The Third Games

The Games

                Mark hugs me for the last time when the guard comes and steals him from my grip.

" Good luck," he said. I gave a sad smile. Everything has happened so fast. Everything has fallen apart from the horror of the war. Thirteen fell and the rest of us are weak. District 11, the produce district, is dry like the desert from the chemical warfare there is not much left to grow.

I know I will die, and this will be the last time I see him. Tears hang in my eyes like crystals from a chandelier.

Mark has been my family for 14 years. My mother died giving birth to me, and all I had was Mark.

I wake up the next morning - my eyes red and puffy. I sit down and start to write a letter to Mark. I love Mark just not in the way you think I would.

The day I met Mark it was mid winter - cold and dark. I had been picking snow berries on my own to get me through the winter. I heard echoing of crunching snow behind me. A little boy falls into the snow. When he emerges from the snow, his face hot with embarrassment and dripping with blood now from the bloody nose. I rush to help him, taking off my head wrap and holding it to his nose.

"What is your name?" I asked, but all I got in return was muffled mumbling. He pointed the way home, and when we got there, his mother said, "Hello, how are.....?" She saw the blood and got to work. After she got the blood to stop, she said, "I will clean this head wrap; it is filthy. It will be a thank you for helping Mark out." She gave me a bright smile before bustling away to wash my head scarf.

I was extremely jealous of this boy for his home and mother who loved and cared for him.

Once the blood was cleaned up, I realized that he was not a lot older than me, probably a year or two. His cheeks were folding over each other in an adorable way. It has been so long and now. That little boy I did not know is now like my older brother.

I have pages of writing to Mark that will find their way to him the moment I die or win. I know which it will be and Mark does too. I hope he will not watch me die.

Days have passed, and I am summoned for breakfast and training because today is the interview. Hours of playing dress up in high heels and long gowns and emotional training, so I am entertaining to the audience, when finally it is the interview.

I walk on stage in a blue dress the same hue as Mark's eyes, the long skirt spreading around me like a blanket of ocean tumbling over the sand. The one thing I know here is that the only thing that is keeping me sane is the fact that I am writing letters, that someday - with or without me - Mark will know I love him. A man with hair the color of my dress with matching eye shadow speaks to me as if I were a flower. He asks questions. I answer truthfully until he says, "Who will you miss the most? There must be someone."Awkwardly, I answer, mumbling my words, "I don't have much at home." I can tell he knows how uncomfortable I am, so he changes the conversation.

"Well, that's okay. I didn't have much before I got here either." I feel relief at his words. "You look absolutely stunning!" he turned toward the audience and said, " Isn't she?!" His booming voice encouraging the crowd to cheer. I never thought of beauty before, because when you struggle to live, it is easy to forget. My dark skin and unusual blue eyes are a result of my mother, who had blue eyes and deep skin the color of chocolate. Her hair framed her face with waves that tumbled down her back. I have seen her in pictures, and many people say I look like her, but my beauty will never compare to my mother's, so this comment comes as a surprise.

I honestly do not know what to say. When he asks me to spin, I do a polite twirl and sit down.

I had refused to wear anything gaudy or large, so I wore a simple flowing dress with beautiful flats that sparkled in the light.

A great sound of buzzing escapes a bell, and my time is up. I realize I have been clenching my dress hem for dear life after I let go. I could tell I probably looked scared out of my wits.

A few more days pass, and all I can think about is Mark. He is the only thing that doesn't get all jumbled in my mind. Training is horrible because I know it would be more fun if only Mark were here, and I wasn't about to die. But this is the Hunger Games, and they show no mercy.

I know how to build fires, tie knots, and what to eat and what not to eat. I am fast. When you live always in fear, you learn how to run. My one roadblock is weaponry. I can use a knife okay, but I fail with an axe or sword time and time again. The only weapon I know how to use properly is a bow and arrow. I can use it elegantly and efficiently, but I am no war hero with it.

I do have intelligence, and that is extremely important. Lack of intelligence is the deadliest thing in the arena, along with insanity. In the first Hunger Games, there was a boy who ate the other's heart right out of his chest. I don't want to kill anyone or eat their hearts out. I don't want this arena to change me or end me, but the days are creeping away from me, and I know one or the other will happen soon.

I hear a sound, and my mind snaps back into reality as I see a small girl fall to the ground. I thrust my hand toward her to help her up and bang, I fall to the ground, my lip cut and bleeding. A boy about 18 has just punched me in the face. Then I see how badly hurt the girl was. She was bruised bleeding, her face pale. I didn't know if it was from loss of blood or pure fear. A whimper escapes the girl's lips. Peacekeepers start swarming the raging boy who is screaming at the top of his lungs as he is dragged away. The girl was helped to her feet and rushed away with urgency.

I was jerked from my daze by a yank on my arm and a peacekeeper takes me to the same room as the girl. I could tell she was being drugged, most likely morphine, but her face was peaceful as she slept .

I fell into a sleep that was as deep as the girls next to me, and all I could see was darkness until a fuzzy face appeared. Itt was like Mark was right next to me, cracking a cheesy joke like always, and I woke up laughing my head off until Mark faded, and it was like all the joy left and suddenly I was crying.

When I opened my eyes, there was the girl standing over me. She wrapped her little arms around me and started to cry with me. Poor girl, the size of a mouse, being called into inevitable death. How am I supposed to kill children smaller than me?

Her whimpers turned into muffled words. "My name is Sage,"she said as she lifted her head and I saw why she was named that. Her eyes were the same greenish-grey-blue as the plant she was named after, her hair was red like fire, and her nose was sprinkled with freckles. Her thin body was covered in scars that the capitol were in the process of healing, because they want everyone to be in perfect health before they kill us off.

I woke up knowing I had run out of time. There was a collection of letters written to Mark. I hope that he will read them. I feel as if time is as miserable as I am - slow and steady. My stylist had let me decide what to do with myself, but today I wore a green jumper that was made with a material that was made to reflect heat. She asks me if I have a token I wish to take into the arena. I thought for a moment, and my hands reached for the chain that has hung around my neck since I turned 12. It had a stone that was as blue as the dress I wore to the interviews. It feels as if an eternity has passed since then.

The chain was given to me by Mark, who had worked for months to do something special for me on my first reaping so I could be protected. I wanted nothing more than to take at least a part of Mark with me. My stylist slowly nodded. That was the last thing I saw before I walked into a clear glass tube and was sucked into an arena. As I was rising, sunlight blinded me. A great mass of land stood before me, but all I could think about were the letters. When the horn blew, I ran. I hope he will get them.