The 100th Annual Hunger Games Quarter Quell: District Revenge

Mason Corduroy ~ Last Goodbye's

"Do you not love your family?" He questioned with an enraged demeanor.

I roll my eyes and gaze off into the white light that's peering from a small window. It reflects off of the grand piano and makes a glossy shadow onto the carpeted floor.

"Well?" He says lifting his arms up and cocking his head to the side.

I shrug my shoulders.

He smacks his hand to his forehead and paces around the small room in circles. "Mason, please be honest with me, do you want to die a slow painful death, or live a joyous life and have grandchildren?"

"I don't want to die a slow painful death, but I'm doing this for Avalon," I admit.

"Mason!" He hollers.

"Yes sir?"

"You are like me son, tall, sturdy, a young man that stands his grounds. Do you really think in your right mind that the other tributes will go easy on you?" He says.

"No sir,"

"As your father I'm obligated to give you my most adequate advice and sacrificing yourself for a girl, isn't the right choice,"

"Yes sir,"

"Think about your mother and I, do you want to hurt us by making a complete fool of yourself on live television by throwing away any chances you have of living?"

"No sir,"

"It was a rhetorical question son,"

"Father, with all do respect, I am in love with Avalon. She deserves to stay alive just as much as I do but I'm willing to give my life for her."

"And if she dies before you?"

"I'll win,"

"And if you die before winning?" He challenges.

"Tell Xavier I love him." I say under my breath in a low voice.

My father shakes his head disdainfully at me. He looks at me with those once hurting eyes I've seen plenty of times. My casual apathetic attitude signaled a trigger in him. For the first time, my father cries. It's not like the type of cries I've seen at the reaping. He doesn't fall out in despair or wail at the top of his lungs. He simply sheds a tear and removes the drop off water from his face with his sleeve. I've never seen my father get so emotional like this before. One tear is enough for me to figure out that he's sincerely hurt.

He clears his throat. "I'm going to be honest with you son, only because you're my oldest."

My hand is shaking as I try to penetrate the upcoming but expected man to man, heart to heart conversation I'm about to endure.

"In my heart, I strongly believe that you can win these games, do you want to know why?"

"Yes sir,"

"Because you are a Corduroy son. Our ancestors designed The Hunger Games, and you can win them!"

It's awfully strange how my grandfather was a Gamemaker. My father used to tell me stories about how he would enjoy going to work with grandfather during the week of the games and observe him in the way he operates the central game board, the holographic control system in which the arena is regulated and contained to the Gamemakers liking's.

"How dad?" I ask him, unsure if he's right or just trying to make me feel better.

"By being durable and forcing your way to the top, that's the only way you can win. No giving up, no accidental mistakes, and no sacrificing." He says sternly.