One last time

Chapter 1

"This can't be" I stand, staring blankly, motionless into the crowd. A sound escapes my mouth. Something half way between a gasp and choking. "This can't be" I repeat with the same rusty shock filled aroma. Those 3 words are all can manage to pronounce. I turn, my wild eyes shifting from side to side, looking for some sign from the strangers that surround me that this isn't happening. Every citizen leers at me. They must have noticed it's me by now, there is no way I can hide, no way to escape. They find me in the crowd, drag me by my arms to the stage outside Presidents Snow's old mansion. I stand amongst 23 others on the heightened platform. Other kids just like me. Just another part of the rebels revenge. In case you have not gathered by now, this is the final Hunger Games. After the Districts revolution against the Capitol it was decided that for one last time, 24 children, between the ages of 12 and 18, would be placed and held in an arena and forced to fight to the death on live television. Accept, this time, the capitol children would be the ones dying. As if we didn't suffer enough during the revolution. Most of us like myself, have been raised in the Capitol peacefully. Never causing any trouble yet look where we are: at deaths door when most of us here have done nothing accept be born into privilege.
Where are my manners. My name is Thalia Leopris. I am 16 years old and so it seems, I am soon to be dead. Not like it really means anything, my family were all killed in the war. My mother was District 12 stylist for the games, she was murdered live on television. It was thought she was a district spy. My father and older brother killed in the bombings in Everthaw square a few days after. I was and am alone. Now, so it appears, I won't be staying like that for much longer. I try hard not to look relieved. They take us into the large marble building in single file. The towering white doors make a sound that echoes through the empty halls for minuets after we enter when opened, it sounds like a heart beat to me. It might even be my own, I have had a ringing in my ears since they called my name. I still haven't said anything. My mind too full of unanswered questions to fully comprehend. My life seems as if it has been wasted. I won't stand a chance against the odds. You are never taught anything about fighting or survival. You are taught to be pleasant and present and proud; Speak only when spoken to; Pink is the new black; blah blah blah. I was practically forced into this ridiculous life style but me and my brother, Aran dealt with it. He was handsome so they didn't have to change much of him whereas I was seen as the sort of runt of the litter. My nose too long, eyes to big and skin too pale. My parents wanted my skin dying but I am still too young for anything so extreme. My hair is blonde naturally but it is so often dyed I forget what it looked like that shade. It is currently toned a sickly lilac colour and knotted in soft curls. My eyes were enhanced at the age of 9, to help me see, resulting in them turning an strange shade of deep green. The only plus side to my absurd look is that it is considered normal here and I tend to blend in. Though behind all the colours and feathers and the games, we Capitol citizens are nice people, just easily entertained. Assuming everyone actually enjoys this life and I'm not the only one living in the shadow.
So after all the districts suffering throughout the war and the 75 years of games they are still ready to treat us with the same blood thirsty, self serving torture that they had fought to avoid. I am wrong to think this is unfair? No. We did nothing yet it is us facing the consequences like a child shouting out in class, and the teacher hitting the student next to him for not stopping him, rather than the child who was rude in the first place. These circumstances were common in our schools. I've been lashed more times than I can remember. It has been while though but not long enough because The scars still sting. You expect all of us in the Capitol to be smily and chatty and happy all the time but it's only the games that surge that feeling. Painful memories resurface so I fight back to reality by attempting to speak to someone, something. "This can't be" I can't help but keep muttering these words, my accent making the murmur sound like mad rambling. They must think I'm mad, I feel it. We are led to a room about the size of the quad we stood in at the "reaping". They leave us here for what seems like forever. letting the group get loud and impatient. Will they even bother with an arena or are they just going to leave us and expect us to just bludgeon each other to death here and now. I start plotting in my head who I'll slaughter first but I immediately push the thought away when she walks through the door: Every head turning.
"well, look who it is" A boy with dark flicks of brown hair shouts from the back of the room. His unnaturally red cheeks drowning him with the added flush caused by his obvious rage. I recognise him, he stayed in my fathers restaurant during the attacks like many others did. I think his name is Mason. The buzz of slurred mummers at his disrespect over take the room but fade into silence as they must remember their own manners. After all, we are in the presence of the reason this bloodbath will occur. Our glorious, beautiful, dirty, rotten little Mockingjay.