FEAR: the 38th Hunger Games

GAME MAKER

FARRIS COLDWELL

"What are you planning?" The curious voice pesters Farris as he watches the overview of the most recent Games. He looks down from the television to his six year-old son, Julius, the familiar blue eyes that the boy had inherited from his father peered up at him. Farris' weakness.

His lips stretch upwards just the slightest in a pitiful smile.

"What do you mean?" Farris asks the little boy, knowing very well what Julius was asking. He wraps his arms around Julius and pulls him up onto his lap.

"You know what daddy." Julius pouts stubbornly, his arms crossed.

Farris smirks at his son's reaction, in many ways Julius had gotten these sorts of traits from him. Farris knows he will grow up to be successful, if he is anything like his father. It pleases him.

"What do you see in common with the tributes each year?" Farris asks his son, glancing to a recap of the countdown from last year on the TV, His ninth Arena as Gamemaker. He knew it has a bit much to expect a six year-old to start questioning the emotions of teenagers in such a situation, but this is no average child. Julius is the son of Farris Coldwell, as he approaches his tenth year as Gamemaker he breaks the record of longest time in the position. It rarely is a long-term job; the President gets tiresome quite easily.

But Farris sees himself to be above that. He is different.

And so is Julius.

Julius' face crinkles up in thought. He stares at each tribute intently with his little mind cranking through ideas.

"They are scared daddy." Julius says in realization as the camera flashes to an outlying District girl in tears.

Farris smiles, the widest he has smiled in a long time. In response Julius does the same, enjoying the positive reaction from the father he admired so strongly.

"Yes, they are scared." Farris says.

"What does that have to do with the Arena?" Julius asks.

Farris laughs, "everything."

"How?"

"Fear is beautiful, a piece of art. And the Arena will be the same, it will be designed to make the tributes scared." It was his tenth year, silly as it is Farris was feeling sentimental about it.

There is a reason he has lasted so long as Gamemaker, because he is scared. As scared as any District Two or One tribute gets in the Games, even if they find themselves so secure in victory. They still are scared, and if they aren't then they die.

Fear pushes you; it has pushed Farris to reign above the rest. To make the best and most complicated Arenas, because if he didn't then it would mean death. Some say it is hope, but like light and darkness there is no hope without fear.

It is beautiful.

Farris had heard stories of the people of hundred of years before Panem and their ideas of terror, it was the sort of thing only the most important had access to. Farris was important enough to know about the President's secret library. The ghost stories they had to add fear into their lives.

Fear. The Arena will be fear, he wasn't sure how but it was the only way to keep improving, to make his tenth special.

Everything the tributes ever feared had to be thrown together and mixed into a battleground, it had to be beautiful. Give its inspiration justice.

Let the hope stay dim, and let the fear burn on.

Let the fear overcome you.

DISTRICT EIGHT VICTOR:

When you have nightmares, you wake up. The problem is when you can't wake up. And when you can't wake up from it, you shut your eyes and pretend to be somewhere pleasant. That is what they tell me at least, whenever it becomes too heavy for my weak shoulders.

But every time I close my eyes I see them. I see the scars they left. I see the blood.

There is no escape; no paradise to turn to. I can't run from the fear, because the nightmare is my reality. I am the nightmare, and I can't escape myself.

There is a way.

I could end it all.

Then what? They kill my family and everything I've touched? Just because of what they made me, what I let them do to me.

It has been five years since I was sent to hell. The descent from heaven arrived on my sixteenth birthday. I was reaped. That was never supposed to happen. The wealth was supposed to protect me.

Money doesn't save you from demons, but give the demon your soul? That is how you survive. So handed my soul to the devil.

The devil sees no currency.

I close my eyes to escape the thoughts and like always I see him. The boy I was raised with. Never a friend, but he was a person. I slashed his throat. The blood stains my hands. I can't wash it away.

The soft and gentle hands of my newest caretaker guide me up from my chair. I'm like an old lady. A day seems to be a year and I feel a hundred. My feet slide across the hardwood floor with her help. She brings me to me first floor bedroom. My bed is covered in blood; no matter how much my caretaker washes the sheets the blood won't go away. She attempt to lie to me, says they are clean as snow. Bleach a thousand times over, she must think me to be blind.

I should fire her, but then I would have to hire another. With the Devil pulling into town tomorrow I don't have time to make last minute adjustments in my life.

When I'm done handing over two children to the gates of the pit of flames, I will fire her. All she does is lie. Says there is no blood.

What a liar.

She assists me with sitting down onto the bed and I move her hands away, and lay down. I adjust in my bed until I flip over to see a young looking girl, covered in scars and blood, staring at me from the wall. I scream and jump off my bed and take shelter in the corner.

"No mirrors, I told you no mirrors." I say behind the dark strands of hair that are matted to my face.

She looks surprised, almost scared, and for a moment I realize she can't be more than twenty. Only a little younger than me, but she hasn't seen what I have seen.

No one has, no one understands. Not even the other victors, no one gets it. Why can't they see what I see?

I whimper in the corner, my head resting in my hands. "Why can't anyone see the blood?"

Chop off his head!

Chop off his legs!

Chop off his arms!

Everything must go.

DEAD!

The voices waltz around in my head, they laugh and cheer like drunk fools. The caretaker quickly takes the mirror and flips it over.

"I'm sorry." She says.

I bring myself to my feet and look in her eyes. Fear.

I know that look by heart.

Every night in my dreams I see those eyes, looking at me. Judging me.

I am afraid. I am fear. They all fear me; all their eyes judge me. I'm so afraid. So afraid, so lonely, they all died or left me because I am the fear that haunts them.

I am fear, and nothing escapes me.

Hello! Just a small intro, I always think the intro to syots are a bit lame in my opinion but regardless everything needs an intro and it is important just so you guys know how I write. Though even though the first bit is in 3rd, I write in 1st. I just decided to mix it up a bit by having the sort of average Gamemaker talk about Arena and then something "different" I guess.

If I made any mistakes please tell me, I am really trying to improve my grammar and just overall correctness.

About myself: Not much, I've written SYOTS before, I have two finished SYOTS and two that for personal reasons I couldn't continue. But that was a while ago; I am back and ready to take time for this. I'm older and know how to handle things. I won't quit, I know why I did before and it won't happen again.

QUICK RULES:

I pick how the story goes and who will win (and how I choose the Victor), end of story (sorry just want to make sure that is clear)

No Mary/Gary-Sues obviously

No double submissions

If you submit please try to review, it is very much appreciated

Please submit through PM! Review submissions will not be taken, sorry I don't make the rules.

I would really prefer if you were to use my form, FORM ON MY PROFILE.

Thanks for reading :)