I sit on a stool, my leg bouncing up and down as I anxiously await my prep team. Today is the day, today is the day I would have to go into the arena and fight for death, when I would have to kill or be killed. I pull my legs up onto the chair, resting my chin on my knees. They were late, right? What happened if they were late? Would I be exempted? Would they keep the arena from opening until I came? Would I be killed on the spot and my body dropped into the arena where they would say it was a freak accident in my room but they needed twenty-four tributes so my body would be dropped there as an example to others? Would—No, I had to stop. I twirled a strand of thick ginger hair and bite my lip, staring at the door with enough force I'm surprised it doesn't burst into flames.
I wait. And wait. Surely they couldn't have forgotten, not on a day like this? Maybe something terrible had happened, and the games wouldn't go on? A little bubble of hope blooms inside me, a bubble I have to quell instantly. Just in case. Maybe something—the door opens and my thoughts shut off nearly instantly, the prep team comes in and they refuse to meet my eyes. Panic grips me and I fight the urge to run, to fight, to, I dunno, make them stop looking at me like I'm on my death bed.
Then, reality sets in. I am on my death bed. They're sending me off to fight, and there is a very very slim chance of survival. No wonder they look like that. My stylist shoves and bundle of clothes into my arms and leads me away, away towards wherever we're going. I walk without thinking, watching everything go by—white walls, windows, white walls, windows—"You're bleeding," my stylist cuts into my thoughts, gesturing at my arm.
I've been obsessively picking at my tracker; blood's welled up around it, little droplets slipping down my arm. Funny, I didn't feel the pain until that moment. He gently tugs on my arm and pulls me into this room, this small little thing where I pull on the soft, forest-y shirt and pants. He nudges me towards the plate and I stand there in trepidation, waiting for it to rise, hoping it doesn't.
"Good luck, Aphra," he says, and slips away. Luck was all I had.
The plate rises and I shut my eyes, waiting for a cool breeze to tickle my hair, a hot blast of sand, anything that would tell me I'm in the arena, anything to tell me I'm ready to murder. I wasn't, though, and I didn't think I ever would be.
It hits me like a slap in the face. It's cold, freezing almost, and my eyes pop open almost instantly. Trees! Trees everywhere! Trees claustrophobically surrounding the golden cornucopia, the only open space around. Trees swallowed up by the blackness beyond. The ground covered in snow, fluffy white snow peppered with black stuff and pine needles. No wonder it was freezing. Fear grips me; how will I keep warm? I had to go try my luck at the cornucopia. I had no choice. The gong rings out suddenly and I stumble, falling forwards into the snow. [i]Get up get up get up,[/i] I yell at myself; I'm a sitting duck. I find my footing and run towards the cornucopia, ignoring the screams and metal-on-metal sounds of kids fighting. I grab a backpack, some food, a woolen blanket—about to move on when I trip again and lose some food.
Three girls are surrounding one boy—the District Twelve tribute, Edward, was it? I stand and stare in horror as they take turns stabbing him, not enough to kill him, but enough to make him hurt for hours on end. A couple other people join in and now it's a feeding frenzy, killing killing all around me, everywhere, and I turn to run into the forest, away from the knives and the violence. I can hear someone crying from far away and my throat hurts; it's me, I'm crying and I'm screaming and I'm all alone.
The trees swallow me up and the blood-stained snow glows red.