I tried to control my breathing, so that the knife wouldn’t be dug further into my skin by the frantic movement of air into and out of my lungs. I looked up towards him. His eyes didn’t look angry; they looked sad. But my stomach churned at the determination behind the solemnity I saw there. The gray was unmistakably cold-hearted. He was distancing himself from the kill. Allowing himself to become indifferent. My lips parted to speak. “Please, don’t kill me.” Tears began forming at the corners of my eyes... My name is Jezebel, and I have thanatophobia.

Once I was a god. Worshiped. Revered. The huddled masses cast themselves at my feet, heads bowed and eyes wide. Save us, they begged. Spare us, they pleaded. And, fool that I was, I tried. Now I am nothing. Fallen. A bitter memory of an age long passed. A broken old fool too stubborn to die. This is my story. My rise, my fall. The pathetic mess, after. Read it. Don’t. I care little. My words are not for you.

Sixteen-year-old Clove Lozier is the youngest tribute in District Two-- the first career younger than eighteen in fifty-seven years. She's prepared physically, of course- she's clever, stubborn, steadfast and the best knife-thrower at Amsteel Academy. But she isn't prepared the things the Games will bring out of her.