What am I doing here? I sit in the train, watching as field after field after forest after forest rolls by, all melding into one continuous line of brown and green. The terror that gripped my limbs on the stage is fading now, fading into a calm haze of acceptance. I was going to die. That was what I knew, there was nothing I could do to change it. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, thinking of my family. What will they do without me? My friends in the factory… the ones who came to say goodbye, only to run out with their hand pressed over their mouth, trying to keep strong for me. For me. I'll be useless in the arena; this I know already.
"Danae?" I turn towards the door, watching my district partner, Darien, silently as he steps into my compartment. I'd never met him before—he worked in a different part of the factory, was about three years older. "Are you okay?"
I realize I've been staring at him blankly. I shift uncomfortably in my seat and steal a glance out the window, wondering when we'll arrive in the Capitol. "Fine," I murmur, pulling a strand of my honey-brown hair off my shirt. My mom always told me I shed like a long-haired cat in the summer….A lump rises in the throat and I shove the thoughts away. I can't cry here, not in front of Darien.
"…and I never really thought about how much I'd miss the factories." My head jerks up from my lap when I realize he's talking. And probably has been talking this whole time.
"Yeah," I say stupidly. A blush colors my cheeks and I look away again—back towards the windows, towards the outside world I longed to be in. "I mean, I'd rather be making clothes than… than…"
"Than dead." Darien finishes for me.
"Yeah." I study him for a moment, wondering if I could have been his friend, back before the games started. Probably not. He was one of those people who was always surrounded by friends, by girls vying for his attention. Too pretty, for one, and the way he was sitting—leaning casually against the wall, dark green eyes watching her steadily, a small smile playing on his lips. Definitely the arrogant type. The TV across from us flickers on, interrupting my thoughts. We watch the reapings in relative silence.
There I am, walking stiff-legged up to the stage. The mentors watch, the people watch, I glare at the camera with enough hatred to melt the thing, if they'd invented hate-vision. Which they probably had, somewhere in the Capitol. I watch as the Peacekeepers usher us off the stage, of into the cars we now sit. I watch the other districts. I watch, but I don't see. I watch, but I don't hear.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Darien asks, him warm hands pulling mine off the seat. I realize too late that my nails, long as they were, were tearing into the seat, that I was unconsciously ripping out the fluff as I stared at the screen.
"I don't understand!" I burst out, unable to contain it any longer. All the anger, all the unfairness that had bubbled up inside me explodes to the surface and I jump to my feet, wrench open the door, and flee. Because, sadly, that's what I do best. I don't fight. I don't accept it. I flee.