Author's Note: Hi! This is my first story (that I've published on here, not that I've written) so reviews and feedback are appreciated! Actually, reviews and feedback are always appreciated, even if it's not my first story :P Anyway, this is a Hunger Games fanfiction about the 11th Hunger Games. DISCLAIMER: Only the characters (including character dialogue and actions) are mine. Hope you enjoy! Here!

THE DANK CAVE BREEZE swoops through my auburn hair, ruffling it and sending a chill down my spine. I'm inside the cave that is now my home, sword in hand, wondering what happened to me. Picking off citizens, twenty-four every year… it takes real heartlessness to do that, something only the president has.

I hear a bloodcurdling scream, the harshness cutting through the air like a sharp knife, the cannon sounding, that awful ear-shattering sound that I have grown accustomed to. So there goes another one.

I was torn at first, the thought of killing people unthinkable, but eventually I realized something: It's me or them. So I just take my sword, catapult it at my target, and hope to get over my guilt. I'm taking lives, after all, and all those hopes, dreams, fears, talents… lost forever. I doubt that I'll ever forgive myself if I do end up emerging alive, which isn't that likely.

The Hunger Games, after all, is a horrible merciless thing. And even worse is the fact that I know some of these people, most of them either friends or enemies I knew from the interviews, the training center.

I find that it's not any easier to kill enemies than friends.

My one ally is the male tribute from my district, a boy named Matthew. He's about an inch taller than me, with fiery red hair and deep brown eyes. He's definitely not tame. In fact, he doesn't think twice about killing.

I'm not sure if I'm any different, the way I keep myself from feeling remorse by reminding my brain of the lethal weapon they fought me with, bows, knifes, crude spears hewn from fatally sharp rocks and thick tree boughs.

And I suppose if I really am doing this, creating a first-hand account of my time in the Games, I should introduce myself. So I will.

My name is Huntress and I am the future winner of the eleventh Hunger Games.

I know there is no time to be writing, but I am not one to abide by rules. The paper came from the unusually large leaves that block the sky from view; the words and letters from scratching sharpened sticks into the thick green leaves.

I can tell this is not normal from the way Matthew stares. The way he looks at my leaves with disgust. His long, searching looks when he gazes at my face, trying to find the reason behind my actions, trying to find that fierce, green-eyed warrior I become on the battlefield.

They might not know it, but I am a writer at heart. No matter how the fierce, green-eyed warrior on the outside acts. I am an artist, crafting pictures with my words, creating whole lives with simple letters. And I will not let the Gamemakers take my stories away from me, as they have everything else: my family, my friends, my life.

So I resorted to this small form of rebellion.

Writing a story.

It may not be much, but it is mine.

And to me, that is all that matters.