a Message filled with regret

The odds were staked against us from the start

Standing in the croud watching the same movie every year. Watching two children go to die every year. Watching her sister die 4 years ago. This put a dampner in the hunger games for Rowell. Not understanding how the Capitial, the elite citizens of panem, live their lives in such naeavity that they cannot comprehend the true meaning behind the games.

The games teach children and partsns to fear, teach them that they are expendable in the capitials eyes, no matter what they do they will be stuck. Stuck as nameless forgettable faces lost to history.

Her third reaping. 15 years old, still chubby faced and left with a half developed body, the awful point between teenager and adult. Glasses much to big for her face, lenses so thick they make Rowell's eyes appear far bigger than they are, almost mirroring the apperance of a bug, her hair a near matted mess dangling from her scalp in thick ugly waves. Standing in the croud in the middle of the female section she knows she blends in perfectly. Very few district members have good eyesight here, working in polluted air runined most people's eyes. Too much exposure to factories fumes. Blending in was always what she liked to do. Standing out was dangerous, it got you noticed, getting noticed was the first step in getting killed. Or so her father had told her.

The Video finished, and the escort moved onto the stage. A man with deep orange skin and a matching orange suit, Rowell didn't know his name, never cared to learnt it. Digging around the reaping container, flicking through name after name, paper after paper with a constant amused smile gracing his lips, as if the paper grazing his fingers didn't hold a child's life. As if the name he was about to draw wasn't a death sentence. District 5 haven't won since the 55th games, when a woman won simply by hiding until all were dead, that yeat had deadly mutts, animals designed by the capitial for the intent and purpose to kill, and kill they do. And before that only have two winners. Only two of which is still alive, Katherine, the winner of the 55th. Seen by nearly all as a weakling. And sparks, winner of the 51st games. The odds are in nobody's favour, but deffently not this district.

Pulling a name from the bowl the escort hops back to the microphone, reading in a clear voice in the capitial accent that is simply impossible to not mock, her name. Rowell Castor. Rowell doesn't believe it, she must have heard wrong. Almost expects somebody else to walk up to the stage, the person who's name was actually called.

But even as she thinks this, she knew it was hopeless, the girls surrounding her have moved away, clearing a path to the stage, expecting her to walk. The girl to her left gives her a little smile, although it looks more from relief than anything, and pushes her forward gently. Gently nudging her towards what will most likely be her death.

This is when her brain short cercits, all the training her dad had drilled into her comming to the front, anything else I'd pushed down. Deep. Squaring her shoulders she takes strong steps forward. Hoping that she looks confident enough. Enough that it makes up for the obvious blunder earlier in not stepping forward in time.

The escort welcomes her to the stage with a great hug, and acts shocked that Rowell doesn't share in his excitement. Then brushes her off moving on the the boys name draw.

Digging his hand into the bowl and dramatically taking out a name, an unnecessary flourish to each movement that was clearly designed to entertain the capitial citizens. "And the male tribute for the 66th Anual gunger games is Carson Keeley, congratulations would you please come to the stage" Rowell's eyes searched for the boy, whoever he was and was not surprised that a boy, a child really, was walking towards the stage, clearly not as stupid as she had been, wasting all that time before moving forward. He cannot be any older than 13, most only his second reaping. Deep red curls cascading down his head, stopping just before his collarbone, blue eyes wide and scared. He looked like an animal preparing for death. Like the ones her father had her practise on. Learning to kill by killing animals. His cloths hung on a frail frame, legs short and thin. This boy must have been underfed, working within the factories foe some time if his pape completion was anything to go by.

As his footsteps reached the stage, he looked one move away from collapsing in onto himself, in a bundle of tears and loud sobs. Rowell couldn't help the disgust she felt. At least she had attempted to hide her fear. This boy had just come off as week.

Over come with dread. She watches almost from outside of her body as she is escorted to the waiting room, where her family will say good buy for the final time she may ever see them, the last time she may meet whoever sees her. Rowell is expecting to die just like her sister.

She doesn't want to, she has training to prevent her death. Yet scared to use it, scared to become the broken voctors that she sees walking around the town squar, shoulders hunched and flinching at any notice, clearly fearful. That is whenever they brave the world outside of their 4 confining walls of their grand home in victor village.

Sje knows the games must break people. Beyond repair. Yet she also know what is expected of her. She is expected to win, by the looks her dostrict send her, they expect a voctor this year. He father expects a victor. Rowell doesn't know if she expects one. She will have to pretend to be a different person, outside of her normal self, her normal introverted self, pretend to not be scared, when in reality she wants to cry, cry and never stop. Rowell decides, that winner or not she will not look week. Not like her sister, who froze in the blood bath, stood there idly as a dagger embedded itself I to her cheast, no even if she dies she will do better than her.

She will be strong and look it.

15 and ready to die