Hey.. I know I haven't written in a LONG time, and I'm so sorry. /.\ The last time I posted something was in March/April 2013... Damn. Well, here I have a new story. To be honest, I have no clue what will happen to my others, considering I've already deleted a few. I'm truly hoping that my writing is still good considering I haven't written in ages.

I got inspiration for this from seeing Catching Fire. It just sparked all of those plot bunnies that were in hibernation. Hah!

Oh, you can't hear me cry.
See my dreams all die,
From where you're standing on your own.
It's so quiet here, and I feel so cold.
This house no longer feels like home.

My eyes watered as I watched the television, seeing the blood of my sibling, Bree, staining the white, fluffy snow. The blood bloomed around her and her screams for help were ridiculed. The boys from District 1 and 2 laughed at her, creating a new gash along her arm and harshly peeling the skin off until her frantic screams faded into soft whimpers and tears. A strangled sob escaped my throat from seeing the gruesome treatment of the one I love.

"Hah! Nice!" The boy from District 2 complemented his partner for their combined efforts in torturing my twelve year old little sister. My sadness formed into a mask of resentment. They treated the death of my little sister like a fucking game!

The main murderer smirked an evil grin and replied, "We'd better head back the the Cornucopia. We don't want Thalia getting pissed off at us, now do we?" They walked away, chuckling at each other's stupid, inappropriate jokes.

The camera switched over to the shot of the Capitol's plane taking Bree's mangled body to the people who prepped the tributes to be sent home once the Games ended. Her limbs were flailed out from the edges of the claw that took her into the plane.

I glanced at my mother on the couch, whose face was a mix of shock, depression, hate, and disgust. I wiped the tears trickling down my face away. I will not be weak; I need to be strong for my family.

I turned the television off, moving to stand in front of my mother's empty gaze. I stared into her eyes, which were once so full of light, but are now dull pools of grey. I gently nodded, tensing up as she reached to pull me into her bone-crushing grip. I hesitantly wrapped my arms around her, feeling her neck bury into the crook of my neck as she sobbed. How strange it was to have a grown woman clutching her fourteen year old daughter as you would a lifeline.

The door creaked open, my father standing there with tears running down his face. He must have seen the broadcast over the screen that consumed a whole side of the District 7 community park. His scraped and scarred arms from chopping the trees wrapped around us, finally letting me release the tears that I had held in. Together we cried, clutching each other dearly.

The years passed, my mother moving into her classic District 7 job of carving and building furniture and my father chopping down trees. Work consumed them, forcing them to lose all aspects of their personalities. All three of us were shells of people, forever scarred by the graphic death of Bree.

I had turned into stone, shoving my emotions down until I became empty nothingness. I took comfort in throwing axes, imagining that the trees I buried my ax in were those two Career's faces.

I hated my parent for what they've become. I've been forced to raise myself when they're less than ten feet away at night. The heated glares and tense silences between them were slowing tearing our family apart. Who knew that just a simple death of a child could do so much damage?

My head turned towards the wooden door of our cabin as my mother stepped through it. The bags under her eyes from months of minimal sleep were more prominent than usual, confusing me as to what was behind them. I suddenly remembered, the scenes of Bree's death flashing behind my eyes. The Reaping.

My head spun. How could I forget this day of darkness, representing the day my sister was called to her execution? The day that I died inside. I covered the emotions that I felt with a blank mask, refusing to let my mother see my vulnerabilities. We had two more years of this anxiety; then I will be eighteen and will no longer be a potential candidate for the Hunger Games.

I sent my mother a blank stare, our matching grey eyes penetrating each other's. I'm ashamed to say that these people are my parents. She came to sit next to me, holding her arm out to put around my shoulders. So now she tries to be a mother? And it just so happens to be the night before the reaping.

I shot up onto my feet as my mother sat down. It was impossible to cover up the icy glare that I directed towards her.

"...Brigid..." She whispered my name, her voice cracking slightly. "I love you. I didn't mean to hurt you."

I couldn't hold it back any longer. "So you didn't consciously leave me on my own to explore the district's forests? You didn't mean to ignore everybody that tried to help you? You didn't mean to shun my father and force him to hate you?" My voice had a slight crack at the end, so I quickly coughed to clear up the lump in my throat.

"No, I-"

"Shut up! You are the most selfish person I have ever seen! You left your last daughter to fight through this district's challenges alone. How dare you!" My voice raised in volume until I was certain that my father heard it.

Her broken voice transformed into a storm of rage, her eyes turning cold. "Who are you calling selfish? YOU are the one who left this family mentally AND physically! You left your father and I worried to death, and you ignored every attempt we made to connect with you again. You are the one who has been selfish! All you care about is yourself, and no one else." She was breathing heavily at the end of her monologue, her eyes filling up with tears.

I was frozen in place. ...Me? All I care about is myself?... A tear ran down my cheek. I left this family and kept it from coming back together. It wasn't my mother and father; It was me. A strangled gasp came from my throat. I was unable to bear the knowledge that I was the one who ruined this family. My chest felt heavy and my palms turned clammy. "...I'm sorry..."

The tears came down in a soft trickle. I moved to go into the forest and sit in my favorite spot in the trees. It was where you were able to see every part of the district from a bird's eye. I could see the large, cascading rivers and the sway of the forest; a beautiful experience.

My mother grasped my shoulder, keeping me from leaving the lodge. "No." She said softly. I turned around and noticed that her hard gaze had turned into a soft one, with an emotion I couldn't describe, though I still kept my own icy one.

I shook out of her grip and went to the room I used to share with Bree. I truly don't know why I didn't leave. I could have left for good and escaped this living hell known as Panem.

I looked around the log-built room, my eyes hesitating at Bree's bed. It was made perfectly, prepared for her return. I felt the tears returning; the first tears I've had since Bree left. I blinked furiously, forcing the tears to fade. I will not cry; I am not weak. My fists clenched and my muscles tensed, feeling the familiar anxiety and fear of the Reaping. My name was now in there five times out of the total of seven. Even though my family has suffered with losses, we have still been able to support ourselves through my parent's jobs. It also helped that they worked overtime.

There was a knock on my door. I took a deep breath, recreating my mask of impassivity. I took a hesitant step forward, turning the knob gently and facing the person in front of me. I saw my father, with his short-cropped ashy blonde hair and scarred body. The scars were from accidents with the axes commonly used for chopping the trees.

I looked into his dull brown eyes, seeing the internal struggle he was having about speaking to me. He could tell that I was in a very emotional place.

He moved his gaze and placed a white lace dress in my hands. "... It's for the Reaping..." He shuffled backwards and turned down the hall without another word. My mouth stayed in a tight line as I heard him speaking to my mother. I was highly tempted to eavesdrop on them, but I figured that it wouldn't help anything.

With a sigh, I closed the door and gently lay down on the cot. I had set the dress on the floor by my mirror for tomorrow morning. I fell into a restless sleep filled with the nightmares about Bree, which have become a regular occurrence the night before the Reaping.

I quietly stood in the line, waiting for the workers to do their identification process. The dress that my father gave me was very irritating, causing me to continually scratch at my chest. The woman jerked my hand towards her, pricking it with a thin needle and wiping the blood on her identification form. I just kept my gaze hard as the process went on. I'm used to this happening; I've been doing it annually for four years.

I was herded by Peacekeepers into the small area designated for sixteen year olds. It was particularly claustrophobic being surrounded by people, forcing you to stay still.

The process of gathering the potential tributes was finished after a good fifteen minutes of chaos.

Our escort, Anastasia Dawson, smiled at the crowd, obviously happy about her promotion from District 10. I was once again reminded of the Capitol citizen's appearances when I saw Anastasia's white-tinted skin and navy blue pixie-cut. As she walked across the stage, her skin glittered from the silver dust sprinkled across it.

"Welcome, District 7, to the Reaping of the 74th Annual Hunger Games!" She screeched into the microphone, her Capitol accent echoing through the air. "Before we begin, we have a presentation from the President himself. The Rebellion!" She gestured towards the screen in the middle of the park that showed their repetitive recollection of the Rebellion and the destruction of District 13.

The video felt like it took forever, the President's over dramatized voice commentating throughout the video. District 13's boiling remains flashed across the screen before it cut back to Anastasia's face. "Beautiful as always." She grinned. "Well, let's get started! Ladies first."

She waddled over to the glass bowl full of the kid's names, five of them with mine written in delicate handwriting. Her hand hovered over the bowl for a few seconds, finally dipping into it and pulling out a small piece of paper. She gently unfolded it, opening her mouth to announce the next victim of the Capitol.

"Brigid Caylen."

I froze.