! Hey Glimmer!" Belle said perkily. "I haven't seen you all day, where were you?"

"Oh, you know, around…"

"Well, anyway, I just love your shirt!" she gushed.

I glanced down at my outfit. I didn't even remember what I put on this morning; I never did. Every morning I just pulled on the first clothes I could find and somehow they always looked good. Somehow I always looked good, which was definitely always contrary to how I always felt inside.

"Glimmer! There you are! I wanted to talk to you." Cutter, the most popular guy in school, also walked up to me. Everyone who was in the hallway was staring at us. "Hey," Cutter said, ignoring the nosy eyes. "I was wondering if you would maybe like to go with me to the spring dance next weekend?"

"Um," I started. "I don't really go to those things." The hallway was silent. Cutter, rejected? The only motion I could detect were Cutter's eyes moving frantically around in their sockets.

"Um, um..." he stammered. "Okay. That's fine, I'll uh…see you around later?" he asked, giving me a halfhearted wave. I nodded quickly and turned away from the prying eyes of my classmates.

"Glimmer! What the hell was that?" Belle cried when we were in place for our next class. "You two could have been perfect for each other!"

"I don't know," I said, shaking my head. "I just don't want to be with him. I don't want to be with anybody."

Suddenly Belle noticed my wrists. "Glimmer!" she shrieked. She looked at me, a horrified expression on her face.

I shrugged one shoulder. "I hate my life; you know that," I stated simply.

"But why? You could have the perfect life, Glimmer! You could have anything or anyone you want! I don't understand-"

"It's more complicated than that, Belle," I said. "I don't want anything or anyone. I just want my life to be over."

She opened her mouth to reply, but didn't get a chance when our teacher came in.

"Hello, class," she said, waving her hand in our general direction. "Did any of you do your homework?"

No one raised their hands, as usual. The teacher pulled out a clipboard and scribbled something on it. "Okaay, should we move on?"

What class was this, anyway? I hadn't bothered to remember. I glanced at the cover of the textbook the teacher had passed out to us. Ah. Country Info, that's right.

For the next hour and a half I slouched in my seat, drowning out the lesson on the different types of District Seven trees, ignoring all the notes and whispers Belle offered me. But most importantly, I made the decision. The decision to kill myself.

…...

That next night, when I finally arrived home from aimlessly wandering the deserted backstreets of District One, I crept into my huge bathroom, though I don't know why I was being so quiet, my father wasn't even home-probably out with one of the maids again, like every night.

I stripped off my clothes and ran the bath until it was a little more halfway full and at a comfortable warm temperature. I stepped in and laid my head against the bath pillow and closed my eyes for a moment, letting my skin soak in the silky warm bathwater. I laid there for a couple more minutes before reaching up to the tub tray and taking down my razor. I accidentally dropped it, causing it to scrape down my shin, drawing blood. Scarlet beads of blood popped up along the cut and started to slide down my leg and drop into the water, dissolving away and turning the water pink.

I took the razor and slashed one of the larger veins in each of my feet, blood pouring from each wound. Then I cut the veins in my wrists, hands, and crooks in my elbow. Finally I dug the blade deep into my skin and drew across the length of my forehead, blood blinding my eyes.

The pain made me drop the razor blade and bang my head against the side of the tub. I slid down into the water, my blood slowly draining itself from my body. Silent tears washed down my face, bloodied from my lifeblood that filled my eyes and nose.

As I slipped farther and farther into unconsciousness, my bathroom door banged open and the last thing that I heard was "GLIMMER!"

Then Belle started to scream, and I blacked out.

…...

The playlist I listened to while writing this chapter was Innocent, Haunted, Long Live, Enchanted, Jar of Hearts, Hide and Seek, and Roslyn.