(Chapter 13: Elora)

I walk sleepily to my chambers at around 9pm. I'm so exhausted. Watching the replay of yesterday's events didn't help with my mental state whatsoever. When we got to District 12's reaping, I was watching Peter get shot in front of me all over again. Except zoomed in, with a few heartless comments from the Capitol commentators.

The brass door handle is freezing cold. I twist it and swing open the door, relieved that my bedroom is toasty warm. I shut and lock the door, so that no creeps like William come in the middle of the night, and step into the shower. The running water is amazing. It's like comforting warm sprinkles in a rain forest. Most people in District 12, particularly in the Seam, need to boil water to heat it up for a bath. This was amazing. I squirted what I think was shampoo from a fancy bottle on the shelf and massaged my scalp.

I had no idea how long I had spent in the shower, probably almost an hour, but I couldn't be bothered checking. I'll just do whatever I want and enjoy these fancy Capitol luxuries before I die painfully on television. I leave the bathroom, and begin a search through the many drawers in my room for a nightgown. Eventually I open one and find that there are way too many options of pyjamas. There are nightgowns ranging in fabric, style, length and colour. I chose a green, knee length silk one with short sleeves.

Then, I crawl into bed, which feels like I'm sleeping on a silky cloud. I curl up into a foetal position and close my eyes.

I imagine the boy I saw while I was watching the District 1 reaping. James Lysander, and how his sister stabbed herself, willingly. I can't even think about how traumatic that would have been for him. But then I remember how confidently, how handsomely he walked to the podium. His caramel coloured eyes unfazed, his dark, unruly brown hair still neat. I would have had a complete meltdown, even worse than when Peter was shot. But James remained calm and collected, which I somewhat admired.

Unfortunately, I knew that no matter how much I imagined him and mooned over him on television, he won't feel the same way when he's lining up an axe on my neck.

I felt like I hardly got any rest when the golden sunlight crept around the curtains in the morning. I reluctantly opened my eyes and sat up too quickly, causing my vision to black out and a wave of dizziness to wash over me.

Groaning, I slide out of the warm, safe bed into the cold air, and stumble towards the drawers to find an outfit for breakfast. I pull out a white blouse and some black pants. Then I slip off my nightgown and pull the blouse over my head, and put my pants on.

Then I walk, as slow as a zombie, over to my bathroom, where I wash my face with fancy tea-tree oil and lemon juice soap and brush my teeth with plain old minty toothpaste that's meant to be 'ultra-whitening'. I brush my blonde hair and tie it back into a ponytail.

In the mirror, I noticed that my hair had grown about an inch past my shoulders. I slipped on a pair of white, cotton socks and then some brown, leather boots that reminded me of the ones I used to wear in 12, except a little shorter and not really made for walking long distances. Even so, they were still extremely comfy.

I unlocked and opened my door, feeling a lot fresher than I did earlier, and slightly more confident about the games, but I still don't have any determination to come home alive. I walk down the brightly-lit corridor, retracting my steps to the dining cart from yesterday. When I got there, I found that I was the only one awake already, so there wasn't any food set on the table yet except for some tea, coffee, milk and a couple of small cakes and cookies. I sighed and sat at the table, fidgeting with the tablecloth. The clock on the wall read 8 o'clock. That's pretty late for me, considering I get up at about 6 in the morning on a daily basis, and Peter would get up at 5.

Soon William came walking down to the table, with bags under his eyes like he got no sleep whatsoever. He still had a smirk on his face as he sat a seat away from me. Because I'm not a completely impolite and rude person, I tried to strike up a conversation.

"Didn't sleep well last night?" I asked, loading some cookies onto a plate and pouring myself a cup of green tea. William laughed.

"Would've slept better with you." he joked, but it made me extremely uncomfortable. I shifted in my seat a little.

"You're horrible." I tell him, taking a sip of my tea, which thankfully did not burn my tongue.

"Thanks, hon." William chuckles, and snatches a cookie off my plate and takes an enormous bite out of it.

"Hey!" I say, frowning at him. "There were more cookies on the table!"

"Nah, it's more fun to just annoy you." he says, mouth full. "Wow, these cookies are amazing."

Suspicious, I took a bite out of a cookie. They were smooth and buttery, with the perfect amount of sweet and salty. The warm chocolate chips melted in my mouth. They were the best thing I'd ever tasted.

"They are amazing." I agree, eating the rest of the cookie.

A moment of awkward silence passes as we both eat the delicious cookies.

"You look great this morning." William says. I glare at him, hoping my eyes look really intimidating.

"Shut up." I say, then to myself I mumble, "He'd be the first person I'd kill in the arena." Which I obviously said too loud, because he heard me.

"What? I'd be the first person you'd kill? Who else would you have an alliance with?" he frowns, and I don't reply. "Let me guess. Pretty-boy from District 1. What was his name? Jason?"

I could tell William was jealous. I could see it in his icy cold eyes.

"James, actually. And I never said that." I tell him, somewhat smugly.

"Oh, see, look. You even remembered his name. Isn't that something?" William teases. "You know he's going to be a part of the career pack, and you and I are going to be the first people they aim to kill."

I know William is right, but I don't want it to be true, although many of the career tributes from past hunger games are very cold-hearted.

"I'd rather be dead than have an alliance with you." I snarl, and shove another cookie into my mouth.

"Eh, suit yourself." he shrugs, and pours himself a cup of coffee.

Thankfully, Margorie comes trotting down the hallway in her dark purple high heels with a matching dress and hairpiece. She sits carefully down at the table, without saying anything. Then Haymitch comes staggering down the hallway as well, clearly experiencing a hangover. He slumps into a chair, and grins. He looks like he is in his thirties, with wrinkles and messy hair, bloodshot eyes and dark circles. It's hard to remember he's only twenty, about four years older than me. Four years ago, he won the 50th hunger games, and then afterwards he's just been an alcoholic, and very few people know why.

I'm not one of those people.

The only thing I know is that he tried to be a good mentor for the first two games, but then after so many kids died that he tried to help, he just gave up.

Someone brings breakfast to our table; eggs, toast, croissants, cakes, you name it, it was probably there. Even this thing called cereal, which was little bits of something floating in milk like a cold breakfast soup.

Soon, the train begins to speed into the Capitol, past the brightly coloured buildings and brightly coloured, excited citizens waving at the train, knowing that there may be some entertaining tributes in there that they could sponsor or just obsess over.

As the train slows to a stop, I peek outside the window. This train station was large and filled with ten times the amount of cameras and reporters as there were in 12, plus spectators and people squealing with delight.

Capitol people are crazy.

I try to prepare myself for the cameras. I fix my clothes, my hair, and my mindset, and put on my best humble, confident smile. The doors slide open and we all step out. We stand there for a bit on the platform in front of the train for photos, and then we are escorted to a tribute building for our makeovers.