When I passed a sign with a three on it on one of the landings, I heard the door to the stairs open again and someone began stomping up them. I slowed my pace, becoming quieter, but trying to still go faster than the steps I could hear because, well, I didn't really want them to catch up to me, did I?

There were two sets of stairs before every landing, so I estimated that I had one chance and one chance only when I chose an apartment to put the plan into action before they were onto me. After passing the ninth floor, my legs were aching and I was sweating like a pig, so I opened the door on the next landing and slipped through as quietly as I could onto the tenth floor.

The hallway was covered with a wine-coloured carpet that muffled my footsteps but was also so thick that it left indents of my boots on it. I cringed, but it couldn't be helped to I jogged down the hall and held my breath, gnawing at my lip and reading the numbers of whatever room I should choose. I finally decided on room 107 and swept in, sprinting straight to the kitchen, refusing to listen to thecomplaints in my legs. "Please please please please..." I whispered under my breath as I tore open cupboards and drawers and, finally, I found what I was looking for: a small bottle of red food dye.

After one more minute, I was in sitting in the living room behind the plush white leather couch, my pack flung across the other side of the room, the items previously in it scattered about. I had my knife in my hand along with the bottle of food dye and a zip-lock bag I had found also in a drawer in the kitchen. Before sitting I had opened one of the windows so there was a slight breeze fluttering the dark green curtains, and I hoped it looked like someone could escape out of there. The dye was a twist top opening, so probably poisonous like all the other open food and drink in the city, but I had never put any in my mouth before so I was sure I'd be okay.

I didn't expect the cannon fire then, but aside from flinching I didn't really react. Though it might have been the person chasing me, I couldn't risk hoping that it was, so I'd go through with the plan anyway. If I could do it in time.

Working quickly, I opened my jacket and tore a gash in my shirt with the dagger before chucking it across the room to join my other scattered belongings. Cursing myself, I got up and quickly hid the knife under the couch, next to where I'd be lying. If someone had killed me surely they'd take the knife.

Trying to make up for precious lost seconds, I quickly unscrewed the cap on the dye and poured it into the zip-lock bag until it was mostly full. In the process I spilt a lot of dye on my fingers but I didn't take any notice at that point in time. Then I put the cap back on the dye and I really didn't want the Tribute that was after me to see the bottle (it would be a tad suspicious) so I pulled my arm back over my head and swung it down in an arc to send the bottle spinning out the window. I then tore a small hole in the middle of one of the bags and pulled up my shirt, flipping the bag so the hole faced my skin and placing it on my chest so it would be covered by my shirt when I pulled it back down. The dye began to run and I hoped a believable amount would be out by the time the Tribute came in.

I could feel it running down my sides when I heard the door click open. I did a final scan of my body and saw my hands still red with congealing dye. It was pooled in the cuticles of my nails and the webs of my fingers, there was so much that it was bound to give me away. So without thinking I licked the dye off, suckling gently on my fingertips and licking up and down each digit, my thoughts distracted and my eyes panicked and watching the entryway into the lounge room. There was more than I expected and it tasted disgusting on my tongue; almost spicy, like pinpricks onto my tastebuds. It tasted sharp. I admit I even made embarrassing slurping noises because there was so much to get off and I was rushing. But I only recalled that when I thought back to it- in the moment I was more worried about not getting killed by the Tribute in the same apartment as me.

Once I deemed my hands clean enough, I lay down on my back, moving my arms out so I was spread-eagle on the carpet, dye slowly running down my shirt, colouring the skin under the rip in the fabric a bloody red. I slowed my breathing so it was measured and even; my heartbeat softening in the moments that passed to a snail pace and quiet, and my feet were starting to get pins and needles because they'd been stationary for a fair bit of time.

The dye from my 'death wound' had almost soaked under my whole shirt now, and ran from under the collar to pool under my chin and run into my hair and onto the carpet I was lying on. My breathing was quiet and slow, and I knew as soon as the Tribute entered and looked at me that I would be dead in their eyes. There was no help for someone who had bled this much. I knew that as a fact.

Finally, the Tribute entered. I only saw them out of the corner of my eye, but as soon as she moved into my peripheral vision I held my breath and fixed my gaze to the creamy white roof. It was the girl from District Ten, and she stopped moving as soon as she saw me sprawled on the floor. She hesitantly moved closer, and then slowly crouched beside my face, turning her head to look me in the eyes. Of course, as soon as she did my eyes began to itch and I wanted to blink almost as much as I wanted to ease the incessant tugging at my lungs telling me to breathe.

Her eyes were wide as they looked into mine, and though I had to unfocus my eyes slightly because I felt that that was how a dead person would look, I still noticed the tear tracks down her ruddy cheeks. He face was plain- her nose was kind of beaky, eyebrows a little on the thick side, lips full and hair a cute shade of strawberry-blonde that was plaited down her back- not light brown or blonde as I had originally thought. Wisps of hair fell into her wide brown eyes, and they looked so scared and lost that I almost forgot she was here to kill me. She looked like any other kid, just a regular person that was in too deep.

She sniffled and stood, and I heard her knees creak as she got up out of the crouch. I took a chance and blinked just once quickly, and took a minute breath in. She went to the window and leaned half-out, wide hands on the wooden sill. She looked out, first left, and then right, before groaning coming back inside fully, kneeling down by the window and putting her face in her hands to stifle the sounds of her sobs. Her plait swung over one shoulder, her broad shoulders stretching the material of her coat taut as she bowed them to bury her face into her hands. I felt pity swamp my fear, though I didn't know why she was crying. Was it because she missed out on the opportunity to kill someone? Or was it just because she was tired of all of... this?

I moved, then, grabbing my knife from under the couch. I rolled silently to my feet and moved towards her, the carpet muffling my footsteps and the rivulets of dye running from my body to the floor, but I doubt she would have heard me over the sounds she was emitting even if I was making a normal amount of noise. When I was about halfway to her, a stab of pain went through my stomach and I almost groaned; as it was I put a hand to my belly and grimaced before moving forward again. I didn't know what it was but it didn't matter.

She wiped a hand under her nose and I heard her say "Not many more to go, now, just get it together," in a voice that was so filled with tears it almost made me cry. "Home soon," she added, after a small hiccoughing sob.

I took pity on her. She obviously wanted this all to be over as much as I did and, well, it had to be one of us. I flipped the dagger around in my hand so the point faced downwards and then measured a point above her neck. Hopefully it would run straight through and be done with her. I stabbed downwards, just once, a clean shot, and blood spilled from the wound, down under her collar. After only a moment the cannon fired and I took my knife back, stepping away from the body to watch it slump against the window sill and down to the floor.

I looked at the blade of my knife and saw blood covering from the point to the hilt, running down the length of the edge to drip onto the ground. I mechanically bent down and wiped it on the girl's coat, my mind not really paying attention to my bodies actions. I was slightly shocked- make that very shocked- at the fact that I was one of the two people left in the Arena. Me, Isaac Alldrenn, voted into this by my District to die, may make it home.

"I could go home," I whispered, and the smile it brought to my face was huge. I raised a hand to touch my cheeks as they swelled to accommodate the beam that was on my face, and I even laughed. It all disappeared in a second though, as another harsh feeling of pain ripped through my stomach and I groaned in agony, falling to my knees with a jolt as I wrapped my arms around my waist.

It hurt like nobody's business- it felt like someone had got a pair of scissors and snipped a little at my stomach, cutting an incision that was both painful and permanent. God, it was incredible, like a stab wound. My good mood dissipated as I moaned again, leaning forward to rest my head against the ground beside the dirt-clogged sole of Ten's boot. I inhaled shakily and tried to get through it, breathing out in deep breaths to try and ignore the pain.

It subsided eventually, and then I stood. I put my knife in my pack and got out of there, running down the endless flights of stairs and out of the building. I needed to get somewhere when I could just... lie down and get through the pain in my stomach until it disappeared. I walked for a while down the road until the rumble of thunder overhead made me seek shelter. I knew I was nearer to the centre of the city- and the Cornucopia- than before, but I didn't want to get there just yet. I had a feeling whoever else was left would be around there.

I wound up in a flower shop. I know, it was dumb of me. Logic, coupled with my niggling paranoia, should have kept me at least two hundred feet away from a flower shop. There was so much that could go wrong in there- poisonous flowers, man eating plants, hay-fever allergies, all that. But the pain in my belly was building again and I needed somewhere to crash, stat. And the flower shop was the next open door, and, okay, maybe it smelt nice and that was comforting, so sue me.

I knelt behind the counter for what felt like hours, but it could have just been minutes. My aching knees were pressed to the floor, and I was doubled over, hugging my tummy as it felt like someone was slowly slicing away at the organs inside me. My arms were pressed uncomfortably between my thighs and my stomach, and my forehead was pressed into the linoleum floor. The only relief I got was that the ground was cool against my sweaty brow.

I had no idea what was wrong with me. It was like no pain I had ever known before, and I couldn't think of anything I had done to cause this. I hadn't been hit hard enough in the stomach or back to cause internal bleeding, and there was no way infection to any of my wounds felt like this. There was no other explanation for this kind of pain. I didn't even know what this was. Maybe it was just be some really bad stomach cramps? Please just let it be stomach cramps.

But I couldn't even convince myself. All I knew was that there was something very, very wrong with me.

When the dark light got even dimmer, I knew the sun behind its veil of cloud had passed behind the buildings lining the horizon and it was almost time to see the faces in the sky. I hadn't moved since I first came into the shop, though the pain had maybe subsided a little. But it was still there, simmering under my skin like a live thing I ached to rip out.

I had to get to the front of the shop, to the window so I could see who my last opponent was. I started slow, sliding my arms out from where they were crushed between my chest and legs to place them palm-down on the floor either side of my thighs. I then took a deep breath in and slowly pushed myself up so I was kneeling with my back straight. I was doing okay, the pain staying at one level and not increasing with movement as I feared it would. Once I was up, I glanced at my pack which I had ditched as soon as I entered the shop, wondering if it was time to eat. But then I realised was not hungry at all, not even a little. In fact, I was almost full. It felt like that one time when I was ten, seven years ago, when Rowan won his Games- at the end of his Victory Tour District Seven had a wonderful ending feast for him and I drank so much water, just because we had a bountiful supply and I could, that it felt like my insides had liquefied and I would never eat or drink again. I had even had a little pot belly until two days later.

I dismissed it as a good thing. If I didn't want to eat then I could save the food for later, which was always a good thing. Right?

I managed to make it to the front of the shop where the concaved windows were separated from the main body of the shop by thick, dark blue curtains. I patted them only to sneeze when dust clouds wafted out, so instead of just lifting them out of the way I slid though the gap between them and the wall. I stepped onto the little shelf that held the flowers and manoeuvred my way around the displays until I was pressed against the glass. My tummy ached but I tried to ignore it and I stared at the sky as it was gradually washed over with orange.

The first face in the sky was the boy from District One, his face almost unbearably soft in the photo. He was just staring at the camera, his eyes heavy-lidded but not menacing, just a simple shade of brown that matched his skin, hair clipped short, nose sort of round on the tip, maybe a little upturned.

Next was the boy from District Three, staring mournfully into the camera, thin lips downturned at the corners, icy eyes narrowed, eyebrows curving down. He would look kind if it weren't for the glare he was giving, and he obviously wasn't pleased about his fate. But he had made it so far, he must have felt the buds of hope growing in his chest as I do now. Though mine were being swamped with the constant hurting I felt in my belly. Don't bother telling me; I already know I'm a whinger.

Last was the girl I had killed from Ten. In the picture her strawberry-blonde hair was out, falling in wavy curtains around her face. Her brown eyes were confident and different to the ones that had stared almost hopelessly at me just hours ago. Something had broken in her that had still been whole when that picture had been taken.

When the acrylic blue light faded from the clouds and the world settled into silence once more, it was darker than I expected; so black that when I stared straight out the window I couldn't even see the building across the street. The heavy cloud cover blocked out the light of the moon and stars, and something heavy hung in the air. It was like the world was waiting, holding its breath and just... watching. There was an edge that we were all balancing on, unsure whether we were going to tumble back to safety or plunge off into the abyss.

I dismissed the tension in the air as paranoia, though I knew that wasn't really what it was. Things always got... strained this close to the end of the Games. It was the time where everyone expected the final battle, where the Tributes would go charging towards each other, colliding in bloodshed, torn skin, broken bones and screams. But I wasn't ready, nowhere near ready, to face the end yet, so I locked away the anxious thoughts in the back of my mind, for now.

So District Eight's Tribute was my last contender. I crawled back to the desk and thumbed on my torch, thinking hard on whatever details I could remember about her, which wasn't much. When I got to the wooden desk I lent a hip against it and stretched my arm in a quick jerk to work out a knot of tension, spinning the light from my torch around the room, putting spots in front of my eyes. As much as I tried, I couldn't remember anything aside from base facts, but it was driven from my mind when, after I sank to my knees, the pain in my belly intensified for a moment, driving the thoughts of my opponent out of my mind, but the pain only lasted long enough to startle a burp out of my mouth. I would have giggled if I was in the mood, but whatever cheeriness I did have at the fact that I was startled into burping disappeared in a split second when I felt some kind of liquid run down my chin. It didn't feel like spittle or phlegm, and I raised a hand to lightly brush over the wetness I felt trickling down my jaw. When I brought my fingers up to my eyes, they were red.

Thunder rumbled and the rain started as it fell into place slowly; pictures and their meanings, coupling with what I've been going through today connecting like puzzle pieces in my mind. The pieces started to connect with finding Jonathan in a heap in the middle of a bloodstained floor, hearing that he hadn't eaten in four days, his fever, watching him spew blood for hours.

"I'm still full. I couldn't imagine eating anything else. My belly feels sloshy,"

Oh, god. I was poisoned. In a matter of days, I was going to deteriorate into a gibbering mass of fevered sweaty skin, helpless in the middle of a bloody floor.

But what had I eaten? I went over whatever I had put in my mouth in the last few days and was coming up with nothing dangerous. I had eaten nothing that was left in the open. All the food or water I had consumed had come from safe places. I had put nothing in my mouth from those luxurious pantries, nothing except...

I remembered sucking the dye off my fingers, feeling the spiky flavour pricking at my tastebuds, slurping so much off my fingers... It tasted sharp. The dye. The dye had poisoned me. I remembered my frantic anxiety to not give my plan away to the girl from District Ten, my wild thoughts whose only point of focus was to make myself look dead. In my desperation to rid myself of the evidence that I was still alive, I had sentenced myself to a painful, prolonged, agonising death.

I was dying.