TRUTH HURTS ⊗ | roisin + nell

I think I'm going to be misunderstood by most of these tributes. Of course, that's why I am the master of manipulation—being misunderstood is exactly what I want from them. This face is a facade; broken girl, completely innocent and free from all dark and sharp objects which she has become all too familiar with.

Telling the truth would be far too easy. This is a game, at the end of the day, and only the best player will win. I'm sure every tribute knows that everything begins long before we step foot in any arena, but whether they will take on an active role in taking fate into their own hands, turning the hands of time to work in their favour—it will separate the boys from the men and the men from the women. Looking at the other tributes makes me realise how sorry I role I might have to play to get them on my side because their faces seem plagued with depression.

Aren't they forgetting they are supposed to having the time of their lives? There isn't much time left for them, surely it is just common sense to make the most of it whilst they can.

Their intellectual capacity would always compare to that of their district's most famous export. Twelve are probably as dull as coal, One are probably as superficial as the luxury they live in. I think that is why I have an upper hand: style and substance; it's so easy to fall in love with the body of a goddess and then not realise there is a devil underneath. It's not my problem that they are too stupid to question someone who has the face of a doe, rather, my success.

I'd like to think that not everyone is as drab as the tributes that we see year in, year out. Yet, so easily, the tragedies flock together to create some sort of compound of turmoil. It's chemistry for them ... but the chemistry I know spontaneously combusts every now and then. The same could happen to their close knit community—friendship can only go so far when you're leaning on someone else to save their life, expecting them to do the same back. All I know ... if they do combust ... I will not be cleaning up the mess.

I stand alone. I don't want to dedicate myself to any particular station because there's no use learning how to make a fishing hook when there's no guarantee of fish. You can bank on there being murder, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out that the sharp end goes into the flesh. Besides, I think I'm already a pretty good killer—a beauty killer. I dress to stunt everyone's growth which obviously puts me at an advantage against these children.

If what they have planned for me to wear in the arena doesn't live up to my standards ... I'll have to kill someone and stain my lips with their blood. I'm not here for a nude moment, I want something that shows I mean business.

A girl stands within my proximity which makes me realise I'm going to have to interact with her. I really don't even know where she's from or her name, but she has a matronly look about her. I like it.

Honesty isn't always the best policy in my books, though, so I'm not sure I can tell her that ... especially when I'm supposed to be shaking in my boots at the site of anything scary. Making a move would seem awfully inappropriate, but it feels more necessary than inappropriate. I'll let my guard down, just this once. "I was hoping there would be more better looking people here." I guess it makes sense for the majority for people to be ugly, though—I'd want myself dead in the games if I had the face of a mutt. "Looks like it's just me ... and you."