I was rising up, up into the air away from the launch room, away from my stylist and away from my old life in District 7. What kind of horrors are my family facing back home without me? I miss my best friend Onyx the most. His bubbly laugh, his black hair for which he was named and his eyes that change from blue to green in the sun. How I wish he could be here comforting me but not fighting. Never fighting in here, in the arena.
I look around and see lush and tropical trees, with plump fruit hanging off. I hear something, the sounds like monkeys, like the ones we learned about in school. I bet these aren't real monkeys. They are muttations made by the Capitol.
I look around at the supplies that litter the Cornucopia. It's filled with weapons, nothing else. My hands become clammy and I pat them dry on my jacket. It absorbs the sweat well. As I pat my hands dry I feel something in my pocket. I had forgotten about the little wooden ball my father had given me before the reaping. How he had said it was a good luck charm. Now it seems more like a curse. I pull it out of my pocket anyway, holding it in my hands. How it reminds me of my home, of my mother and father, of my four younger brothers and of Onyx.
A voice cuts through my thoughts like a knife, a familiar voice.
"Ladies and gentlemen, let the sixty-seventh Hunger Games begin!" Claudius Templesmith cries.
Sixty seconds. That's how long we are required to stand on our pedestals where everyone can see us. I look around for the boy from my district, Cooper. He's 16, a year older than I am, with a strong build from cutting wood all day. My eyes swing around, looking at al my competitors, and then I see him. He's only six tributes to my left. He catches my eye and smiles. I feel my heart do a flip. I think of how I might have to kill him and my heart drops into my stomach. I shudder and return to stare ahead at the cornucopia.
Which weapons would I be able to get to first? I was okay at knife throwing when we trained and throwing a spear can't be too hard. But what I'm looking for is a rapier. Mastering sword fighting over the years was a well thought out plan by my father. He trained my brothers and I in combat growing up. Somehow I never thought I would have to use it.
Then I see a bow and immediately think of Cooper and how handy he is with a bow. How he makes them using only wood, a knife and some coils of wire or string. How he carves arrows out of wood and attaches mockingjay feathers to them. He taught me once. When we had finished working in the forest for the day, he had found some sticks easily made into bows. He would guide my hand along the wood as I held the knife. I immediately released the thought. He and I were trying to kill each other. End each others lives forever. But if I couldn't win, then I want him too.
The sixty seconds had to be almost up. I watched around as people were crouching into a ready position to take of into the bloodbath at the cornucopia, or take off into a different direction into the jungle. I had to think of a plan. Was I up for a bloodbath? No, but what other chance did I have to get a weapon. Plus I was fast and I could easily sprint in to get the rapier and be out of there in no time. But on the other hand there were some knives and spears littered around the cornucopia. I could grab a knife and get out of there soon. I won't be heavily armed like the careers, but I can't bear to leave without any weapons.
I decide to try and get the small knife and spear that are close to my pedestal. I look around and see that the boy from district 3 and girl from district 8 surround me. They seem to glance over the spear and knife but aren't very interested. They look ready to charge into battle. Out of the corner of my eye I see a bright red backpack
I pull the wooden ball up to my nose; taking in the smell. My only token from home, I think. If I am to die I wish to do it holding the only thing I have with me from my family. My little wooden ball, sanded to perfection by my father's worn hands.
My hands moisten again and I pat them dry on my jacket. In slow motion, I see my wooden ball slip from my fingers, traveling toward the ground around my pedestal. I cry out in panic and reach out for the ball, the tips of my fingers brushing against it. Every tribute's eyes watching me, some with sad eyes and others are possibly even smiling at the thought of starting the games with only 23 tributes instead.
The ball is inches from the ground now. The boy from district 3 ducks, with his head protected in between his legs. I slam my eyes shut as the ball touches the ground. The landmines explode, blowing me off my feet into a million pieces.
