I was all alone in the arena… the only one left. I had won the Hunger Games. And I wanted to be dead. I had the blood of twelve people stained into skin; into my heart. How could I possibly forgive myself? I caused misery for twelve families. I ended twelve lives.
People say that they can end lives. That, when it comes right down to it, they could… your life or theirs, right? And they wouldn't mind. That's how it was for me. At first. I didn't think about their lives- their families- until the end… until after my life was guaranteed, until after I knew I was safe. And then it hit me. Everyone was wrong. You can't accept it; it's so, so hard to face the fact that you've ended a life. Their eyes, I always heard about how the light goes out; how you can see the soul leaving the body. That's true, but not as scarring as the breath. What really happens… what you really think about after they die, is their breathing. Their last, shuddering breath. The eyes are bad, but the breathing is worse. People go around with dead eyes. But no one goes around without breath.
I hated myself. I had killed in the past- mostly rabbits and squirrels- but humans? Living people, with feeling and families and the ability to think and grieve? I ended their life. You can't understand how this feels until you do it yourself.
I was still breathing. I was still able to see. I had a heartbeat. Unlike twenty-three others. They would never breathe again. Never see again. Never talk again. And twelve of those lives were on me.
I was still breathing the next day, after I was hovercraft-ed out of the arena. I was still seeing. My heart was still beating.
The next day I was still breathing.
And the next.
And the next.
And then, with the pulling of a trigger, I wasn't.
But I was relieved.
