I've never written a fanfiction before, so let me know if it's any good. :)
I screw up my eyes as the spotlight hits me; I'm quite glad really that the intense light blocks out the crowd who I know are sitting, watching me intently, and I cannot stand it. I'm relieved when someone takes my arm and directs me over to the chair. The chair where I am supposed to watch my fellow tributes die, as if seeing it once hadn't been enough. My fingernails dig tightly into the arms of the chair as I try to block out the hysterical applause of my strange audience. People with whiskers, and neon yellow skin. People with enlarged eyes and extra limbs. These are the people who will watch me as I try to avoid watching the footage of my Games. While the crazed cheering of the Capitol citizens is making me feel uncomfortable, I feel strangely grateful to them, because the longer they cheer, the more time I have before the screen starts to show the images that I am trying so desperately to block from my mind.
Unfortunately, Flickerman obviously decides that he has had enough after about ten minutes of this, and so he gestures to someone unseen, and lilting music begins to play. This shuts the audience up because, of course, they don't want to miss a single second of my winning montage.
It starts with my reaping. I can still remember images from that day. The sound of the wind rustling through the trees as everyone before the stage is silent. The mist in my head that tries to obscure the fact that I have just heard my name being called. The sympathetic glances that the crowd gives me. And it's strange to watch these things being replayed in front of me, without feeling any of the emotion that had been attached to them the first time round. The music increases in pace, and then we are watching the opening ceremony. I try not to let myself watch too closely because all the faces on the screen, the faces of children, don't exist anymore. But of course my eyes are drawn in, and I register the serene expression of the girl from District One, Fleur, who survived right until the end, and who could easily be sitting here in this seat right now if she hadn't made that one mistake. I also take in the blind boy from District Six, and my heart aches for him again as I see his head reel wildly around. I watch as my chariot rides into shot. My face might be made up, but it can't obscure the terror I was feeling – my eyes are wide and afraid. And I can see my fingers trembling as I raise my hand to wave. It's odd, but so much of that night was a blur and it seems to me that I'm experiencing it all for the first time. Finally I watch as the face of my ally appears on the screen and I have to turn away.
After this, the video becomes jerky and confusing. One moment I am watching my training score appear on the screen – a 6, I bet it wasn't even considered that I might win – and then the fighting at the Cornucopia begins. There's no footage of me here: I'm probably the worst victor ever to try and make an interesting video about. Because I had pelted away from the golden horn the moment the gong went off. I had known there was no way I could survive if I had been caught up in the bloodbath, and even the allure of supplies couldn't tempt me in. I wince as knives flash and spears twirl, and tributes collapse left, right and centre. So many of them go down. Before being in the arena I never really understood how fragile we are, how easy it is to die, but now I see. It's being illustrated on the screen before my eyes. One tribute falls with a knife protruding from his back, while one of the Careers smashes his district partner's face against a rock. Here, the footage whirls away from the bloodbath and I am on the screen. Still running and soaked in sweat, my breath is coming in harsh gasps and I can barely move. I feel the pain of exhaustion rush through me as I watch the screen because while I've forgotten details of the reaping and the training, every moment and every pain of the arena remains fresh in my mind.
The footage continues, flicking between the career tributes who are putting on a show for the audience by hunting down the others, and fighting amongst themselves, and me – being uninteresting and searching desperately for food. At this point in the Games I was hungry every single second, no matter how much I managed to consume. Four days into the Games and I was starving hungry, alone and without a single weapon. It's a miracle that I'm sitting here now, when I was such a useless tribute. I'm sure that no one was betting on me.
In fact, the footage of me doesn't seem to interest the audience until it shows Kloe, the female tribute from District 12, and I making an alliance. She'd scared me out of my wits when she'd first stumbled in through the jagged entrance of the cave where I had been hiding. I'd spotted the knife at her belt, and started backing away because I had nothing. Absolutely nothing with which I could've defended myself. So, I had blurted out something about being allies, and then crossed my fingers. Kloe had already collapsed by this point.
It had been much easier with Kloe. Not only because it meant I'd finally had my hands on a weapon – Kloe had given me her spare knife which had surprised the hell out of me – but also because the quiet of the arena had been driving me crazy. We worked well together, fought other tributes, made our way to the cornucopia and filched some of the Careers' supplies, and despite the oppressive atmosphere of the arena, I found myself actually liking Kloe. It was her death that had pushed me over the edge. We were down to three tributes.
It's so easy to be noble about the Games, and to tell yourself that you'd rather die than have to kill innocent children. But it's so different once you're inside, and once you witness the sadistic nature of your fellow tributes. Because honestly, after Kloe died, there wasn't anyone left who deserved to win, to be safe. And that revelation had been what changed me.
I can't watch the screen. I have to look away because the moment where I snapped is coming, and I can't bear it. It was bad enough living through it – feeling a fierce anger swell within me, and hating everyone and everything around me – and I don't want to see it how everyone else saw it. Because I'm scared of the way I'll appear.
I close my eyes, but that doesn't affect my hearing. I hear a flick, and the whoosh of air that means my opponents are in the net. I screw up my eyes against their screams. Then I hear the swish of the knife.
The gong goes off, bringing me back to my sense and I open my eyes. The screen is now showing my headshot. The President is lithely making his way up the stairs, the crown balanced between his hands. I wince as he places it on my head. It's heavy and chafes my ears, and I want nothing more than to just rip it off my head. I clench my fists to stop myself.
"Ladies and Gentleman. I give you your 69th Hunger Games Champion. Ryla Storne."
I feel sick.