A/N: This is my first for this category, not that it matters. It was inspired by Robert Frost's poem, Fire and Ice, which I really love, and also by a random arena Katniss mentions in The Hunger Games.

Warning: Mentions of blood, violence, and suicide, especially in the last one. Please take the T rating seriously.

Disclaimer: Suzanne Collins owns the Hunger Games. Robert Frost owns the poem Fire and Ice.

Fire and Ice, by Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I've tasted of desire,

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if I had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

Fire.

My whole life, only fifteen years, I grew up around flames. Work in the factories was sometimes rough, but there always was a fire blazing in the hearth.

It grew to be comforting, in a way, and the job paid enough money for my family to avoid starvation. So, I was happy.

And then my name got called at the reaping for the 69th Hunger Games, destroying my close to perfect life.

I knew I had absolutely no chance of winning, being from District 8. What would knowledge of how to assemble the complicated parts of a hovercraft or sew clothes do in the Games? Absolutely nothing. And, now, in the bitter cold of this hellish arena, it feels like the Capitol is mocking me. I desperately long for the flames in my home that always burned, that always kept me warm.

There's virtually no shelter from the cold, only scraggly bushes and slippery ice and falling snow. I think of the people watching. Do they enjoy this, watching all of us slowly freeze our way to death?

My family is surely watching, too. Although I doubt they're enjoying these games, they will not care about my death. Soon, my younger sister will be old enough to work in the factories, old enough to sign up for tesserae. I know that this is all that matters, and I can't blame them.

I grip my thin jacket tighter around my shoulders, crouching behind a thorny bush to escape the raging wind. Neither my clothes nor the plant provide much protection, but I go through the motions anyway. What else can I do?

I can't feel my feet, or my toes. I'm scared to take off my boots, to see what this ghastly cold has done to me. I can't face it.

A fire would solve everything, but I don't have any flint or matches. If I try hard enough, I can almost picture the stone fireplace in my family's house; feel the warmth radiating from the orange and yellow flames. Almost.

I'm not sure how many tributes are left. I'm not even sure how much time has gone by since I stepped into this nightmare, but does it really matter? I'll die anyway.

I glance down at my hands. They're shaking, the color a ghostly white tinged with blue. I force my gaze elsewhere, into the blankness of snow.

How long will it be until I die? It's strange to think about it, but I've accepted the simple fact that I'm going to die in these Games. I don't have a chance. I've accepted it since the opening ceremonies, where I had to wear a costume of a stupid factory as my outfit. There was even smoke somehow coming from the smokestacks. Needless to say, it didn't gain me any sponsors.

Bushes rustle behind me, and it takes effort to make myself turn around. My fingers scramble uselessly for the knife I found near the Cornucopia, but I doubt I can even grasp the handle with my frozen fingers.

Two boys appear in the midst of the swiftly falling snow. "It's the District 8 girl!" I can distantly hear one shout to his companion.

I inch backwards slowly. I try to speak, to beg for mercy, to scream, anything, but my teeth won't stop chattering. "She's almost dead anyway," the other boy says, "Let's just leave her."

Please, I will them to understand, don't kill me. I don't want to die like this. I don't deserve this kind of death. I haven't even killed anyone in these games...

But he doesn't listen. I feel the knife slice terribly into my skin; see the blood soaking the snow, painting it crimson. It looks bright and out of place in contrast to the whiteness of everything else, and I can't tear my eyes away from it.

And then I feel the pain. It's dizzying, and I lie back against the ground, too weak to move. The pain is so hot, nearly scorching. I thought that fire would help, but not like this. I finally scream, but the sound carries into the swirling snow, lost among the howling wind.

Is this way any more dignified than freezing to death? I'm not sure.

But I guess I was wrong. I thought I'd die by ice, but in the end it's fire that kills me.

And ice.

I love winter. In District 4, the ocean and lakes often freeze up into ice, and we're allowed to skate on it sometimes. It's amazing, the weightless speed and the soft scraping noises my skates make on the cold ice.

Swimming is nothing compared to it. The water clings annoyingly to my hair, the fishy scent staying on my skin for days.

I wish I lived somewhere where it's always winter, where I could skate everyday. I hate the stupid smell of salt from the ocean and raw fish and the rough rope nets that I pull until my hands blister and bleed.

And, when I'm called at the reaping for the 43rd Hunger Games, I hope the arena will be at least be cold. I don't mind heat, but I'd rather it not be warm. For some reason, this is what matters the most to me. I know I'll die anyway, and it's my last wish. I'd want to die remembering the ice.

The odds turned out to be not in my favor.

The arena is like Hell, the heat stifling, overwhelming. The sand dunes seem endless, and it hurts my eyes to stare that far away.

I wonder if you can die by being overheated. Maybe my blood will eventually start boiling like the water we used to warm back home for our baths. The thought sickens me, and I wish for a cool breeze, a frozen lake, a drink of cold water.

I wouldn't even mind if it was saltwater.

It's almost like my body is on fire, being roasted over an open flame. If I try hard enough, I can almost feel the bite of an icy wind, the coolness of the frozen lakes against my fingers. Almost.

My whole body is coated in sweat. At school, my teachers taught that sweat was a way for the body to cool down, but I don't feel any cooler. My hair sticks to my head, and the material of my shirt is nearly suffocating. If I wasn't so modest, I might take it off. But to have my naked body plastered across TV screens to all of Panem? No way.

It's like how I was at the opening ceremonies, blushing what must've been an ugly red, all because my stylist had chosen a fish costume. A naked fish, I should say. I was absolutely freezing, in addition to the terrible stage-fright and self-consciousness. At least, at the interviews, the fish costume had scales...

But the heat is still unbearable. I've never felt anything so hot. My throat is rough and dry from lack of water, and my legs feel weak already. I can't go on much longer...

And then I realize something. I'm already in Hell. What can be worse? Maybe death is the easiest path. It surely is inevitable. I've never been a contender in these Games. I've never been the person who tries the hardest, who suffers to be the best. I don't want to be that person. If killing myself takes away the heat, I'll do it. Escape.

Slowly, I draw the short knife I found at the Cornucopia.

My hand is shaking, my muscles already weak. It takes effort to move my fingers around the hilt. I take a deep breath. Why is it so hard to bring the blade across my wrist?

It shouldn't be. I tell myself I'm gutting a smelly fish. A quick tug to remove the skin, or a heavy blow to chop off the head. It's what I've done all my life. It should be easy. And I bring the knife down. Blood. It's startling, flowing all over my arm and fingers, reminiscent of the time I accidentally cut myself with the blade of my skates. But this is no accident.

I switch the knife to my other hand, my hand sliding on the handle, wet with scarlet blood. I close my eyes, and rely on my instincts to cut my other wrist. My fingers slip at the last minute, jamming the knife deep into my skin. It sinks easily, too easily. I don't open my eyes, afraid to see what I've done to myself. I've stooped so low to be actually doing this...

The pain is worse than I thought it would be. I wanted something sudden, something quick. But I'm not dying fast enough.

And then I feel it. It's like ice is freezing my body, spreading coldness to every limb. It's not like the ice I knew, the familiar coolness at home. The cold is intense, burning in a different way than the heat. I thought ice would help, but not like this. Nothing like this. I scream. Blood covers the ground, and it suddenly scares me. It's too late. I can't stop myself from dying now.

I guess I was wrong, but I got my wish. I thought I would die by fire, but, in the end, it's ice that kills me.

A/N: What did you think? Reviews and concrit are always appreciated, so thanks.