| CLAIRE HUNTER | D9 |

I have searched far and wide for medicine. There is no cure, no way to eliminate the shadows that linger in my life; neither the ones I have invented, nor the ones that were present from day one. The tears that roll down my cheeks some nights are not an antidote to whatever dark spell has fallen over me. I had everything I cared about ripped away from me. If I cannot have what I desire, I will not allow others to have what they want. Sometimes the woods in my dreams are my only escape. Sometimes the huntress has to bend her bow.

It had always seemed like the world I lived in was a place where differences were unappreciated. Freedom was a foreign concept, with barbed wire standing between me and a place where limits do not exist. District Nine is a very humble place, where brother turning on brother is unheard of. It's a very simple place; we do not embed jewels in our throats like in the Capitol, and we can't afford all of the pretty trinkets in the thrift shops. Though District Nine is plentiful enough that our ribs do not struggle to rip out of the tight mold that they have been encased in, some nights I do go to sleep with a grumbling belly.

From day one, we have been taught that we are meant to express ourselves. We are supposed to share our opinions, discuss the future, and dream out loud. Yet the Capitol has put duct tape over the mouths of all of us, warning us that "conspiracy is strictly prohibited." All I can hear is, "independent thought is not permitted. Don't even think about it." The Capitol has their lapdogs and their underdogs; and then there are the strays like me, the forgotten ones. We aren't the puppies that they fuss over, and we aren't the ones that they kick for no reason. We're the ones that are tied to streetlamps and forgotten, the ones that are left out in the cold. I don't like not being heard. There's no point in talking if nobody listens to you. And those who do listen twist your words until they sound like they left the mouth of another. So the only safe place for words is tucked away in the labyrinth that is my mind.

What I have is pure empathy. I can see from everyone's point of view, and I can identify with you, even if your perspective scares or sickens me. The line between my own thoughts and the minds of others is blurred; one day I might be acting like my mother, and other days I might be like Rylee, my boyish excuse for a sister. I can't help but feel that my mother's shoes are a little large to fill, and when I'm walking I'll leave them in the dust, to be stolen by a malicious passerby. As the second oldest I know that I have responsibilities to fulfill, but I can't help but get a little distracted now and then. I dabble in the art of poetry, and I fill a notebook up with even my wildest dreams. I try my hardest to be content with what I have and keep a positive attitude, but some days, things just come crashing down around me.

I am not the embodiment of perfection. I stand at 5'11", earning myself the nicknames of giraffe, and giant. I am underweight, weighing in at 130 pounds. My cheeks are hollow, and I have dry, calloused hands. I am like a bronze statuette, rust flowering on my scalp and my skin. My limbs are stiff from years of working to keep the family in good condition. My mousy brown hair is a tangled mess, and my scalp is dry and flaky. I have flat feet, and sometimes when I walk I turn my feet outwards and turn my ankles in. My left hand has more callouses than my right, for that is my dominant hand. The ghost of a wound lingers on my back, still sore to the touch. And worst of all, I have been bestowed with dull, cloudy hazel eyes, to watch my life unfold before me.

I was born in the year of the 48th Games, on September 14th to be exact. I entered the world just as the dawn's hues bled away, and the sun and the moon traded places in the sky. According to mother, I was an impatient little child, not even wanting to wait until the deadline to meet the world. I was supposed to be born in November. As a result of being born prematurely, I was a weak, sickly little baby.

I spent the first seven years of my life hacking and wheezing. It seemed I had a headcold that would never blow over; I became tired of waking up in the middle of the night to spit out the mucus that welled up in my throat. I could not help but feel that I was not the favorite in the family. My mother would always take out my older brother Blake to do Ripred knows what, and I was stuck inside, inhaling dust and germs. Sienna, Baylee, and Rylee were the babies. They got what they wanted regardless. Me, Aaron, Zane and Kyle? We were just the middle kids. We weren't old enough to be considered "young men and women", and we were too old to be called "babies". We were basically invisible. This was what ignited my desire to be influential, my desire to be heard.

One day when I was nine, I protested to my mother about how unfair things were. I never got fresh air, never got to feel the sunlight on my skin. I never got to run errands with her and Blake. And most importantly, I was ignored. My mother did not appreciate the tone I took with her, and she seized me by the arm.

"You won't get where you want to go in life if you act like this. You need to learn."

She locked me in the cellar with nothing but a platter of spoiled cheese. Within minutes I could feel insanity curling its fingers tighter around my throat. I could feel its nails pressing harder against my neck, tearing away layer after layer of flesh. Every shaky breath I took felt like a gust of wind stirring her lungs. I would often pace the room until my legs gave out beneath me. I was sick of this room already. I never wanted to lay eyes on it or its contents ever again; the bright acrylic paints that smiled at me from the dusty corner, the old mattress that groaned when I lay down, the books with the yellow pages and the cracked spines. I could no longer control my emotions. My mouth was a furnace, spitting sparks everywhere. I had never spoken such foul language in my life and often covered my ears when I heard such talk, but now my entire vocabulary seemed to have been replaced with these horrid words. Once I had gotten all swears out of my system, I breathed nothing but smoke; quiet, shaking sobs that dissipated into the air around me.

When my mother finally let me out of the cellar, my eyes were bloodshot and my cheeks were puffy. I had cried so much that I had emptied out the contents of my stomach on the floor, and a foul stench followed me up the creaking staircase. Ma gave me a sad smile when I entered the kitchen. "I hate to be harsh with you, Claire. But that's what will happen if you decide to smart off to an authoritative figure. They lock you in a cell for what seems like an eternity, and they will not show you any mercy. This world will eat you alive."

My mother's words frightened me. I had not paid much attention to what a fragile world I lived in until now. The balance could be broken at any second, and all the heads would roll. We were always under surveillance. Even the lapdogs of the Capitol were held on leashes. It was like every last person in this damned country was insecure; afraid to lose control of the people around them. If you lost control, you fell off the path you were walking. My days as a carefree child were over.

My siblings and I are a team. We share secrets, we share dreams, and we have each other's backs. I talked to Blake for advice when I was thirteen and I got my first boyfriend. I tutor my younger siblings in math. If I ever go down, I'm bringing my siblings down with me. The Hunters stick together, no matter what.

And if even one of us steps out of line?

Watch the hunter become the hunted.