It's dark. Unnaturally dark. I couldn't see my hand in front of my face, if I were to try. It's obvious I'm dreaming, but I can't tell what's going to happen. Usually, I'm falling, and there's no one to catch me.
Not this time.
Just blackness. Dark. There's no noise in this place, no sounds at all, and all I can hear is my own breathing. There's no smells, either, no breeze, and it's absolutely still. Nothing like home, so I know I'm not there.
I take a step—It's like I'm walking on nothing. I keep walking—There's still nothing. Nothing in front of me, below me, behind me. On the edge of my vision, I feel like there's something there. But no matter what I do, how fast I turn, how many times I try, I feel like there's still something dancing in and out of my eyesight, but there's nothing.
I am completely, utterly, entirely alone.
Suddenly, there's laughter. It's not creepy—It's happy. Something uncommon in District 11.
I look for the source of this laughter, desperately, hoping that somehow, I can find it and I'll know that I'm not alone. That this isn't just a pit of never ending black, nothingness, like I'm dead. Or at least how I imagine death to be. Oddly, the thought of my own death doesn't unnerve me. If anything, it's a comfort.
The laughter increases, and now it's less like two people enjoying a night alone, and more like all of Panem is laughing at me. Laughing at how pathetic I am. I am only here for their entertainment.
With a sickly gurgle, the laughter stops, and something drips onto my head. I reach up to feel it—It's kind of sticky. And warm. I wipe my hand on my pants and go to move on, to keep walking, when bright, white, artificial light blinds me. I stumble back, and as I stand, more of the sticky stuff drips on my head. This time, when I reach up to feel it, I can pull my hand back down and see what it is.
It's blood.
Still warm.
Disoriented now, I look around for the source, and I can't see anything now but white. The light is hurting my eyes, and more blood drips down my face. I resist the urge to scream—That's just what they want, and I know it. I won't scream for them.
A moment later, I realize I've missed the obvious—The blood is coming from above me.
I know I have to look up.
I can't look up there. I can't face whatever it is that is dripping its still-warm blood all over my face.
I can feel it's something horrible—I'll scream if I look at it and I can't scream. I can't. I won't.
The blood keeps dripping down my face, leaving scarlet trails that almost resemble tears. I've got to know what it is.
I realize that, despite all this, all the blood, I'm still alone.
I force my head to tilt up, and I scream as I see the lifeless faces of my mother, and Trikke, and, still bleeding, Misle.
Oh, God, no…
I really am alone.
I know it's a dream…
But when I wake up, the world is no different. I'm alone, despite the calls of the other field workers outside, and all the people in Panem with places to go, people to see, jobs to do. I'm still waiting for Trikke to come, and quiet my screams, and for my mother to come in and offer to get some blackberries today, and for Misle to come bouncing in and sit on my lap, and tell me how much everyone loves me.
But the house stays silent.
This is what the Games have done to us.