Oenothera
According to my History book back home, prisoners were kept in cells like this one, called 'dungeons', thousands and thousands of years ago when the world did not consist of Panem and the Capitol, but of castles and knights in shining armour. There was no Hunger Games. People who did bad things were thrown into dark, damp concrete cells, like the one I'm sitting in, and left there for days, maybe weeks, until their trial, execution, or death by insanity or starvation.
So why are the Capitol feeding me all this delicious food?
At first I was wary, an inbuilt instinct inherited from Mom, I guess. They bring in trays and trays of food so my cell both smells and looks like a banquet. It looks like the feast the Gamemakers would eat as the Tributes showed their skills to them before the Arena long ago. But I won't touch the food. Hunger knaws at my stomach, making me dizzy and weak. Time passes, and since there is no way to tell time in here, though I've guessed that the scratches on the wall are some inmate's way of telling it, I'm not sure how long I'd gone without food. I haven't eaten properly since Uncle Gale's house, and even then our last meal had been cut short.
Then I think to myself: They value me too much to kill me. I think I'm right. I'm a pawn, a prize for them, and they need me in the Hunger Games. They want people to root for me, to expect me to win, even though they're going to kill me anyway as a symbol of hope's fate. And then I guess why they are feeding me so well: they're fattening me up, making me plump and ripe so I look like I could win.
So I eat.
I will be strong.
I will defeat them using their own power.
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