Hello, my lovelies! It's half term in the UK, so I get a week off of school, and you know what that means? A week to write! Much excitement.

Now, I'm just going to come out and say this: I am a sucker for drama in my stories, so naturally this gets dramatic. You have been warned.

Tribute form is on my profile; I still need lots of tributes, so go crazy!

Enjoy and feel free to leave a review, constructive criticism is always accepted.

Some time earlier…

"So when are we leaving, again?"

There's a slight sigh on the other end of the line, "Anouk, I've already told you a good ten times: we're leaving in a week's time."

"Right, and you'll have…."

I trail off as something catches my eye, and I stare at it for a moment as I squint my eyes. There's something small and slightly reflective in the dark wood of my fireplace. Probably just some polish caught in the light.

I stare at it a little longer.

"I'll have the what, Anouk?" Nixon asks, his tone impatient, and my eyebrows furrow as I answer.

"The dresses, that's what I meant, the dresses!" I try and make my tone bright; I don't know why, but something feels off.

"Yes, Anouk, I'll have the dresses for you. You just have to show up, smile and read the cards."

I stare at the reflective thing even harder.

And then it clicks.

"I've got to go, Nixon, I'll see you in a week, ok?" I say, my voice obviously tense.

"Yeah, sure. Anouk, are you feeling ok? You sound a bit off."

"I'm fine. Never felt better. Bye."

How could it have taken me so long to realise? I've been living in the Victors Village for months now and I still hadn't realised until now?

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

This entire house is rigged.

Of course it's rigged my brain snaps as my body begins to tremble in fear, they're probably waiting for one wrong move so they can take away what little you have left.

Instantly, my head begins filling with all the things Snow could've overheard, phone calls, rants, my sleep talking. What couldn't he have heard?

I rush to the camera and begin scrabbling at it with my stubby nails, trying to pry it from its hiding place. The camera's tiny, just bigger than a penny and perfectly camouflaged in the almost black wood, and I can't pick it out, so I rush to the kitchen and grab a knife.

I stalk back to the mantelpiece, sweat already making the knife's handle slippery in my hand, so I wipe my palm on my trousers.

This'll teach him for spying on me.

I drive the knife into the camera, and it cracks as I wiggle the blade around-

The boy from 4 emerges through the thick vines, his skin sunburnt and peeling, and he stares me down. He appears to be bristling with anger.

"6, we meet again," Victor hisses, his blood-coated sword glinting slightly, and he slowly turns it in his hand as his sharp blue eyes glare at me.

"Long time no see," I remark, my mosquito-bitten skin prickling slightly with fear, but I can't back down now; I have to make him angry. Angry people become stupid, and that's the only chance I've got right now.

"Your balls still sore?" I tease, my own puny hunting knife tightly clamped in my hand-

Stop it. I can't let this happen now; there must be more cameras somewhere. I have to find them.

Focus on that, Anouk. Focus.

"You bitch," he spits, and he takes a step forwards, his sword pointed towards me. I raise my own knife.

"That little dagger isn't going to save you, 6, I'm going to make this very slow and painful; I'll put on a nice show for the Capitol," A slow grin spreads across his face, and he begins readying himself to launch at me, "The death of the Capitol's most hated victors daughter? Oh yes, I'm sure they'll love that."

For a moment, we're frozen, just staring each other down. The tension is so thick you could cut it with my tiny knife.

"Ladies first," I say, and Victor's expression becomes murderous.

He lunges.

It takes several moments of heavy blinking and ragged breaths to fully recover. At some point during my episode I must have fallen to the floor, because I'm lying on my side; knees up to my chest.

I glare at the knife, which has fallen close to my shoe, and I kick it away. It spins on its side as it careens towards the wall, and the tip lodges itself in the wallpaper.

I heave myself onto my hands and knees, and slowly crawl towards it. The sight of it makes me sick to my core. I have to get rid of it.

I clamp my eyes shut as I grab the knife handle through my shirtsleeve, as if not touching it directly will serve as any protection, and I throw it.

There's a loud smash, and I crack on of my eyes open. The knife has left a large, splintering hole in my window, and the early winter snow is already beginning to fall through the gap.

Let it stay there.

I look down at my feet, and my eye catches the spot where the knife pulled a sliver of wallpaper away.

I grab it and give a sharp tug upwards, ripping away a long piece of floral paper.

I've always hated that wallpaper.

No, scratch that, I hate this entire house, with its cameras and over the top décor. I despise it.

I grab at another peeling piece of wallpaper.

The next day

The rapping at the door wakes me suddenly from my sleep. I sit up, rolling my shoulders and rubbing my cricked neck, and I look around. I must've fallen asleep on the floor after my meltdown, and I stare at bare floorboards, stripped walls and torn upholstery for a moment, letting the events of yesterday sink in.

There's another sharp knock at the door, and my blood runs cold.

It's Snow, it must be him, he saw I noticed the cameras and now he's come for me.

There's a large piece of splintered wood that came up when I tore the carpets out, and I hesitantly take it. I'll skewer the President with it; I don't care what happens to me then, because Snow will be dead.

I won't be afraid. I will not break down. It will all be over soon.

Thank God.

I walk down the hallway, my heartbeat thudding in my ears and the familiar rush of adrenaline putting one foot in front of the other.

I won't be afraid.

There's a third round of knocking as I place my hand on the doorknob, and I take one last breath before I open the door.

The sharp piece of wood comes up above my head, ready to smash through the President's head.

The door swings open.

There's a terrified yell, and the person at the door jumps backwards in horror, as the splintered wood freezes mid-swing.

Because it's not President Snow.

It's Whit, who is now trembling and gasping on the floor with his knees up to his chest, my mentor.

The wood falls out of my hand.

"Whit, oh my God, I'm so sorry," I say, rushing out into the settling snow, and I crouch down beside him.

"Whit?" I quietly ask, my hand hovering at his back. There's no response, just terrified gasping and shaking.

"Whit, I'm so sorry, can you hear me? Whit?" I place my hand on his back, but he lets out a terrified shriek, and I take my hand away.

"Whit, I'm not going to hurt you, it's me, Whit, and I'd never hurt you."

It takes several minutes for Whit to stop shaking, and when he does he looks at me, his eyes wide and shiny with tears.

"Whit, it's passed, it's ok, see? You're safe," I tell him, but he's shaking his head at me, and his lip has started trembling.

"N-N-No, Ann, Th-They t-t-took..." He trails off, looking back at his house on the other side of the snowy road, and lets out a bone-chilling scream.

"HE'S TAKEN THEM, ANOUK, HE'S TAKEN THEM FROM ME!"

"Whit, what happened?" I demand, my voice rising with panic, because I already know.

And it's all my fault.

"He took Trudy, Ann, and my little Amabel. They're gone, Ann, gone, gone GONE!" He yells, and then he really begins to cry. It breaks my heart and sets the fragments into stone.

I thought I hated the President before, but now hatred has been replaced by stone cold fury.

I will tear him limb from limb.

Just you watch.