Day 20

I wake at midnight; I want to arrive at the Cornucopia well before anyone else and I'm factoring in the long walk too. I pack lightly – just my torch, batteries, moonglasses and a knife. When…no, if I return, I will reward myself with a hearty hot meal and I'll have my own little feast of sorts.

My heart pounds and pulsates as I creep along the riverbank in the direction of the Cornucopia. I could be dead in a few hours, my throat slit by Clove or strangled to death by the Ox. With each step I take, my feeble attempt at a plan seems more and more like an execution order. What was I thinking? I have no chance at getting out of this alive. If I had any sense at all I would turn around and slink back to the safety of my den. But a loathing for the other tributes propels me forward. Someone else will claim my gifts – and then I'll be even more at a disadvantage than I am now when someone comes charging at me with the weapons intended for my use.

It's still deathly quiet and dark when the great horn of plenty comes into sight, now glistening silver from the moonlight. My stomach rumbles. Perhaps I should have eaten before I left. You never know when you'll next eat in the Games.

I'm guessing it's been about two weeks since I jumped off my pedestal. I've lost count. You live for each day and don't look back, only forwards, to your goal. It's about surviving.

When I arrive, I take one step out of the safety of the forest, then another. Intuition and instinct tells me that I'm alone. I circle the Cornucopia a few times, examining it from different angles, trying to figure out the best way for me to get as close as possible. I can't hide in the forest – it's too far away for me to run. I try to climb the Cornucopia but my feet slip on the damp, dewy surface. I walk around to the front, where all of the supplies were stored at the bloodbath. It's dark inside, dark enough that I can't see what - or who - is there.

And then an idea hits me like a lightning bolt. If I were to hide in here, no-one could see me. I would be as close to the Cornucopia as one could get. I almost jump for joy, but the cautious, precarious part of me takes over, checking for flaws in my plan, evaluating all possible scenarios. What if someone arrives early and checks the place out like I did? What if the morning light illuminates the inside so that I'm visible?

The air is getting lighter. Dawn is approaching. I walk back as far as I can into the Cornucopia and prepare myself to run. I sheath my knife and torch, take off my moonglasses, flex my fingers and crouch. My ears strain for the sound of a tribute. A rustle. A snapping twig. A faint footstep. Anything. The birds have woken up and start to chirp. It's coming closer. The air is tensing up. Any second now…

And in a flash, a table with four backpacks, well, three backpacks and a small satchel emerges from the ground. The first two are large, black packs with the numbers 2 and 11 sewn on. The smallest one is bright orange and has a tiny 12 in the corner and the one in the centre is moss-green and is labeled with a 5. Momentarily I'm tempted to take one of the others, perhaps the orange one, but I dismiss the idea as soon as it arrives. If I take someone else's pack, they'll hunt me down for sure.

My feet kick off and the adrenalin gushes. My heart feels like an explosion waiting to happen. I yank the green pack (which is heavier than it looks – a good sign) and sprint towards the lake as fast as I can. I don't turn around. I don't stop. I just keep running until I'm concealed by the safety of the trees. I look back to see what action is taking place. Katniss is making a beeline to her pack when suddenly Clove intersects her. A flash of silver flies across the plain and Katniss falls onto her back. My heart races in joy, but it soon evaporates. She's not dead. Instead, Clove rams into her and they struggle on the ground. I hear screaming. Clove pins Katniss down and wields a long, thin knife, ready to thrust. I hear indistinct talking but I'm too far away to catch any part of it. Suddenly, a dark hulk crashes out from the trees and yanks Clove off of Katniss by her hair. It's the Ox. He pins her against the Cornucopia, while Katniss crawls away, her forehead dripping with blood. Clove begins to scream.

"Cato! CATO!"

Cato doesn't show. At least, not until the Ox has picked up something, a rock I think, and started smashing it against Clove's head. She crumples down and I listen for the cannon. Still no sound? Why won't anyone just die?

The Ox turns and faces Katniss. They talk for a few seconds and then the Ox grabs his own pack and sprints towards the drop off where he came from. What? Why didn't he kill her? I'm confused. This is neither the time nor place to show any mercy.

Katniss and her satchel stumble back into the forest just as Cato comes into view, but instead of chasing after her, he kneels down beside Clove and cradles her body in his arms. A cannon fires. At this point I know the fight is over. There'll be nothing worth lingering around for now. I turn and run back to my base, feeling the most alive I have ever felt in the Games and only slightly disheartened that there weren't more deaths. But at least they got Clove. Who's the better one now? I think.

I don't stop to check the contents of my pack just yet. Not until I get back to my den. An hour later, I know that something is wrong. The mountains and cliffs where my den is are missing. Is it an illusion? I run the rest of the way back and my heart sinks into my stomach. I feel sick. My hands start to tremble.

It's gone.

My den, all of my food, the pots and first aid kit have vanished. Replaced by a seemingly endless lake, as though the earth opened up and swallowed the cliffs and with them, my camp. This is probably exactly what happened. I drop to my knees and start thrashing my arms around in the water, digging desperately through the mud and sand even though I know it's futile. I feel like crying and my eyes begin to sting, my throat closing up painfully. Here I was, stupidly deluded that I had a chance to diverge from the fate assigned to me. It was nothing more than ignorance. I have no power here. It all belongs to the Capitol and I was a fool to think that I had any. The lake in front of me is a harsh and sobering reminder of that. I won't make any mistakes again.

Standing up, I realize that I had forgotten about my feast prize. With significantly lower spirits than before, I unzip the pack and pull out its contents. Like I suspected, the Capitol has sent me weapons. A few hours ago I would've been delighted at the prospect. Now I just feel empty, craving food and shelter over weapons.

There are three items in the pack. The first is a vest of sorts, with slots holding a myriad of knives, serrated and smooth alike. Some are curved and others are straight. I've seen this before. I think of Clove and her array of knives that she kept neatly filed on her on her own vest. It makes my stomach turn. I don't want to end up like her – killing for fun instead of self-defence. Yet while the sight of the vest sickens me, I have no other choice but to be grateful.

The second weapon is a copper-coloured bow and the third a quiver containing a dozen matching arrows. I remember back to training in the Capitol. I was okay with a bow, but not fantastic. I wonder if Cassandra and Corah had anything to do with this. It would make sense if they did. These are long-distance weapons, to use far away from danger. I'm not sure I'll ever get to use them.

I've never been an optimistic person, but now seems I need to be. I force myself to evaluate the situation as best as I can. Yes, I don't have any food, water, shelter or medicine. But I have two new weapons. With weapons I can hunt. Plus I'm still alive. That's the most important thing of all.

My stomach howls. I deeply, painfully regret not eating before I left. I had turned into a Career – expecting a hot meal and warm bed at the end of the day. I want to rip out my hair for being so proud and arrogant. The Capitol will always, always have dominance over me. As if I could defy their plans to kill me so easily. They saw my weakness and exploited it. Now this is the price I have to pay for trying to stay alive. It's not anger that I feel, though. It's fear. Fear of the utter and complete dominance the Capitol has over me. They can control my every move, my entire chance of survival. They could kill all of the other tributes and crown me victor with one flick of a switch or they could send a muttation to tear me to shreds with another. My life is in their hands. I am a pawn, a tool, an expendable game piece in their television show. I am a character. Fictionalized. Not real. Disposable after the viewers get bored. That's what I'm terrified of.

As the day draws to a close I say goodbye to the spot where my den – my lifesaver used to wait for me and trudge down the river, away from the Cornucopia and the lake. I will not return. I keep an eye out for animals and after I've just about given up, my eyes spot an injured squirrel. Ten seconds later, I am pulling an arrow out of its hide and skinning it with one of my knives. After burying the offal and skin, I examine the red, raw meat. My matchbox is empty and I don't remember how to build a fire by rubbing sticks together. Do I dare eat the meat raw? I know that the Capitol sometimes does, in fancy dishes with exotic spices and flavours. If it were a bird I wouldn't risk it. But I'm so hungry and it seems a waste to throw it away after I've gone to all the trouble to kill and skin it. I take a bite and gag. It's still warm and wet with blood. But I force myself to continue eating. I will not show weakness. Not again. After a few bites, I adjust to the flavour and pick the carcass clean. There's not that much meat.

I'm washing the meat down with fresh, cool, sweet water from the river when the anthem plays and Clove's face flashes in the sky. After everything that's happened today, that still feels like a victory.

For the first time in what seems like a thousand years, I am sleeping under the stars. I wonder if they're real or if they're Capitol-generated images. You can't see the stars in District 5 except on very rare occasions in winter, when the skies are a little less cloudy and polluted. Volt and I would lie on the roof of his house and make up patterns and stories about the stars.

"Did you know that they sent a man to the moon, a long time ago?" he had said.

"No. I had no idea. How far away do you think the moon is? I must have taken them forever to get there", I had replied.

"There were satellites that had traveled all over the solar system, drifting alone, sending back pictures of planets and stars and nebulae to Earth."

"How many are there?"

"What?"

"Stars."

"I don't know. Lots. See for yourself. You should try counting them."

This is what I do now. I try to recall the star patterns that we had made and the stories that went along with them. I count them, one by one. After my parents died, the orphanage matron told me that stars were the souls of people who had died. Shooting stars were spirits departing the world for heaven. I can see my parents now. They glow brightly for me and sit next to each other. But Volt is the brightest star of all.

I close my eyes and let the gentle trickle of the river lull me to sleep.