Mr. Snow,

My therapist says that I have too much anger bottled up inside of me, and I need to find a way to let it out, so I chose creative writing as my outlet. But be warned, this isn't exactly creative writing. In fact, what I'm writing to you about is purely non-fictitious.

I've got a bone to pick with you. And I'm not even going to try to be polite, no, sir. Who in the world do you think you are?

Do you not have a conscience? Don't the horrors you inflict on people come back to haunt you? How can you even stand yourself?

Take it from someone who went through it all: the Games, the Victory Tour, the months of torture, every single endless minute. It's impossible to explain in words.

You've never been so crushed and defeated that it's impossible to feel any more pain. When there's so much hurt that you become numb. It seems like there's nothing you have left, and even then, they find something to take away to bring you even lower. Hope is a forgotten dream, and you're afraid to treasure any breath, any thought, because any second they might take that away too. When your soul is a thin thread that could break any second. You've never suffered that, and you put innocent people who've done nothing wrong through it every day.

After being in the Games took half my sanity, you took away my home. You took away my friends and anything familiar. And if that wasn't enough, you killed off my family, one by one, drawing out the pain, killing me silently while I smiled for your cameras. You sent me to the Games again, you captured me and tortured me, and now, I'm ticked.

Just sending this letter won't relieve my fury. No, I won't stop until you're dead and I personally make sure you are.

I don't think this writing exercise worked, it just stoked my anger instead of releasing it. I'll have to tell my therapist that I need a new creative outlet.

With all hate, and worst wishes,

Johanna