The dark eyed boy is in my nightmares that night.

Inevitably the moment I close my eyes I find myself back in the arena, in the cave where I first met Kloe. I panic, pulling my arms tightly around my chest because I really don't need another dream about her, not tonight. But the dream doesn't feel like one I've had before, and my nightmares have become so damn repetitive that they're actually beginning to become tedious. But this dream is different.

I hear footsteps coming from behind me and I wheel round in terror, my eyes flickering wildly around the cave as I try to locate the source of the sound. "Hello?" Stupid, I tell myself, you're so stupid.

"Ryla?"

Now I'm confused as hell, because this is Marko's voice.

"Marko?" I reply, my voice rising in astonishment. "What are you doing here?" I slap my palm against my forehead – don't talk to him Ryla, you idiot. In the arena you have to treat everyone as if they were an enemy, even if they do come from your district.

"Ryla?" His voice is drawing closer to where I'm standing and I start taking hesitant steps backwards. I don't like the fact that he keeps advancing and one glance down at my belt tells me that I have no weapons and so I'm completely at his mercy. I back up so far that my back crunches against the cave wall and I stiffen because now all I can do is wait for Marko to come round the corner.

An arm carrying a lamp is the first part of his body to enter into my line of vision. The light flickers, throwing odd shapes onto the cave walls. Huge, dark shadows that make me flinch in the belief that someone else is in the cave – but then I recognise the shapes for what they actually are; the twisted rocks that protrude out from the walls of the cave.

A foot is what I spot next, covered in a sturdy leather boot just like the ones I am wearing. Slowly the rest of him comes into view and my jaw drops as the light illuminates his face.

Because it's not Marko after all, it's his brother.

His face is filled with pure hate; his eyes burn with anger and his free hand hangs clenched stiffly by his side. I press myself back against the wall, telling myself that if I stay still enough that maybe he won't spot me. Of course, this is stupid, because he's already seen me, this is the reason why he looks so furious. I open my mouth, but then snap it shut again. Because what do I say? Try to defend my actions and explain that I would've been useless anyway? Or do I just apologise for not helping his brother? I doubt either of these actions would make any difference and as his lips curl upwards into a smirk I see that I was right. Every part of him is tensed with revulsion – this isn't the kind of anger than can be wiped away with a simple apology.

"You killed my brother," he tells me, his cheeks flushed with excitement as he realises that revenge is near.

And the odd thing? I don't even resent him for it, because I can understand why he would blame me. Maybe I blame myself a little bit too. So I feel my head nod in agreement with his words, "I didn't mean to, but it's still my fault." I should have helped him, I think sadly.

"Right," he says sharply, "It is your fault." He moves quicker than I would've thought possible and his hands snap around my neck. I don't struggle like I had with the boy from District 5 because in my head I know I deserve the pain.

He squeezes more firmly and I can't breathe. Or maybe it's more that I don't want to breathe.

I wake with a start, my heart pounding painfully in my chest and my limbs soaked in sweat. The bedcover has twisted round my legs and I kick it off in a panic. This wasn't like my other nightmares; the other times I had simply had a flashback from the arena and as scary as it had been, at least when I had woken up I was able to tell myself that it was over and that I was safe now. But this was different; because the hatred in his eyes as his fingers had closed around my throat had mirrored the look he had cast in my direction during the funeral. This was my subconscious telling me that he probably does blame me for the death of his brother. I swear in frustration and run a shaking hand through my hair. I had assumed that all of the families who would hate me would be safely separated from me in their various districts. But if the look on Marko's brother's face had been anything to go by, then this clearly wasn't the case.

I push myself out of the bed because I do not want another nightmare tonight. What scared me just as much as the expression on his face had been the fact that I had just given up. When I had been reaped, the one thing I had promised myself was that I would never give up, and yet in the dream I had just stopped breathing. A shudder passes through me and I tell myself to stop thinking so morbidly.

I decided yesterday that if Tallulah wasn't going to talk to me, then I would just have to write her a note and now seems as good a time as any to start writing it.

It turns out that tiredness and anger aren't a great combination when it comes to writing a letter. My eyes kept blurring over and my lids kept threatening to drop shut while I was writing. Add to the fact that I'm so pissed off with Tallulah for not coming to greet me, I'm having quite a difficult time with this. I scan back over what I've already written, trying to see if there's anything that I might be able to salvage.

Tallulah, I understand why you didn't come to see me when I arrived, but I was hoping that -

I'm sorry about what -

Why didn't you come to greet me when I arrived? I know how you feel about the Games, but I still -

Just let me explain why -

Why -

Nope, five hours of constantly writing and I have absolutely nothing that I could actually ever send to her. Any one of these letters would probably just make her even angrier with me. I've tried various approaches: profusely apologetic, explanative and blunt, sad and searching for sympathy, angry. None of them are what I need. If I'm honest, what I really need is an hour with her, just to explain exactly what happened. I think that's the real problem – a letter just feels too impersonal and I've always had trouble spilling my feelings onto a piece of paper. I need to see the person's face so that I can judge their reactions and their expressions. But I'm in a bit of a vicious circle, because I know that Tal doesn't want to see me which was why I was writing the letter in the first place. I slap my palm down against the table in annoyance and it scatters my papers. Sending some of them floating down onto the floor and I sigh as I bend down to pick them up. As I read the various rambling sentences I make a decision and pile all of the pieces together, fold them up and shove them all into the envelope I had waiting for my finished letter. Maybe a finished letter isn't what she needs to see right now. These sentences definitely show how much time I spent trying to decide what to say, and so I have to hope this emotion will be enough for her because I don't have any words left in me to send. I stick the envelope down and cross my fingers as I stare at it. I have no idea what else I should do.

I decide that I need to be productive today because sitting around here moping is hardly going to do me any good. But deciding what I should actually do poses a different problem. I guess I could go and visit my family but the way in which we said goodbye yesterday morning suggests to me that they won't be that keen to see me. I need to deliver the letter to Tallulah at some point but that will only involve shoving it through her door and then darting away as fast as possible before she sees me. I need something that will take up a good portion of the day and something that will tire me out as well. My eyes roam around the kitchen and fall on the plate that Seeder had brought over yesterday. The cloth is still draped over the top of the plate and so I lean over and pull it off. It's a plate of cakes; they do look quite appetising actually, but my stomach turns at the thought of eating them. I could never enjoy them knowing that everywhere else in the district people were starving hungry. Ding; that's when I get the light bulb of an idea – I've been given more than enough money for myself and I don't need it; delivering food throughout the district will certainly be time consuming and I have no doubt that it will wear me out. Plus, it will give me the chance to deliver my letter.

I take Seeder's cakes with me when I go, because I'm sure I'll be able to find some kids who'll be happy enough to devour them for me, and head into the main square to stock up on supplies.

I've had several disasters today; people tend to treat someone giving them free food with suspicion. But I started off in my old neighbourhood which made it slightly easier because people understand I'm not giving them charity; because I grew up in their position – hollow stomach that never felt full, watching little children play in the streets with their bones protruding and laughter on their sunken faces. The only different is that before I could never do anything about it, and while I'm not going to kid myself into thinking that I'll make much of a different, I need to do something and I certainly can't sit around at home all day, knowing that the streets are filled with these starving little kids.

It's nearing the end of the day now; the sun is beginning to sink behind the hills and the strange orange light illuminates the twisting streets. I only have one loaf of bread and a few roots left, so I head for the last door on the street and bang my fist against the rotting wood. It swings open and I'm staring into a face I recognise.

"Mrs Vallier," I manage to choke out. Her hair is hanging limply around her face and she still has the black armband wrapped around her wrist.

"Ryla?" She watches me with confused, uncertain eyes and I panic. Will she see this as an insult? The girl who neglected to help her son trying to make amends with one loaf of bread and a couple of turnips.

"I..." Speak, I command myself: you can't just stand here staring like a moron. SPEAK!

So I start talking, inventing like crazy, "Umm, you see, me and Marko sort of made a pact during the Games," I see her face twist with pain – double whammy, I think sarcastically, you managed to mention her dead son and the Hunger Games in one sentence. "Umm, and we promised that if either of us won, then we would make sure the other one's family had enough to eat and stuff."

She rolls her eyes, "Yeah, that sounds like Marko." Thank God.

"Would you like to come in?" She says, sweeping her hand behind her to show that I'm welcome to enter.

"I've actually got to-"

She's not having any of my excuses and takes my hand, practically dragging me into the house. It always amazes me how alike all of our houses appear to be. This could be my old home, right down to the same furniture.

I put my bag down onto the table, and pull out the remaining food. "I know it's not much, but I got sidetracked on my way over here."

She just shakes her head and smiles softly, an expression that completely transforms her face and makes her seem so much younger. "Thank you. If you had brought any more then I don't think I would've been able to take it." Here it is, this ridiculous District 11 pride that compels people to turn down food even in the face of starvation.

"Would you like a cup of tea?"

"I'd love to, but I should get going. I need to-"

She cuts me off again, "You bring over some food, and the least I can do is make you some tea." She throws a quick glance in the direction of the clock, "I'm afraid you can't stay too long though, because I have to start making dinner." There's an anxious expression on her face that doesn't quite match up to her words.

I've just taken a seat at the table when there's a flurry of footsteps on the stairs and a voice tells out, "Mum! Sylvie's been sick ag-" The yell is suddenly cut off, and I have a good feeling why. I twist my head around and see the dark eyed boy staring at me. His eyes flicker between me and his mother before he demands, "What is she doing here?" I have to suppress a shudder as I remember my dream; he seems almost angry in reality as he had done in my head.

"Oska," his mother admonishes, "she brought round some food."

"We don't need food," he snaps in annoyance.

"Oh really? We both know that your father's salary isn't enough to feed this whole family."

"I could help if you'd let me work longer shifts at the market. I don't know what you think might-"

"Ok, that's enough. We have a guest."

"What are you doing here?" This is directed at me and I have to work up some moisture in my mouth before I can reply, because his furious expression and harsh tones had me frozen in terror and reliving my nightmare.

"Me and Marko made a pact," I mutter, lowering my head so that I don't have to look him in the eyes, "we promised to each give the other's family food if we won."

He raises his eyebrows at this, "It didn't look like you guys were too close in the arena. I doubt Marko would make an agreement like that with someone he didn't even know."

Damn it, I think, why couldn't you just buy it like your mother?

He opens his mouth and I panic because what if it's some question about Marko that I'm unable to answer. But I'm saved by a knock at the door. Mrs Vallier meets her sons eyes in terror, "He's early."

I glance between them in confusion, "What..?"

"You have to go out the back," she tells me, fear etched clearly into the lines on her face, "I don't what my husband will do if he sees you."