𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐬 | 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟕𝟔𝐭𝐡 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 ✔️

𝕏𝕏𝕀𝕏

It's been a while since I talked to Irma. Two months, maybe three. We've talked on the phone a bit, but I don't want to bother her. She has enough on her plate.

The house hasn't gotten any smaller since I moved in. I've brought in some decorations from the market, but I never have the energy to put them up, so they sit in the corner of the living room, untouched.

Life seems to pass by me, almost leaving me behind but not quite. Every time I wake up, it seems like another year has passed. So far removed from everyone else, I've learned that nobody will stop for me to catch up. The brother of one of my friends passes away in a boat accident. So tragic because he was so young. The morning of the funeral, I can't find any black socks in my drawer, and that's enough to keep me home. I'm too numb to feel the guilt.

I spend most of my time thinking about the Games. I write to Salacia asking for a copy of the Games, and she sends me a video recording. I watch the Bloodbath. I watch Axel's head as it rolls across the ground. I watch Aurora die over and over. Eventually, I can recite almost every line spoken by the tributes like we're part of a production. And that's exactly what it is - a production.

I begin to realize the realities of the Games. When I watch the robotic wolf muttations enter the Arena right next to Rory, rip him apart, and disappear, there is no denying that the Games were set up. Every year before the war... did this always happen? I start remembering things from past Games that made me hesitate when I first saw them. I always thought it was just by random chance - oh well, Rory was in the wrong place at the wrong time - but it's become too hard to ignore. More than anything, one name echoes in my head, plaguing me.

Phoebe.

I watch the Games over, over, and over, and watching the tiny girl from District 11 being devoured by insects is one of the only things that actually make me feel something. She was set up to die, right? Just like Rory. I just assumed she was unlucky, but Dr. Heinrich is a very smart man. The Games are a production, and it just makes sense for Aurora, Phoenix, and I to fight to the death in the final act, right? So just like the director of a television program, Dr. Heinrich cut out the background characters to make a good show.

Is that the only reason I'm here? If Aurora had died protecting me, like Phoebe's brother did for her, and I had blended into the background because it was my only way of surviving in a fight to the death, would I have been killed too?

Did I even win the Hunger Games, or was this all planned from the beginning?

It's probably the 100th time I've watched the Games. I see Phoebe run, alive and panting heavily on my screen, and then I see her die again. I see Aurora again, and I watch myself watch her die. The tape cuts and I'm left in silence.

The silence gnaws at me. It suffocates me. But then something breaks the silence - whispering. I can't make out where it's coming from. Is someone trying to say something to me?

I curl up into a ball. I'm falling apart. I'm a mess. When I entered the Arena, I never thought it would end like this.

Suddenly, I'm on my feet. I'm in the kitchen, frantically sifting through the drawer. All the knives are dull butter knives. The Capitol must have known I would try something. I throw a few knives to the ground in frustration, and then something glittering catches my eye. It's a bottle of champagne from Salacia. She left it here months ago when I first moved in.

I grab the bottle, popping the cork. My hands are shaking. I take a long swig. It burns as it flows down my throat, and I feel my heart rate spiking. I grab the neck of the bottle, lift it above my head, and smash it on the counter in front of me.

Glass shatters around me onto the floor, and the sound of the smashing glass awakens me from my trance. Here I am, standing in the kitchen of this prison of a house with the jagged neck of a glass bottle in my hands. I could end it right now. Just drive it into my chest. It would all be over.

That moment has passed, though. I've suddenly become conscious, and I drop the glass. It breaks on the ground, and I walk out of the room. I can clean the glass tomorrow. I need to get some sleep.

I step into the living room, walking over to the TV. I grab the tape of my Hunger Games and I throw it into the fire.

Tomorrow I will put the decorations from the market, and I will make this place a home.