His last words he ever speaks are with his stylist. She's sweet, really, but he would've preferred to say his goodbyes with his mentor or family.
The stylist ushers him over to the plate, but before he goes in, she ruffles the mess of curls atop his head and pats his freckled cheek.
"Good luck," she says.
He only nods.
Then he steps onto the plate and watches the tube close down over him. It must be soundproof, for he cannot hear the sobs already coming from his stylist.
She must know something he does not.
As the plate rises, he thinks back to his family and their tearful goodbyes. If only they were here now. He could've said so much more now that he wasn't frozen with shock.
Instead, he was numb with fear.
His family would say how brave he was, how proud they were of him, how mature he's become in only a few short weeks.
How wrong they were.
The tribute closes his eyes as the sun greets his skin, listening to the countdown. Things seem so slow as he stands there.
If he made one move to get off the plate, he'd be blown to smithereens and not have to deal with this. He could just take the easy way out. No need to worry about his family watching him die slowly or watch his neck snap in a matter of seconds.
But he doesn't do it.
A loud noise blares in his ears and he starts running.
His mentor said to skip the cornucopia, just run for water and and things would work out from there. But he's small, lithe and younger than most of the tributes, and he makes it deep into the cornucopia without being detected.
So he crouches behind large bags and boxes to wait the bloodbath out.
He watches one, two, three, four, maybe even a fifth person go down. All of them were trying to get where he was. He goes against his better judgment to grab something and run while everyone is distracted and stays put.
Once the Careers have finished picking everyone off, the tribute picks up a bag and stands up straight.
He doesn't even take three steps before someone is standing in front of him, his sword and eyes sharing the same menacing gleam.
And suddenly, everything that happened in his life flashes right before his eyes so fast that he gets to watch the sword rise and come down on him.
That young man had perfect aim.
In one hit he's falling towards the ground, blood coating the area around the deep gash.
His last thought is him standing in front of the Capitol, the golden crown barely fitting around his bright red curls as the crowds cheer for him.
At least I went out fast.
A/N: 484 words of pure failure. ACHIEVMENT UNLOCKED!