I can't hear myself think over the roar of the crowd gathered around Cato and I. But it does not matter because my mind has been cleared of everything. Cato is kissing me for the cameras, faking a relationship. That's low, even for Cato. But I don't stop returning the favor, because if this is the angle we are going to play, I am going to play it for all it's worth. I wrap my arms around his neck. And I thought I'd heard loud already. It takes all my self-control to keep me from covering my ears with my hands.

After what seems like years, Cato and I break apart. I am faking a smile, but I know that in my eyes Cato sees how much he has just hurt me. If I am to go home, he has to die. I slip my fingers in between his, even though I want to leave him and run away, far away. He was right. He should be just another target. But he isn't. He's so much more, and I think this over as I lean my head on his shoulder.

This is wrong. I should be separating myself from him, not getting all the closer. But I can't help it, who could while looking into those blue eyes? I grin and then unwind my fingers from his. Once I have found the solitude of the dysfunctional train, I curl up in some corner and cry.

I realize that the train is not the only thing not working. My mind was truly the thing that is broken. I sang to myself quietly, my voice hushed, yet lovely. I sang a song my mother once taught me, one I sang repeatedly in my lonely room after a beating from my grandmother:

Abraham took Isaac's hand
And led him to the lonesome hill
While his daughter hid and watched
She dared not breathe, she was so still

Just as an angel cried for the slaughter
Abraham's daughter raised her voice
Then the angel asked her what her
Name was she said I have none
Then he asked, "How can this be ?"
"My father never gave me one "

And when he saw her raised for the slaughter
Abraham's daughter raised her bow
"How darest you child, defy your father?"
"You better let young Isaac go"

I only notice Cato watching me after I have finished the song. He stares at me, wide-eyed. He opens and closes his mouth several times before asking: "Where did you hear that song?"

Furrowing my brow, I look back at him, "That song is over five hundred years old. I thought everyone knew it."

Shaking his head, Cato sinks to the floor. "My sister used to sing that song, she'd sing me to sleep. Her voice was the prettiest I'd ever heard. And last year she… Was killed in the Games."

I never knew that. Never. I suddenly realize the resemblance between Cato and last year's female tribute. Tears dripped down his face. Cato crying. This song must be all he has now. He has let me through his shield, somewhere he has only let his family go. He whispers something, barely audible, "You sound just like her."

Not knowing what else to do, I sit on the ground and hold Cato, singing the song again, making the words clear.

It's ironic though. The song was prophetic somehow. The characters are from some age-old book of worship, but there is a double-meaning. It strikes me.

The angel. The beautiful angel. The demonic angel. It is the Capitol. I think back to the reactions of the Capitol citizens when they saw me. They knew how Cato had a physical advantage over me, they couldn't wait to see me die.

The lonesome hill. It's the arena. It has to be.

Abraham, he's, he's the President. President Snow. Who else would be so cruel?

So Isaac is… I am Isaac. Cato is Isaac. All the tributes are Isaac.

Who is Abraham's daughter? I do not know. She must be yet to come.

"Come on," I say. "Brutus hasn't returned yet. We can watch the recap of the Reapings."

Cato nods and I lead him to his room. I sit him down in a chair, he seems incapable of doing it himself, and seat myself on the ground. I see my name being called, feel myself pushing away the young girl, and hear the laughter all over again. I had no idea that a film reel could capture so much.

The other Reapings are boring and plain. I take note of my fellow Careers, my allies. I am close to sleeping when I hear: "Prim! I volunteer!"

My eyes fly open. A volunteer? Is she mad? I see the girl from District 12 march onto the stage, her eyes defiant and cold. Katniss, they call her.

So Abraham's daughter has a name.

AN: What did you all think? Thank you for your support! I hope you like the song reference. No flames!

~~~Flare