I once killed somebody.

It was a dark, damp day in the arena, the branches of the large trees giving me the support to stay up, buckled in with my rope, a backpack hanging by its straps on a branch above me. The bottle in my hands was empty, the sweat from my hands causing it to slowly slip from my grasp. Thirst hit me every few minutes, causing a rapid pain in my throat and a strangled gasp to escape from my mouth. My dry tongue, wishing to be moist with the water. But no water ever came. Something stirred inside of me that caused me to unbuckle my rope and grab the backpack from the branch, slowly making my way down from the tree. I hiked towards where I thought was water. Leaves crunched and twigs snapped on my way but there was just a small voice in my ear telling me to find water, to get water, to embrace the water when it came...

But I heard another snap. And a sort of crackle. I realized night had fallen and was in its full force. The dirt underneath my feet was still crisp and dry, the leaves curling up, drying out. I looked out through the greenery beside me, and saw the orange flames, different shades of orange, yellow, red...it was fire. Fire, the opposite of water. Fire, the thing I was least looking for. Well, one of the things, anyway. Fire, with a pair of hands rubbing themselves together above it. The flash of brown hair, the pale blue eyes. Then a strange sense moved my legs forwards, and I was crashing through the leaves and sticks, the dry soil, the poisonous berries surrounding me which I studied in the Capitol.

A knife rested on the oblivious tribute's knees, and in one quick motion, I came up behind him and swooped up the knife. He spun around and I jammed my fist into his windpipe, causing a strangled gasp to come from his mouth, not mine. I decided to make it fast and headed for the heart, but his arm pushed it away and caused it to enter his upper arm instead.

"Idiot," I said. "I was going to make it fast."

The next few hours were ones of screaming, agony, pain as I ripped the soul from the boy. Stabs, slices, slashes, grazes, hacking, I did it all. The boy was just begging me to end it when I cut off his tongue, so he couldn't speak. The boy was an Avox. My Avox. I hauled him up from the ground and carried him around with me for a night. He was pathetic, whimpering with a bit of effort and just letting me drag him.

Then the blue hit me, and I saw it. Water! Water! I filled my bottle, the boy squirming to break free under my grasp. I let go to seal the top back on but he wasn't fast enough to run. I grabbed him and shoved him to the ground, then slowly twisted his neck, and stopped just before I killed him, then I did so. He was dead. I had given the most despicable show, and I hoped they would like it. The most horrendous TV show, The Hunger Games, which we were forced to celebrate and treat as a festivity, had made me a monster. And I regret that. Because that was the year I was crowned a Victor. And my life was full of regrets and nightmares and horrible visions. And I died from drug and alcohol overdose, sprawled on the sofa at my home in Victor's Village, my eyes puffy and my hair scrawny and scruffy, wearing clothes covered in food, a bottle clasped in my hand, and a note beside me.

Dear Mother,

I'm so sorry I never let you love me. I know you were just trying to make me happy. I'm sorry I've turned into a wreck. I'm sorry about everything I've ever done. I'm having this last bottle. I think this will be the end. This might be my last drink, but I'll die in peace. Goodbye.

Love,

and it ended there.