Disclaimer: I own nothing about this story, apart from a few plot ideas. Some (if not all) the characters are named after people at my school, and if you are reading this guys, (I'm sorry if you don't like your end; it has nothing to do with how I see you personally!)

This fan-fiction is based on the hunger Games trilogy, written by Suzanne Collins, and the title is made up of lyrics of the paramore song 'monster' (which is featured on the Transformers 3 soundtrack)

This fan-fiction is also on my Quotev account.

I walk down the dirty streets, my book in hand, while the wind and the rain decided to give me a beating. This was a normal sight for me; I prefer reading and writing, than to run around in the dirt and have 'fun' as other people call it.

But, why would you call it fun? Would you call the Games fun? No, so why do you say that kids running around in the dirt and mud of District 7 is 'fun'?!

My walk then turns into a jog, as the rain begins to pour harder, and within seconds, my ginger hair was plastered to my head. I hug the book to my chest, and bee-line for home, located in one of the poorest parts of D7. I say that, but we all know, that the only two Districts poorer than us, are 11 and 12. There are no upsides, that I can think of for this place, the houses are barely standing, made out of corrugated iron, like old Anderson shelters from an old war hundreds, if not thousands of years ago.

I turn left, and bolt down the street, before running up to my house, and almost flying through the doorway. Not many people can afford to have a wooden door added, and some only have one, due to the fact that they stole the wood. Not many people get away with it though, most get hung, or shot by the Peacekeepers in the town square, with the entire district watching. It's horrible. They survive the reapings, only to get murdered by the ones who try to keep order. Keep fear, is more like it.

I enter, and quickly remove my soaking boots and jacket, before heading directly to my room, and jumping on my bed; the pile of rags on the floor. No one is home; as my brother is always at a friends, and my parents work a stupid amount of hours, to feed the four of us, though they give more to my brother.

You see, he's the prized one; sporty, a brilliant runner and thrower, and strong. While me, on the other hand. I can barely pick up an axe, let alone chop down a tree with it, and I cannot run more than 100 feet, before become tired and needing to stop. And because we need to focus on buying food, rather than things to decorate the home, we only have two beds. One, my parents share, and the other, is my brothers. My parents had a heated discussion when I turn 6 about that, and I drew the short straw for it.

It's not comfortable, but when you're tired, you don't question it. Falling asleep on a pile of old baby clothes and ruined pieces of fabric is better than sleeping on the freezing metal floors, or outside, ready to die.

I shake the memory from my head, and while sitting cross-legged on the fabrics, I open the book and begin reading, not caring about the consequence that my wet hair will bring.

I read in silence for an hour, before I hear my father's heavy footsteps trudge in, through the entrance to our home. My eyes go wide, and I hide the book under a pile of rags I use as a pillow; he hates me reading, and is always trying to get me out into the world. I then proceed to stand up, and head into the kitchen.

In there, my father stands, wetter than I must've been, and holding a small amount of food. He doesn't make eye contact with me, and as normal, pretends that I don't even exist. I stand straight, with my head high, and I speak as quietly as I dare.

"Good evening, father." I say, and he places the food on three tiny plates, in unequal portions. "Is there anything you would like me to do?"

He stops and brings his head up, so that he is facing me. His eyes show so much disappointment, and it kills me inside, to know that I am always disappointing him. Even though I don't do it intentionally. "Yes, actually." He replies, and I hold my breath, as when he wants me to do something; it's never usually nice. "Go down to the square, there might be something that interests you there."

His tone scares me, so I nod, showing that I heard him, before turn back to the rain, placing my boots on once more, and heading there at top speed.