The pastures are so cold without Elena's smile warming them. She makes everything brighter. I'm not very religious, the Capitol doesn't enforce any religion, but I pray like I will die if I skip a prayer session. I can't take it not seeing her so often. Especially when I know where she is and what she must be going through. I watched the Games once when I was younger like everyone else does, but the images were too much for me to handle. I remember watching the training and preparation episodes and how these men and women with strange makeup would direct the tributes like puppets on a string. Elena never cared much of how she appeared. She never wore makeup, except for when her mother remarried last autumn, and she never shaved. I can't imagine how she must feel being forced to take part in the ridiculous habits of feminism. I haven't decided if I want to watch the Games this year. I don't think I can bare the thought of watching my best friend being possibly murdered. But I can't think about that. I refuse to. It will only make things worse to think of the worst. But it's silly to expect everything to be perfect and fine when I know there are 24 tributes, and 1 victor. That makes 23 teenagers who have the same common goal, kill Elena. Ugh, I can't think about that. I must have been thinking for a while, because Aurelia, who produces more milk than any other heiffer in the district, has wandered to the other edge of the fence. I wipe off the dirt from my hands and begin to walk up the steep hill towards Aurelia. She is stubborn and doesn't follow me back to the barn. I don't mind much because thoughts of Elena flood my brain and couldn't focus on milking her anyway.
I run back into the small cottage with dead bushes around the gutter that I call my home. Mom says hello, but I don't reply. I walk around the corner to the bathroom and begin to strip. It takes a while to take off my boots because of the hundreds of leather threads that have unraveled and tangled themselves in the metal buckles. Once I release my feet from the worn shoes, I turn on the faucet and slowly step into the pan on the floor. It's not much of a shower, but it keeps my mother and me clean. The hot water stings my back as it contacts the scratches from Elena's long finger nails that formed when she refused to release from our last hug. I don't mind though because it reminds me that she is really with me. If only I could have slipped out the words 'I love you' before she left. Now she may never know. I close my eyes and let the water trickle down my face as if it will wash away my worries. It doesn't.