Hunger Games
It was only just a game.
That was what they said, what they assured, their promise ingrained into the minds of all the Districts. A way to keep the peace, to unite the Districts and the Capitol - Panem at its finest.
They didn't talk about the nightmares that plagued in the night, the constant echo of the bloodcurdling screams from the victims, the blood that never seems to come off no matter how hard you scrub. Or about the hysteria that seeps in your veins when you've been still for too long, the panic that bleeds into your system in the middle of an ambush. They don't mention the piece of innocence that you lose when you stare into someone's eyes and take their life.
No, they don't tell you that part - instead they pretend like they can't see past your false smile and right into your broken eyes. How can you explain it? What's it like to win, to be crowned victor? To your friends, your family nothing is the same - no one can find the will to look past what you've done. What you did to survive. But oh, it's such a cost for survival. Nobody told you how the cries for mercy continue long after they've stopped. And you tell yourself - it's for survival, I'm sorry I have to go home, I have to win, I'm sorry I'm sorry, - but it doesn't help and nothing does.
Besides, it was only just a game.
They told you you've won.
Funny, it didn't feel like it.
Nothing of the events that occurred in the arena, the lives taken so violently and the bloodshed which stained your hands red, felt like a victory to you. The victor's crown is heavy upon your head and the last thing you want to do is face the families of the children you killed - the children you murdered. You smile and wave, say all the speeches they want you to but it all falls short of a victory. This is what being a victor is, this reward for winning, they tell you but you can't help but feel this is the price for surviving - the uncontrollable trembles in your hands and the everlasting tear stains on your skin; wasn't the victor's glory supposed to be beyond your wildest dreams? And it was for you, but in the worst way possible - it was a success you didn't want. But how can one complain over her fans, her riches and her immunity; it's only a game, they'd say.
This is it, you tell yourself because it was this or dying a brutal and vicious death at the hands of another tribute and then you would've been nothing more but another face in the sky that night. But when the night closes in and the darkness brings back memories that are best left forgotten, you wish it was you. How bittersweet it would be, you think, to not be the way you are - with blood under your fingernails and ghosts in your bones. Victor is the burden you carry now, along with the voices in your head that are slowly eating away at your mind.
They told you you've won but it certainly didn't feel like it.
You often found yourself on the outskirts of District Seven to get away from judging and prying eyes, the town of people who couldn't look you in the face without curling their lips in disgust. It was easier out there, for nobody dared to stray to the fences - not when they knew it was where the victors would be. At first, you thought it could just be you and your thoughts - you liked it that way, with no one to question or query - but it was only a matter of time before you found someone else along the line of fence.
It was a boy who had won from a couple of years back and reaped at 15, he was known for being one of the youngest victors in the games. You remembered watching him on the screens, feeling disgusted at how ruthless and merciless he had been as he ploughed through the people. You wondered how someone so young could turn in the blink of an eye, ready to kill. No, ready to survive. The last person you expected to find friendship in was Derek Hale, the boy with his deadly axe and unforgiving demeanor.
God, looking back you realized you were just like the rest of them - foolish and naive to believe it was the boy who was twisted and corrupted and not the Capitol. Now you understood. It took awhile - the boy was bitter and hardened from his times in the games - but a friendship formed between your two broken souls. You didn't talk much at first, just sat in the sun, trying to relish in the fact that there was someone who didn't see you as a cold-blooded killer, instead as a healing person and a friend. Then, you would talk, exchanging memories and stories of the good times when your hands weren't tainted from blood and their minds from horrifying memories. You decided you liked it, the sun beaming down as you sat with your friend and began to piece yourself back together.
