The 73rd Annual Hunger Games

Chapter 7- Down with the Games

I went back to my room, and, not surprisingly, didn't catch a single wink of sleep. I sat up out of bed, tiredness hitting me like a wave. But I knew that if I laid down to try to sleep again, my eyes wouldn't shut. Part of it is fear of nightmares. Part of it is anxiousness of receiving our scores. Part of it is imagining the games. I sat up and numbly walked to the shower. I pressed "Classic," and it showered me with hot water, and sprinkled ivory-scented soap bubbles on me. The air dryers only dried my hair. I towel- dried the rest of my body, and changed into my training clothes. I combed my mostly dry hair into a fishtail braid, down my side. I ordered some steamed oysters from the bar in the corner where all you have to do is say the word and hot, steamy food is delivered to you in seconds. I popped it open and ate the fleshy insides. I closed my eyes and imagined that I was at home eating it, and when I open my eyes, all of this will vanish. I'll be sitting at my kitchen table watching my dad read our newspaper.

But when I opened my eyes, all I saw was the Capitol out the window. I wonder how many kids sat in this very spot, waiting to get killed. The spirits of the kids, still throwing fits under the sheets because nightmares terrorize them every time that they shut their eyes.

I picked up the plate that my oysters came on and threw it at the wall. I watched it shatter and litter broken glass shards on the carpet. I wonder if I can cut my throat with one of them?

I almost too-enthusiastically ran to the shards on the carpet, but they deteriorated into green powder on the floor. I sighed and picked it up in my hands. Useless.

I know that it's sort of morbid for a girl my age to think about suicide, but technically, entering the Arena is suicide. Either I die brutally by the hand of a 250lb. mega person, or I go silently by my own hand, after writing my final goodbyes on a note. That way, I'll go the way I want to.

I sat, contemplating suicide until Cherry's regular knock on the door startled me. "Come to breakfast! We've got a long day ahead of us today!!"

I rolled my eyes, and got up. I opened the door and silently walked down to the dining room. Kyle was fooling around with his fork and knife. Knife!!

I ran up and picked a knife up of the table. It had a long, thin blade. It was finely serrated.

Finnick was studying me carefully. "You can't kill yourself with it."

I was offended. "Why not?!"

Finnick and Kyle laugh. "Because when the blade comes in contact with your skin, it dissolves." Finnick said. He picked it up and demostrated. He touched it on his finger, and it dissolved into green powder.

I sat down and hit my head on the table multiple times until Finnick put a small pillow under my head.  Then, I hit my head on the pillow.

"Be careful," Finnick warned. "You don't want to mess up your face for the interview tomorrow and be the laughingstock of Panem."

I immediately stopped. I rested my face on the pillow unhappily. "I wanna go home." I mumbled.

Finnick rested his hand on my back. "I'm sorry."

I lifted my head off of my pillow, and surprised them with the tears streaming down my cheeks. "No you're not! None of you are! You just can't wait to see me get slaughtered so it'll be less work for you!"

I ran out of the room, aware of the sound of footsteps following me. I ran up to the roof and sat as close to the edge, the force field as possible. I cursed at the Capitol citizens below, partying, even though they can't hear me.

I saw Cyrus doing the same exact thing on the other side of the force field. I waved him over here, and opened the hatch so we could talk.

"What's up?" I noticed his puffy red eyes, mirroring mine. But he also had the blackened bruise on his face.