It had been a couple of weeks since my last treatment. The words "Phase 1: Experimental" had changed to "Phase 6: Responding well". I was being starved, abused, and tortured. I was so weak; there was nothing I could do about it.

I was being dressed by some Capitol stylists. They had me dressed in fairly normal clothes. The outfit was worn out dirty, denim plants that fell to my ankles. On the top half of my body was a cotton shirt the color of spilled blood with a yellow Capitol sign over my right breast. It looked somewhat ragged, probably trying to get a point across. They put some make-up on, but also made it look like a shadow was coming across my face.

I was told that there would be an interview. My guess is it would be with Caesar. Well, as long as it was with him, I would cooperate… maybe. I don't know what they would ask me of. Does the rest of Panem know about my treatment? Or has it been kept a secret? I'm afraid to find out.

While the stylists finish me up, with a pained look on their faces. Guards lead me to an elevator. While I'm in there, I once again consider escape. But I see that they're armed, and it's pointless to even think of it.

The doors open, and I'm led into a small room. Actually, it's fairly large. Just smaller than the other interview rooms I've been in. I see Caesar Flickerman on a modern chair, that doesn't look all that comfortable. He's eating a donut. It appears to be filled with jelly. It also appears it wasn't his first, judging by the fact that he has a stain on his blue tie and stylists were using some sort of serum and miniature vacuum to get it off. Within a second the stain was gone.

Camera men, lighting, and sound people were all crowded into the same room as us. Adjusting here and there. Some stylists were waiting. Armed with stain remover, hair spray, hair gel, and other fashionable things, they looked better armed than the Peacekeepers in the corner eating some glazed donuts. Wow, these people like donuts.

I was lead to a seat next to Caesar; the only thing between us was a cold, metal table with a rose on it that did not fit in with the rest of the surroundings. Just as I was about to sit down, he walked in.

Snow in a dark red suit with a white rose in a pocket. His white beard looked like it hadn't been trimmed in a long time. He looked weary and old. Like ha might collapse any second. But that did not make me feel any pity. I tensed up and had to restrain myself from killing him then and there. He looked over at me for a second, gave a laugh, and turned back to his high seat.

The director told me to sit down and I was told that there were 30 seconds until the interview began. I stared at Snow with a look of disgust, hoping he would look up and see me. So I could give him a piece of my mind.

"5, 4, 3, 2,-"he held up his pointer finger, then pointed it toward our direction.

The show was about to begin.