(Everything) goes {C O L D} \eventually.\ [Night]

Dining has proven to provide me with the most pleasant minutes of my time in the Capitol.

Good food and drink, so different to our meals at home, fill me with a pleasure that makes all my cares evaporate. I cradle the mug of tepid tea between my palms and try to remember who I am. Eternity Lordthorn. I had a family. I had a rabbit. Friends? And now all I have is an empty bench, and the only normal refreshment I could find in the whole room. Behind the almost tidal crowds, pushed to the side by bowls of bitter pomegranate, clusters of nuts and mounds of meat, a stained vat of ‘English Breakfast’ tea, whatever that is, sat alone, spiralling happily by itself. Just like me.

Since I poured it out, the murky liquid has not touched my lips, but has sat in front of me radiating its comforting warmth into my pale fingers, up my arms and into my heart and mind. Without the human comfort that I crave, so near to death, is this electric warmth all I can have? The emotions in my mind are gridlocked; nothing rational or sensible advances, and the thoughts that usually buzz inside me are still, occasionally shouting out and startling my tired imagination. I am going to die. Unless I find an ally in the arena. Could anyone be watching out for me? The eyes of my guardians in the heavens cannot save me now.

Another fight breaks out across the room, seemingly between two Careers in a twisted power display that I don’t care to recognise. Very soon, I know, the Peace will be disrupted by those employed to keep it. More irony that fills the palaces of Panem. Everything here is so turned on its head: cameras and microphones leer wickedly down, whirring as they track our actions, but they aren’t set there to keep us in order. On the contrary, our every perfectly-edited and highly analysed move keeps the adrenaline high Capitol citizens satisfied, and the odds on our heads means the Games live,even if we do not. What would Bethlehem’s mother say about this? A government that spends all its money on elaborate details rather than taking care of the wellbeing of its poorer people. This tea is the same. I stare down in bizarre admiration at the newly birthed metaphor in my cupped hands. Something so innocent, so totally pure and comforting as hot, caffeine filled drinks, thrust aside to make way for boasts of counterfeit delicacies that are, on the tongue, no better than ash.

It is only as I slide my fingers throught the handle of the real china mug that I notice that a girl, no more than one year my junior, is standing awkwardly before me, staring at the no longer boiling mug in my hands with an intense but relaxed longing. I should give it to her, she seems so alone. Or is it me that seems so alone? Doe she feel sorry for me? Which District is she from? Nine or ten, I suppose. If only I could recall her name…

But not being granted this desperate wish, I manage a soft and discreet ”Hello,” and nod at the opposite bench. Perhaps someone will watch out for me yet.