Son and daughter born of wood and pain,

Thrown together in this bloody domain.

The tributes of District 7 leave only darkness behind.

District 7 | The Reaping of Akiva Chellan

I walk slowly, quietly, with all the stealth I've picked up from years of sneaking in and out of my house. I refuse to call it my home, because it isn't. It is the place I live and reside, but it is in no way, shape, or form a home. If anything, it is a prison; not a sanctuary.

Getting dressed in my work clothes, I pull on my worn, brown boots, feeling the comfort they bring me. I slip out into the cool morning air, my breath making puffs in the air as I imagine myself as a dragon during my walk to the forest…and if I could be one, I would eat my father in one gulp. I love the way the trees smell. Each has its own peculiar scent and it makes me wonder if it is the same with humans. Do we have our own scents? Is that how animals can sense fear? Can we sense fear?

I make a stop by the pond and rummage in the prickly brush for a piece of jerky. I have hidden it so well that the animals that wander the parts are unaware of my stash. I also have a knife, if the time should come for me to use it. I wonder if that'll ever come to pass - the thought of it unnerves me, and I keep walking into the dense forest.

The sunlight only catches the tops of the trees and the fog covers the ground. Experience is what guides me to my destination. A small patch of trees has been roped off; they are just saplings, and we have no need to cut them down yet. I have always liked to see the young trees grow into something large, majestic, and beautiful; something that has been engraved in me by my father.

I quicken my pace as I do not want to be late - especially on Reaping Day. Two poor, innocent lives will be selected to fight to the death today. There is only so much hoping I can do - I have so much tesserae that a slip of paper with my name is entered a total of 36 times in that glass ball. But, there is also only so much I could do to keep myself alive in the long winter, the longest we have had.

I arrive at my work station and greet my boss, who assigns me a smaller portion of trees to chop down today. I think he feels bad, but it is hard to tell under his mask of no emotions. Normally there is no work on Reaping Day, but if you are poor and starving, there are exceptions. I get to work with a rhythmic chopping - thunk, thunk. It calms my racing heart, and when I feel a tap on my shoulder, I almost slice my assailant with my axe.

It's my father. He turns to my boss and addresses him as if he is a small rodent that causes a nuisance in one's house.

"I'll be taking her. It is the Reaping today, after all," He sneers at my boss, who shrugs indifferently. Then, with a tight grip on my arm and a slight nod to the workers who are almost all staring, he leads me off. We do not head back home.

We head deeper into the woods, until the light seems to penetrate only the highest points of the tallest trees. On the ground it is dark, like sundown. He hands me some knives and begins to set up targets for me to throw them at. My hands are shaking because of the cold and the fear that if I anger him, there will be consequences. There always are consequences - whether I do it wrong or right. Sometimes, I get so tired of pleasing him, or attempting to please him. I used to wonder why Ma ran away with some fancy Capitol man, but now, if I had the chance, I would do the same in a heartbeat. I could probably do it, too; I know all the skills, like which plants are poisonous and which are helpful for healing. I could kill in one strike. I would not go hungry. The only thing stopping me at this point is the fear of being turned into an Avox, with no tongue.

Sometimes even that sounds better than living with the enemy - my father.

I get to work throwing knives. They all land near the target, so close, but not a bullseye. Not perfect; they are never perfect. Slowly, my mouth in a tight line, I turn to face the enemy.

He creeps to the targets, taking his time and examines each and every one carefully, like a wolf inspecting its prey. Finally he turns, ready to attack.

Some time ago he started with the words, the kinds that stung and pierced my skin and broke my heart. But after drinking in the morning instead of at night and doing local drugs, name-calling just wasn't enough. He had to hit and slap me until my blood spilled on the cold granite floor.

His voice slides of his tongue and is cool, like ice on a hot day. His voice brings me none of the relief that the ice does, although I know that it hides imminent danger and force: "Is that the best you can do, Akiva?" Every fiber of me wants to scream, to run away, faster than I ever have; to yell at him, not to ruin my life - but more importantly, to respect. My mother named me Akiva, and he has no right calling me that. His green eyes reflect my gray, his full of menace and scorn.

"Yes," I say softly.

"Yes?" he relies mocking my ever-so slightly quavering voice. I gulp and nod.

"Well," he sneers, "That was definitely not the best any child of mine can do. What do you think, Princess?" I grimace at the nickname. Horrid, just like him. He gets up close in my face, and I can practically taste the alcohol oozing out of him.

"Answer me!" he screams, breaking the silence in the forest and sending sound through the trees and causing birds to take flight; to flap their wings and take their lives away. If only I could be as lucky, I would have been gone with the rising sun as it rose to see Ma leaving on that fancy Capitol train.

I am tired. I want to curl up in a little ball. Most of all, I want a real family.

It even comes as a surprise to me when I hear my voice, strong yet like a whisper: "Yes."

His eyes widen and he reminds me of a scaly, deadly snake: "Liar," he says quietly at first. "LIAR!" His voice echoes through the forest. "I will not have a liar, from you, Princess." I can barely have time to process that I have just disobeyed the enemy.

His fist connects with my eye and I collapse on the ground, eyes closed, head pounding in pain. If I'm lucky, I'll have a black eye when I go to the Capitol.

Go get ready for the Reaping. And you better pray you are Reaped, because tomorrow will be hell. I will be in town." I hear his footsteps fade away, through the crunchy leaves that are my home.

Tears squeeze out of my quickly swelling eye and I take the long route back to our squat house; doing my best to avoid any people with their nosy questions.

I apply salve when I get in my room, cleverly hidden in my sock drawer. I look in the mirror at my bruised eye and my split lip. I look like a mess. I get to work concealing any type of bruise or injury, dressing into my Reaping outfit. It's my worn yellow skirt, my white shirt tucked in and my yellow bow in my short brown hair.

At least that looks ok.

I stare at myself with sullen, dead eyes; my once-beautiful gray eyes, filled with life. Now they are dead. He has taken the life out of me.

I hear a knock on my door and out of instinct, stiffen and wait for the blow. I receive none, just a voice: "Get down to the Reaping!" Shoot, I am late.

I take one last look in the mirror. A pair of sad eyes stare back at me, and I force a smile as I lock the door. Quickly, quickly, down to the Reaping. The needle stings as it pricks my finger, and I slide in to the 16 year old section next to a familiar girl, Liana Meaker. She smiles at me, but we both turn our heads to the front. The mayor is finishing his speech about the history of the Hunger Games: I am lucky I missed most of it.

Our escort, Gwen Boasten, takes the stage. She looks like a forest fire, with flame designs on her face and arms that match her screaming red hair. The only fiery thing that is missing is her personality. She is as cold as ice, without any hints of emotion. Our only living mentor, Blight, sits in the back, staring out to the audience. He seems to be staring at nothing. All of the victors always do; they are just looking for an excuse not to look at all of the fearful faces, two of which they will see be murdered. There has only ever been one victor from District 7.

"Welcome to the Reaping of the 34th Annual Hunger Games. May the odds be ever in your favor! I hope you survive," Gwen stares at the kids, crammed into the roped areas like the cattle from District 10 that I once saw in a video in school. I know she doesn't mean it, doesn't care if we survive. We are just a poor district that provides the Capitol with trees. Not as special as a Career districts. You can't always get what you want.

She slides over to the girls ball and draws out a singular name.

"Akiva Chellan."

And I didn't even pray. The odds must have been in my favor, or my father's favor at least. Now he can drink himself dead for all I care, because I am pretty sure that I am not coming back. And even if I do, I will sleep in safety, because he will not be allowed to go near me. I step in the aisle before the Peacekeepers come to collect me and walk to the stage, emotionless, yet proud: Just like I was taught to.

My father is not even there. He is probably passed out drunk in some bar, the Peacekeepers too lazy to move the town drunk. I see my older brother, Jenk, and his wife, Helia, with their one-year old, my niece Cossa. He left home as soon as he could, the day he turned 18, and moved in with Helia's family. He wanted nothing to do with the enemy.

I wish I could do the same. But he won't have anyone coming back to him.

"Blaze Echolls," Gwen reads the boy's name.

A bored looking boy emerges from the 18's section. He is tall and muscular with dirty blond hair. His shirt, although ripped in some places, shows off his body very well. He could be a Career if he'd been born elsewhere.

"Akiva, Blaze, shake hands" Gwen says as I turn to Blaze, who will be my only companion until my death. His hand is strong and muscular, making me feel smaller than I ever have with my father. He could probably win, and it hits me that I probably won't.

Gwen finishes her little speech and mutters something under her breath that I don't quite catch. I have other things to worry about.

The Peacekeepers escort me to the Justice Building. I try to smile at Blaze as I walk past him, but it is mainly for my benefit. He doesn't return the gesture; probably knows it's as fake as the makeup covering Gwen's face.

The room I'm pushed into has a plush chair that feels too soft compared to the forest. There is a mirror, and I catch a glimpse of myself in it as I pass. The bruise is showing through the makeup, and my split lip has dried blood on it.

Liana and another of my friends, Janna, come in. Janna is crying as she gives me a hug; Liana hugs me too, and whispers in my ear, "Be strong, ok?" I smile at her. Janna looks at me and unfurls her hand, revealing a necklace with a wooden tree on it.

"It's beautiful," I breathe. Janna understands me so well, and she has never said a word. She has been mute since birth.

A Peacekeeper comes in and ushers them out. It unnerves me that I can't see their eyes; that is how I judge a person. I bet if I saw the Peacekeepers eyes, they would probably icy and unforgiving.

My father has cold eyes.

Jenk and Helia come in as Jenk gives me a big hug.

"Listen, Via, fight this fight. For you, not for him. You need to come back," he says. Helia looks confused, but the secret stays in the family. No one else knows. Cossa reaches out her chubby hand and curiously touches my tearstained cheek, wiping away more of the makeup. If Helia notices anything, she has enough tact not to say it. Jenk grimaces at the sight of my bruised eye.

Helia gives me a hug and kisses my cheek - and then they are gone, like so many others.

I sit in the room and blink away any last remaining tears. I have to remain tearless for the cameras that will be following my every move the minute I leave this building. The Capitol will be cheering us on to the death. They have no idea what poverty, or pain, or death feels like.

They will never know.

District 7 | The Reaping of Blaze Echolls

Her screams wake me up at 4am that night.

I rub my eyes, stretch my arms and yawn. She screams again, and I try to block her out, try not to think about it too much. But she screams so loudly, it seems like the walls are shaking. They aren't, of course; our walls are actually quite steady, which says something given that we live in the poorest neighborhood in District 7.

I try to get back to sleep, but I can't. I close my eyes, waiting for sleep to come. I feel like a moron, being completely awake and just looking like I am sleeping, and not actually sleeping, while my mom is screaming at the top of her lungs. In the end I just roll out of bed and throw on the first shirt and pants I find in the small pile of clothes on my wooden chair.

I walk out of my room, cringing as my mom screams again and again. Most of the time she doesn't scream that hard; he's probably hurting her even worse than usual.

That thought makes me want to run to her room and kill him with my axe, but there are three problems with it. One – my axe isn't here. And an axe is quite essential when you want to kill someone with an axe. Two – there's a strict policy in District 7, which says that if you kill someone, then you're not allowed to go to the woods. I can't be stuck in this house forever. The woods are my sanctuary, and I can't think about not going there every day to let off some steam. Finally, three – I am terrified. I am terrified of what he would do to me if I walk into the room.

It's extremely stupid, because I am stronger and tougher than him. I am eighteen, I am muscular, I am strong. He is forty, almost fifty, and he's weak and fat from all the alcohol he puts into his body. I know that I can beat him in a fight, and that knowledge makes me feel even more pathetic and weak than I already feel, because I'm still terrified of him.

I walk, practically run, out of the house and close the door behind me. I can still hear my mom's screams, even if I'm not in the house anymore. I bet the whole District can hear her. Our walls are paper thin; no one cares that there's a woman here who is beaten up regularly. As long as it's not them, why would they care?

I run a hand through my blond locks and start walking to the woods. The woods are so close to my home that I can actually see the trees from my room, so I get there fast. There is no one outside that early in the morning, which isn't irregular. No one likes to be in the woods when it's dark. You can barely see anything, and any animal can attack you out of nowhere.

I love the woods at night though, better than in daylight. Everything is completely quiet, no one's there - it's just me, alone in the woods. I feel like I'm not a part of the world outside, which makes me feel good.

It's peaceful.

I walk slowly, deeper into the woods, and the darkness envelops me. I have to narrow my eyes in concentration to see what's ahead of me. My eyesight isn't very good, and being here in the dark just makes it even more difficult for me to see. But I keep going, even if I can barely see anything. I don't have to see anything. I know every inch of these woods by heart. I know where I'm going.

I stop in my place and look around me, knowing where I am exactly. I move forward until I get to my tree. Well, not my tree really, but my hiding place. I get to my knees and reach out to grab the axe I hide in a small hole under the tree. The hole is big enough to contain my axe, yet small enough not to be seen by the other lumberjacks around.

With my axe in my hand I start walking to another tree. It's not a very thick tree, and I know that I can cut it down pretty easily. I fling my axe and hit the tree forcefully. I hit it again and again, feeling powerful and strong and unbeatable, all things that I'm not.

That's what I love in the woods at night. I feel like I'm the only man in the world; like I'm stronger than everyone, and it makes me feel good.

It lasts until I get back to the house, where I feel as big as a mouse.

I stay in the woods as long as I can, but when the darkness leaves I know that I have to go. I drag the trees I cut down to the edge of the woods, where I know the peacekeepers will collect them and move them to the Capitol before walking to my house.

It's Reaping day, so nobody's outside. There is no work in a special day like today, after all, and people want to stay home and sleep as much as they can.

It's already eight in the morning when I get to my house. My mom isn't screaming anymore. I open the door and get to the kitchen.

My mom sits in the kitchen next to the small wooden table, her eyes closed as if she's sleeping. Her head is resting on her hands and she breathes deeply. She's tired and weak. Her hair is grey. She has a black eye and a fat lip, and there's a bruise on her cheek. The black eye is almost healed, since she got it a long time ago. The fat lip and the bruise are new, from last night probably.

I feel sick to my stomach. I let it happen, after all, and did nothing, but I try not to think about it and turn around. I can't look at her without feeling guilty. I make two small sandwiches and sit down in front of my mom, looking at her. She opens her eyes, sensing my presence, and tries to smile at me. It doesn't look like a smile.

It looks like she's in pain.

I offer her the other sandwich without saying a word, and she silently takes it, eating slowly. I look at the table, finding it easier to look at it than at my beaten mom, and chew the sandwich. It tastes so bad, I want to throw up. But it's food, so I just suck it up and finish it.

"Where were you?" My mom asks me finally, her voice hoarse.

"In the woods," I answer simply.

My mom closes her eyes: "I don't like it that you go out to the woods by yourself at night."

"It was early morning, actually."

"It was dark outside, which means it was still night. It's not safe outside."

"It's safer than here," I murmur quietly.

My mom hears me and she shakes her head. "Blaze…"

"You're hurt."

"I'm okay."

"You look like hell."

"Thanks, that's exactly what women like to hear."

We both stay quiet for a few long minutes. I look at my mom, who simply looks defeated. She shouldn't deal with him; she knows that, but for some reason she loves him. At least, she tells me she loves him. I think she's just extremely depended. She needs a man next to her, no matter how awful he is.

"I hate him," I say finally, sounding lame and weak and pathetic.

My mom looks at me blankly and doesn't say anything. She finishes her sandwich and closes her eyes again, her head now resting on the hard table.

I have so much more to say to her on the matter. I want to tell her to leave him. I want to tell him to leave. I want my mom to be happy; she doesn't need a man to be happy, and even if she does, she has me. I'm strong enough to take care of her, to take care of both of us. But I don't find the right words to say it, so I stay quiet and don't say anything.

I get to my feet after a few long minutes of silence and go to my room. The Reaping is only at two o'clock, and it's now nine o'clock in the morning, so I lie on my bed and close my eyes. I'm tired, and I fall asleep almost immediately.

I wake up three hours later, but stay in my bed for half an hour longer. I just don't have the power to get up. I finally move into a sitting position in my bed and stretch my sore arms; my back aches, but it always aches. My bed is made of wood, and I don't have a mattress; we can't afford it.

I get to my feet and run a hand through my hair, making it disheveled. I have three shirts and two pants, and while none of them looks fancy or formal, that's all I have. I grab the blue pants I have and put them on, taking off my grey shirt and heading to the kitchen. There's a bucket of ice-cold water in the kitchen for us to use to clean our dishes and stuff like that. The water in the bucket is already quite dirty, so I dip the grey shirt in it and start cleaning my torso. I get back to my room and throw the wet shirt to the ground, taking my cleanest shirt, my white shirt, and putting it on.

I go to the bathroom and check my reflection in the broken mirror. The white shirt, which is torn in a few places, shows off my well-muscled torso nicely. My hair is disheveled from all the times I ran my hand through it, but it doesn't look too bad. My strong jawline makes me look intimidating.

Awesome.

I have another hour before I have to go to the main square, so I go to the kitchen again. My mom sits there with Milo, her abusive boyfriend, who's sitting silently in front of her, avoiding her eyes. He looks at me when I sit down next to my mom in front of him, but doesn't say anything and quickly turn to look at the table.

I once thought Milo was a good guy. When my mom just started dating him, he was nice and even played with me. I was ten years old. It was two years after my father died, and Milo made her look so happy, so I was happy too.

Then one night he returned home drunk and hit her mercilessly. I tried to help her; I screamed at him to stop, but he punched me so hard I lost consciousness. I woke up an hour later, terrified beyond belief to the sound of my mother's screams.

The next morning, Milo begged for her forgiveness. She forgave him, because she was stupid enough to believe it was a one-time thing.

It wasn't.

He got drunk again a month later, then after two weeks, then once a week, then every day. He stopped asking for her forgiveness after a while, because she always forgave him.

My mom is weak, and so am I. I will forever remember how he punched me when I tried to help her. I will forever be terrified of it; so, I stop trying to help her.

I hate him for hurting her. I hate my mom for letting him hurt her. Most of all, I hate myself for not helping her.

There's an uncomfortable silence that lasts until my mom and I walk out of the house to the main square. Milo doesn't come with us; he never did, not even in my very first Reaping. He doesn't consider me as family.

My mom squeezes my shoulder when we get to the main square and walks to the sidelines where the parents are. I say my name to one of the Peacekeepers and go to stand with the other eighteen year-olds.

The main square, which is quite small and looks awfully dirty, is already filled with almost all of the kids in the district. I only have to wait a few more minutes before everyone's there.

On the improvised stage in front of me are three people. The first one, who's already standing next to the microphone, is the mayor. The second one, who's sitting in a chair and looks like fire, is Gwen Boasten, our…lovely escort. Next to her sits this year's mentor, Blight Thompson. He looks dead, and looked that way ever since he returned from the Games and his family died.

The mayor starts talking to the microphone, repeating things that were already said in earlier Reapings. The mayor's speech is always the same, boring and dull, about the history of the districts and about the Capitol and the rebellion that started the Hunger Games.

The mayor finishes his incredibly boring speech and moves to sit in the empty chair next to Gwen. She gets up from next her seat to a depressed Blight and moves to stand next to the microphone in the middle of the stage. Gwen has bright red hair. She has fire designs on her cheeks, and those designs are decorating her arms as well. Everything about her screams 'Fire!'

That is, until she begins to talk and you realize she's as cold as an axe's blade at night.

"Welcome to the Reaping for the 34th Hunger Games, may the odds be ever in your favor, I hope you survive," She says it very fast and very flat, like she rehearsed it way too many times and doesn't mean a single thing she says. She just doesn't like us, very much. She's stuck with us and wants a better district, a Career district, to bring home a winner. The kids here in District Seven are pathetic and lame, and she hates it.

What a bitch.

"Let's get this over with," She murmurs and walks to the girls' reaping bowl first. She puts her hand in the bowl and grabs the first piece of paper she touches. She unfolds it and reads the name that's written there in the same flat voice she used before.

"Akiva Chellan."

I look around me like everyone else to see who the poor girl is. I can see her only when she starts moving; she's so small and it's hard to see her in the big crowd. I can see that she has a reddish-brown hair and freckles. When she gets to the stage, I notice her eyes: The greenest eyes I've ever seen.

She walked from the line of the fifteen year-old kids, so I know that she's fifteen years old, even if she's as small as a twelve or a thirteen year-old girl.

She stands quietly next to a bored Gwen and looks down at her hands. She touches her soft yellow skirt absentmindedly, probably to distract herself from what just happened. Gwen nods at her silently and asks if there are any volunteers. There are none, which is not surprising. Gwen then moves to the boys' reaping bowl, not wasting any minute.

She again picks the first piece of paper her hand makes contact with and unfolds it.

"Blaze Echolls."

Well, fuck.

To be honest, I really don't know what to think as I start walking to the stage. I just walk, not thinking of anything in particular. Being selected to participate in The Hunger Games is supposed to be a punishment.

It doesn't feel like that much of a punishment to me.

My life sucks as it is. Maybe these Games could be my way to escape this life, this miserableness. I'm either going to die or be a victor.

Both things actually sound appealing.

I get to the stage pretty quickly and walk up the stairs. I pass the little fifteen year old girl and stand next to Gwen. Gwen nods at me like she did with Akiva and says, "Are there any volunteers?"

I look at the crowd, knowing that no one will volunteer. I have only one friend, and he's weaker than me. No one else would want to risk their lives to save mine.

Gwen then says in her oh-I'd-rather-be-anywhere-but-here-you're-so-pathetic-I-hate-you-all tone, "Akiva, Blaze, shake hands."

Akiva raises her eyes and looks at me, waiting for me to make the first move. Now that I look at her closely, I see that, although she probably tried really hard to hide it, she has a bruise on her face. I bite my lower lip, because it just reminds me of my mother, but try to ignore the feeling. Maybe she simply accidently walked into a tree. I step forward and take her hand, shaking it once, then drop it. Her hand is so soft and gentle that I feel bad for her. She seems too gentle to be in these Games.

Gwen then steps forward and says, "District Seven, I present to you – Akiva and Blaze, your tributes for the 34th annual Hunger Games." She then quickly leaves the stage, murmuring something about, "Stupid district, so small and crowded, they have no chance."

Again, what a bitch.

Four Peacekeepers come and lead me and Kiara off the stage and towards the Justice Building. Akiva smiles softly at me as two of the four Peacekeepers lead her to a room farther down the hall. I don't know if I should smile back or don't, so I just decide not to smile. The two other Peacekeepers open a door a few meters from me and tell me to get inside. They tell me I have an hour to say goodbye to my loved ones, then walk out of the room and close the door behind them.

I only have to wait for a few seconds before the door opens again. In comes my mother.

She's crying. I make my way to where she's standing next to the door and hug her. She hugs me tightly in response, sobbing and wetting my almost-clean white shirt. Eventually I pull back and look at my mom. She hiccups and a few more tears run down her face.

"Mom," I say, because I don't know what else to say.

Her hands are trembling as she holds my face with them: "You're so young," She states, her voice shaking terribly. It's hoarse, as usual.

"I'm eighteen," I say lamely.

She shakes her head. "I need you. I need you with me. I can't – you need to stay here, I – what am I going to do without you?"

I bite my lower lip. "Leave," I say quietly.

She blinks. "What?"

"Leave the district if you can. Try to move to another district, a better district."

"Why?"

"You know why."

She gulps loudly. "I love him," She lies. I know she lies, but maybe she doesn't know that herself. She lies to herself as well because she's afraid of being alone.

"Well, he doesn't love you."

She closes her eyes. "Blaze, just… don't. Don't talk about things that you don't understand, and not now. It doesn't matter now. You're going to The Hunger Games, you're – let's not talk about Milo. You're the only thing that's important right now."

I know I should say, "No, mom, you have to promise me to leave Milo and the district and start fresh, because you can't stay with him," but I don't. Instead, I nod my head, because I'm weak and pathetic and let important things like that go.

My mom hugs me tightly again and sighs, "Please come back."

I don't want to come back. Not to this house, not to Milo. But I nod anyway, because I know that's what she wants to hear: "I'll try my best."

"I need you," She repeats what she said earlier. This is a complete lie, of course. I've never actually helped her, even when she needed me the most, so how can she possibly need me?

I don't say anything and just let her hug me a while longer.

In the end, the two Peacekeepers open the door and tell my mom her time is up. She reluctantly lets go of me, but then she kisses my forehead and says, "I love you."

I bite my lower lip, then nod at her and tell her that I love her too. She smiles, a weak, unhappy smile, and she's still crying when she walks out of the room.

I run a hand through my hair and sit down in the big green sofa in the room. Everything in this room is green, except for the walls and floor, which are both made of wood. This room just screams 'District Seven, Trees!'

I let myself think of what might happen in case I won't come back. I won't have to deal with this constant pain. I won't have to see Milo ever again. I won't have to come back to a mother that I feel ashamed of. I won't have to feel anything ever again.

I'm happy with that thought.

I have to wait ten minutes before my next – and probably last – visitor arrives.

Jasper Brown.

He stands by the door awkwardly, unsure of what to do, and I just look at him for a few moments, waiting for him to come forward.

He's my best friend; has been for the last three years. I'm two years older than him, strong and built and confident where he's awkward and scrawny with huge glasses. We're so different from each other; people don't understand how we can actually be friends.

Maybe we're friend because we're so different, and not in spite of it.

In the end he makes a few steps towards me and giggles nervously: "How do you feel?" He starts cracking his knuckles, a thing he does whenever he's nervous or worried or excited. I hate that habit, but I don't say anything and let him continue with ruining his hands.

"Brilliant," I say in a flat tone, not meaning it but not terribly bitter about it.

He keeps cracking his knuckles. "Are you scared?"

I think about it for a few moments, then shake my head: "Are you?" I ask him. He looks scared.

He nods his head, always honest with me: "Will you try your best to come home?"

I nod. Being a victor is, after all, better than being dead. Maybe then I'd be able to kill Milo without being killed myself.

Oh, one of the benefits of being a victor.

Jasper is quiet for a few more moments: "Do you have a token?" He asks finally.

I shake my head. He hesitates, then walks a few more steps until he's right in front of me and grabs his shirt. I look at him in question, not sure what he's about to do. He rips a long piece of his red shirt, then looks at me awkwardly.

"I don't have anything else to give you," He says apologetically. "But – I just – I want to give you something. It really doesn't matter what, right? Just something to help you – to help you remember us by. Me. The district." He bites his lower lip. "I thought that you can use a piece of my shirt as a – a hand band or something. You don't have to, of course, it's stupid, but, I mean –"

I can't help but smirk at him as he stutters, "Just tie it up around my wrist."

He nods his head and does as I said, then looks at me, still cracking his knuckles. "I'm sorry that it's you," He says.

"I'm happy that it's not you," I reply.

He smiles at that and hugs me. It takes me a bit by surprise; I'm not really the hugging type and neither is he, but I hug him back because it might be the last time I see him. He's my best friend, and I need him just as much as he needs me; maybe even more.

In the end he pulls back, his cheeks a bit red, and looks at the ground: "Win," He says simply.

"Okay," I say, because really, what can I say to that?

He looks at me again, as if trying to remember every physical feature of me, then smiles a weak smile and walks out of the room, leaving me there alone with my thoughts.

Writers for this chapter: Akiva Chellan written by Capirksy | Blaze Echolls written by Spaidel