The 8th Writer Games & The Reader Games & Writer Games: The Deadly Decade

Interview; Sycamore Hurst

Over and over and over  again. I scream but no sound comes out. Last time I didn't know. The  time before that I didn't either. But this time I do, I've worked it out  and remembered and that's a lot worse. More people are going to die. I  am going to die, again. This...this can't be right. People die but  people shouldn't kill them. People should be allowed to die in their own  time.

Even some of these faces  are the same. It's a sleep-picture. I'm still dead but my brain is  showing me all these pictures to remind me. Yuki isn't here. I look for  her purple hair but though there are some people with purple hair, none  of them are right. The faces - people, they are people - ignore me,  talking to each other or staring straight ahead and all of them look  like I am feeling. White, like ghosts. Somewhere there is a buzzing  noise like a lot of people and a squeaky female talking loudly and it  makes my palms damp because this time I know what it means.

What happens now is: I  go up on stage. I talk to the woman who looks like she's exposed to too  much radiation. She asks me questions about death. I am supposed to  answer them to make the people happy. That last bit is annoying because  almost everybody doesn't. Most people are not making the crowd happy,  but I have to because I don't want them to hate me.

That is what is meant to happen.

I repeat it out loud to  myself over and over again. Even as they push me out onto the stage, I  carry on, because then I can hear my own voice and it reminds me that  I'm still here.

The woman is waiting.  The same woman on the same chair that still makes my eyes hurt. That's  probably the lights too, brighter that those at second home, the place  they call District Thirteen. The place they say I'm from.

At least this time I  don't glow. The jacket is too heavy and the outfit too tight. My hair  feels sticky and when I reach up to prod it, it is stuck to my head as  if they don't want it to fly away. If I could see a mirror I wouldn't  recognize myself.

The woman's forehead is  all creased and angry. I don't know why. No, wait. I do. The first time I  was here she wouldn't tell me what was going on and I punched her. To  one side of me I can hear clapping like little ripples, a lot of people,  and I don't want to look around and see them all watching me. The  inside of my mouth is dry and my palms are shiny with damp so I ball  them into fists so people can't see.

The woman flinches. Too  late I remember. Punching people is bad. But killing people is okay? The  familiar hot confusion bubbles inside; I don't understand! And if I ask  her she won't tell me...

"Wow. Sycamore, honey,  haven't you grown up!" she chirps. She is still leaning slightly away  from me, keeping one eye on my hands. She must be talking about my  clothes. I don't feel grown up.

"Have I?" I ask. Then,  because she doesn't look like she likes me very much and I think it's  because I punched her and because I am supposed to make sure people  don't hate me, I say, "I'm not going to punch you!"

"Good!" she exclaims,  and there is laughing from where all the people are, "You really do look  like you've grown up a lot. I'm guessing things have been different for  you?"

This is a silly  question. Things are always different for me. First I was in the damp  place with all the trees and then dry with all the bright lights, then  here, and since then I can't even remember everything that has been  different.

"I've been dead," I say,  "That wasn't nice. I don't want to be dead again." She splutters a  little giggle, but I see that she looks back behind her as if she's not  quite sure.

"Well, that's certainly  an interesting response, Sycamore, though of course we expect nothing  less from you! So tell us, if you don't want to be dead again, who you  think your biggest threat will be? Who do you especially want to avoid?"

This does not confuse me  anymore. But it's still a silly question. "Everybody who wants to kill  me," I answer. The clothes are too hot and it's weird not being able to  feel my hair tickling my cheeks and hovering around my eyes. I don't  like it. I don't like being up here. I don't like thinking that I am  going to die.

I start to shake.

The shadow whispers  "Brielle, he's going..." Is he talking about me? I'm not going anywhere,  not yet. I will have to and I don't want to, I really, really don't  want to...

"Okay, we'll hurry up,  then," she mutters so that only I can hear her, "Last few questions  then, Sycamore! What is your motivation to win, honey?"

"I don't want to die  again," I whisper, "I don't want to hurt people but I don't want to die.  I didn't mean to punch you. I'm sorry." My vision is going blurry and  my cheeks feel wet. I don't want to do this again. Please don't make me  do this again.

"Brielle, get him off the stage..."

Over and over and over again...

"This is what is meant  to happen," I say to myself, to drown her out and everybody else out  because I don't like this and I need to calm down and I don't know how.  It doesn't work.

"I don't want to answer any more questions!" I shout; it hurts my mouth. But I just want it all to go away.

The woman looks at me.  Her eyes are really wide and she's not frowning anymore. For a moment  she just looks at me and I just look at her because if I look and see  the people I won't be able to calm down. I am shaking.

"Fine," she says eventually, "Ladies and gentlemen, this was Sycamore Hurst of District Thirteen!"

I don't wait for the people to come and fetch me off the stage like they did last time.

I don't want to die.