District 1
Estella Blake
Victor of the 182nd Hunger Games
The train speeds along the countryside. It's much smoother now, than when I first Volunteered during the 182nd Hunger Games. District 6 has seriously improved trains since then, since I can barely feel this train moving. On my way to the Capitol for the first time, the train was rattling like mad. Nobody thought it would break down, or anything of that sort, but the noise made it difficult to sleep. Now all I can hear is the whoosh of the wind as we rush by.
I lean against the window, watching the countryside rush past. We're technically still in District 1, since we're adjacent to the Capitol, but nobody really counts this as District 1, since it's just mountains and the train tracks. The Capitol is nestled in the middle of a bunch of large mountains, which used to be called the Rockies. It's one of the reasons it takes so long for us to reach, despite the speed of the train. We have to go over a bunch of mountains, and since the train can't go so steep, we have to take a bunch of longer routes.
I volunteered for the money, which is odd for District 1 tributes. My family wasn't poor or anything - we were actually some of the richer families in the District. My parents both owned several large, important factories they had inherited from my grandfather. We had a lot of money. Unfortunately, we didn't have enough.
My father contracted a deadly disease when I was sixteen. We were told it would kill him slowly and painfully, unless we got proper treatment in the Capitol. Of course, treatment in the Capitol is extremely expensive, and not something even the richest family in District 1 could afford. The only way we would be able to make enough money was if I won the Hunger Games.
I had never considered Volunteering for the Hunger Games - it wasn't my thing. I didn't care about glory or fame - I just wanted to manage our family's factories and get married. Nothing more extravagant than that. My parents were both Hunger Games fanatics; they watched every year, and usually got pretty into it. They never pressured me to Volunteer, though (at least, at first). They didn't want me to die.
But after my dad got sick, Mom began hinting that I should Volunteer for the Hunger Games. I was skeptical, because although I wanted to help my dad, I had never laid a finger on a weapon and there were kids at the academy who had been training since the age of eight. But Mom hired a private trainer for me, who practiced with me constantly for two years. When I was eighteen, I volunteered.
By some miracle, I won the Hunger Games. I was able to pay for my dad's treatment, and he recovered. But he died, anyway, only ten years after my Victory.
I don't remember my time in the arena very well. My memory's getting pretty spotty, now that I'm nearing my 85th birthday. But I have a very vivid memory of being crowned as the Victor.
The president at that time was a female, President Quinnley. She wasn't as strict as Divine, but not an idiot like Chorley. She was a pretty forgettable president, since she didn't do anything important. I bowed down and she placed the Victor's crown on my head. Then, she whispered "Good luck" in my ear.
I suppose I have had good luck throughout my time as a Victor. My dad recovered from his illness, I've successfully mentored many tributes, and I've lived sixty-six more years without any of the usual Victor side-effects like insanity or alcoholism.
But each day that passes, I ask myself the same question: how much longer will my good luck last?