Ready or Not, Here I Come

by In the Blink of an Eye

The year of traps and betrayal, tricks and deceit. The arena of cliffs and sharp edges, hiding places and hidden dangers. The games ruled by an erratic fruitcake of a Gamemaker. And they wonder why the victor went delirious. Welcome to the 51st Annual Hunger Games - the odds will definitely not be in your favour.

12. The Audience's Cacophony

Hello there, lovely readers.

I'm sorry I haven't updated for a while. It's the holidays and England has finally decided to move its butt and become sunny! :)

We reached 1000 views the other day - I was so pleased! I don't know if that is a good figure or not, but 1000 is a nice big number. I also tweaked the description. The old one sounded good when I wrote it but now it sounds much better! I mean, who wants a limp one-sentence description?

I actually quite enjoy writing from Lash's POV. He is disjointed and slightly nuts but he is really fun to write. Weird, huh?

Thankyou!,

*WentToTheMoonToday

...

Lash Frist, District Seven

I giggle manically. I am going to the Games! I get a few funny looks from other tributes as we stand next to our chariots. Who cares. I'm alive and kicking.

The man who wanted to dress me in a sticky sap costume has gone now. Probably dabbing makeup on his bruised cheek where I hit him. I didn't mean to. Hit him, I mean. His voice was drilling a hole into my ear and next thing I knew, he was yelling at me and clutching his cheek bone.

The little girl from my District has a wooden dog. She thinks I don't see it. She fleetingly glances at me and when she is sure that I am not looking, she nudges the head out of her pocket. I'm nothing to be scared of. Sure, I accidently hit the funnily-dressed man, but apart from that, I'm quite nice. Mostly.

I can hear whispering. All of a sudden, I wish I hadn't volunteered. But the feeling is like wind and is gone in a second. It's the girl from Eight. She is on tiptoes, hushing silent words into her partners ear. He looks like a nice person. But he seems pained, like the words are hurting him from the inside. Little daggers penetrating his eardrum. Like the one that penetrated my mother. Blood. Crimson rivers. Screaming. Wailing.

Don't think of that. You are going to show the audience that you are going to be a contender. A ruthless machine. Isolated and entirely self-sufficient. That's Lash, they'd say, he'll win for sure. I climb onto my chariot. The pitiful leaves from my suit trail on the ground. At least it's not sticky sludge.

The first chariot is out in the open. Followed by one more, and another. Soon, we are moving. I am momentarily confused. I will myself not to break down. You are at the Games, I tell myself. You are at the Games. The girl shrinks away from me. I realise I am panting. I stop.

Screaming. Wolf-whistling. Blood. Cheering. Wailing. Hooting. All the sounds from my mother's death merge with the audience's cacophony.

I find myself on the bottom of the chariot. The horses are snorting, sensing danger. Huffing. Glazed eyes. I don't understand. I never get this emotional over Mother's death. What is wrong with me? All cameras are trained on me and me alone. Forget the others. Check out this lunatic.

I'll never get over this in the Games. Stand up, Lash. Ignore the audience and the stares. Be strong. Show them who you are. Show them that you won't be beaten by a mental illness. That's it. Glare at them. You will not be beaten.

That is when the world sways and spins. Images flash behind my eyes, blocking out real life. A flash of my house there, a spark from the outfits from Two. They are beautiful. Really beautiful. They will be the favourites. And him. Dad. The one who came back when Mother died. The one who said I'd never survive. Then black. And nothing else.