I don't own the hunger games at the moment, so until I do I want you to understand that you'll have to send Suzanne Collins any bad reviews about this, good ones, however, I'm absolutly happy to recieve (just joking, any constructive reviews welcome)!

The icily cold wind freezes my face as I battle through the snowy tundra. I have to get to the Cornucopia, there is a feast which will start any second now. I have to get there, otherwise I'll freeze or starve to death. I get out my bottle of water; frozen, just as I suspected. The cold is worming its way underneath my clothes, biting its way into my skin. My teeth are chattering and my hands are shaking, I don't know if I can go on with this any longer; I don't know if I even want to go on with this any longer. But then the faces of my family lights up in my mind, along with Sandy. Sandy needs me. I grind my teeth and press on, struggling through the blizzard, it biting away at me, revoming layers of my skin until it turns into a raw mass of flesh.

Then I can see it, yes, I can see the Cornucopia! Hope rises in my heart until I notice the feast table, lain out. Except there's something missing, the food. Either I'm too late or the Gamemakers have played a nasty trick on us, either way I'm dead. My heart sinks and I feel something warm trickling down my back. At last, the heat is welcome. I feel the heat spread across my back, but what is it? I stick my hand next to the warm substance and bring it out. Blood, my hand is coated in blood.

I turn around just to see the smug face of one on the Careers, her mouth grinning at me manically. Why me? Why now? I made it to the final eight, I had a chance of winning, I had a chance of getting back home. But no, it's hopeless. I look into the eyes of my attacker, soon to be murderer. I open my mouh to try and speak but all that comes out is blood. Warm, sticky blood. It seems to embrace me, covering my body, keeping me warm for the last few seconds of my life.

My attacker, her eyes, deep blue like the ocean with specks of white like foam. Just like back home at district four, back home at the harbourfront, back home where I will never return. But there's something else about her eyes, resentful even. They seem to be whispering something to me, something so hard to convay it takes my last ounce of thought to realize the message, just before I die. Then I slip into the balck oblivion, all the time thinking of the message until I can think no longer.

I'm sorry.