Hell. I wonder what it looks like, how it feels like to be there. Is it something like what bubbly District 12 girls say: a pit of burning fire? Or is it when the rebellion in District 13 broke out? Or simplier yet, is it merely akin to the arena?
What is hell? Hell is oneself.
Hell is alone, the other figures in it.
Merely projections. There is nothing to escape from.
And nothing to escape to. One is always alone.
- T.S. Eliot
"What the hell?!" Cato cursed audibly, vulgar words ringing through the infenal arena. He threw his sword down and stomped his feet immaturely. "I was suppose to win," he jabbed his index finger at his ribs before pointing an accusing finger at me,"You! What have you done?" He bellowed in wrath.
I raised up both of my hands in mock surrender and replied, "Woah, don't go around accusing people of something they never done."
He looked daggers at me before grumbling, "Who do you think you are to order me around?" If looks could kill, I would be joining Peeta with the muttations for their scrumptious dinner.
"The victor of the 74th Hunger Games," I simply wittily replied.
His eyebrows knitted together, after which he placed his hand on his luscious shimmering blond hair, and bantered sarcastically, "Oh my goodness! How silly of me to not notice that! You're so ingenious, I -" The sound of a hovercraft drowned the remains of his sentence. As he climbed up the flimsy ladder, he stretched out a hand, expecting me to receive his "good" deed. Ignoring him, I climbed up it, though I believe it is just barely holding onto our weights.
The sudden barging in snapped me out of my thoughts. The intruder's eyes whiz around the room for a while, before settling them on my limp body. That old alcoholic lugged me out of the room and pratically threw me to the dining table. The elegant mahogany table had a pearly white table cloth laid nicely horizontally across the table. My favourite lamb stew with dried plums sits in the middle of it, utensils and plates sitting infront of each chair. "Now, sweetheart, please have a delectable lunch," Haymitch articulated. I shot him a defiant glare, which basically speaks for itself 'You can't tell me what to do'. But glancing upon his ferocious look, I reluctantly gobble down my food, while Effie was giving him a uninteresting dressing-down about manners.
It was only after I finished eating my first serving then I realise someone else was with us at the table. I stared icily at that demon from hell before serving myself another serving. He sighed in agony, his head probably full of despair. I was about to cart my bowl of lamb stew and return back to my room when he broached the subject. "Katniss..." He asked, "Really, why do you hate me?"
I cross my arms and frowned. "Because you killed Peeta," I spat out angrily, which comes out looking like I am really juvenile.
He sighed in exasperation and shook his head at my childishness. "Really Katniss, don't dwell only on that subject," Cato articulated. After excusing himself from the table, he strolled up to me and whispered daintily, "I'll be in my room if you need me." I shudder at the hot breath tickled my earlobe.
I sat at the foot of my bed. My droopy legs dangling from the soft material of the bed. Cato's words echo through my head. Don't dwell only on that subject.I sighed and wallowed in self-pity. What exactly did I do to deserve this? Oh right, I survived. My gray orbs flopped on the digital clock. It's glowing numbers read '12:30 a.m.'. Might as well unwillingly meet up at Cato's room. I can not converse with anybody else as Haymitch only drinks and get drunk while Effie only lectures on manners. After putting on casual attire – Cotton shirt and pants, I ambled out my room and boogie to Cato's room
Standing in front of Cato's rich brown wood door, I turned the chilling door knob and stepped inside.