'Cordelia,' calls my mother's voice gently in my ear. My head's throbbing with each beat of my racing heart. Someone presses a damp flannel across my forehead in an attempt to revive me. I reluctantly open my eyes and immediately regret it. I let out a moan as the ceiling swims in front of me, blurring my vision.

'She hit the floor pretty hard,' confirms my father with an edge to his voice. I can't tell whether it's anger or grief that's causing it. 'She'll have a big lump for a couple of days.' He crouches down next to my mother who is using the cloth to wipe away her tears as well as cool my sweaty forehead. 'Don't worry Cordelia, darling, we'll have this mess sorted out as soon as we can.' I know I should feel relief at his words but nothing strikes home. His voice seems to be coming from a mile away. Thoughts and emotions are churning with frightening speed around my head, like the washing machines at the laundry buildings. Fear, anger, grief, rage, fear. I know the Capitol deserves this after seventy-five years of sacrifice and despair for the Districts, but the children of the oppressors needn't suffer for it, surely! I have done naught to waylay the rebellion and the only crime I have committed is to have the same surname as the old man who was killed in cold blood this morning. I close my eyes again and focus my hearing on the rest of what Coin is saying. She is just finishing the rigged 'reapings' and ending with the twisted catchphrase 'And may the odds be ever in your favour.' I can almost picture the woman sneering at the camera as the TV switches off of its own accord and the only sounds in the room are the ticking of the clock and the throbbing of my head.

With the help of my parents (Julia has to have scuttled off to the kitchen to make hot chocolate for us 'poor souls') I manage to haul myself up onto the sofa, an icepack pressed against my lump. We sit in silence. There's nothing much to say.

'Well, I suppose we had this coming,' whispers Mother weakly, tenderly stroking my knee.

'They have no right to our daughter's life!' simmers Father angrily, clutching my hand as though I could vanish at any moment.

'Who says I'm going to die?' I say quietly. That shuts them up. They can't grieve for my life without admitting they think I haven't a chance in hell.

'Oh, my dears!' wails Julia, rushing from the kitchen carrying three steaming cups of hot chocolate. I wearily accept mine with a thanks and grimace as she babbles on about the barbarisms of these rebels. 'Everything was fine until they came along! They have no regard for human life, these animals!' she cries, clutching her hair again. I say nothing and continue drinking my chocolate. The truth is too condemning and real to burst on the vain and ignorant woman sitting beside me. The truth is the rebels are only doing what we, the Capitol, did to them for seventy-five years. Yes, going into the final arena with no fighting or weaponry experience against twenty-three children I have known since childhood would be the perfect conclusion to a bloody war. Oh, the irony. The President's own granddaughter forced to suffer the horrors he created. It will quench the thirst for Capitol blood and provide entertainment for the whole country simultaneously. Even if I turn out to be capable in the arena, I doubt the new board of Gamemakers will allow me to be victorious. My death will be Snow's final punishment beyond the grave.

I know I should be crying, comforting my parents and assuring them that I will do my best to win and come home safely. But I know that the moment I was singled out as Snow's only descendant of the right age my death warrant was signed and approved.

'Oh, Cordy, daaarling,' babbles Julia, 'I will watch you every night and cheer you on! I can't believe the unfairness of it…such a waste of life. And looks, too…' she fondles one of my snowy ringlets between her soft, baby-like palms. I say nothing, but the way she's acting it's as though she's the one off to her certain death, not me. 'I'll show them –'

But we never get to find out what Julia would show them as something thuds against the door twice, then stops. Then three times, then four times, becoming heavier and heavier until cracks start to show in the show frame. We all freeze on the sofa, hot chocolate forgotten and watch as the door splinters and creaks then finally bursts open to reveal at least ten men in a plain, greyish uniform standing on the street, carrying a large metal battering ram between them.

'We have orders directly from President Coin herself that Cordelia Snow is to be seized and held as one of the tributes in the final Hunger Games,' barks one of the men, not meeting anyone's eye. Well, neither would I if I had to arrest an innocent fifteen-year-old girl and take her to her death. Mother lets out a whimper and clutches my hand harder.

'Let her go,' orders Father in a stern voice, releasing my other hand and nudging me towards the guards at the door. Mother's chest is wracked with sobs, but she obeys my father and lets go of my hand.

'You didn't have to break down the door, you vandals!' yells Julia indignantly shaking her fist at the rebels as they handcuff my wrists and lead me out of the door. They ignore her and the last thing I hear is my mother repeatedly moaning, 'My girl, my little girl,' before Father tells her to be quiet, for my sake. I take one last glance at the three adults in the blue sitting room then turn back to the guards who are leading me down the road and into the back of an armoured van. Really, they're treating me as though I'm a high-security criminal! Three men sit in the back with me, silent and stony – impossible to read.

'So!' I say with false cheerfulness, 'Where are we off to now?' There's no reply. I sigh and lean back against the wall of the van. The last thing I remember before I drift off to sleep is the steady chaffing off the cuffs against my wrists.