The Bloodbath

I never realized how much of a blessing clocks really are. But now, as I lie on my too-huge bed in a long period of being awake, I’d really love to know what time it is. After my interview, I dozed off for about an hour, but a dull ache in my stomach woke me up. I tried to force myself to order something light – a bowl of soup and two pieces of bread too many – so that I wouldn’t be sick tomorrow. No, I can’t have that. Because tomorrow is when the 62nd Hunger Games begin.

Thoughts and ideas and questions dart back and forth in my head, and I feel a dull pain slowly becoming sharper in my temple. Headaches are common for me, especially when I have a lot going on. Right now, I try to guess what the arena might hold, who in my alliance will die first, how awkward it’s going to be between my “lover” and me.

Lover. I’m not entirely sure what to think of her. From what I can tell, she’s talented. She got a really good training score, I have to admit. I was kind of shocked, because a girl like her does not look like she could get a score equal to that of a Career, but it’s possible. I have a feeling she’ll make it through the Bloodbath easily. The actual perseverance in the arena is what I think will break her, though. I get the feeling that withstanding the pain and fear and me is going to have too harsh of a toll on her body and mind.

I exhale loudly, reminding myself that I’m alone. In my room, no one can see me or hear me, except whoever watches the cameras. This will be my final time alone before I’m in the arena with an alliance, fighting to the death. Then, being alone will be the only thing I truly long for. Not staying alive, because in the arena, being alive is a curse. And dying clearly isn’t fun, although it’s bound to happen. If I die, I’d rather die alone, so that I might have a chance to think about myself and everything that happened leading up to my demise. People only cry and mourn when they see death; or perhaps they laugh. That’s to be expected in the Hunger Games.

I realize that the monsters I describe in my head will soon be me as well. I am a killer, a savage, a scavenger, a monster. I am a rapist. I am abusive. Anxious. Secluded. Angry. Selfish. I belong in the arena. I might as well be a mutt, all warped and damaged, inside and out. The Games are where I am meant to be, where I can be at home with everything and everyone who is like me. Maybe there are a sane few among the bunch, but I know that a majority of the tributes are already as crazy as I am.

Turning over onto my side, I glare at the dimly lit wall. It mocks me, with its simple life and cool surface and nice view out the window. I reach out and touch it, letting my fingertips gently brush over the smooth, cool surface. It’s a stark contrast to me, a hot and sweaty mess. I don’t know if it’s just my emotions getting to me, but I feel hotter than a volcano right now. I’d love to press my body up against the wall, but that sounds weird and I don’t have the energy to get up right now. A cold shower is an option. But maybe I shouldn’t be doing something that will just wake me up even more this late at night, the night before the Bloodbath. But, of course, I don’t listen to my conscience, and I make myself rise and stumble through the darkness to the huge bathroom. The tub, long and wide, is very inviting, so I fill it up with the coldest possible water from the faucet. Quickly, I peel off the small amount of clothing I have on, and lower myself into the cold. It feels wonderful compared to my hot room, where all my dark thoughts still run rampant. Better than being in my head.

Sleep envelops me. I manage to push myself onto the rug of the bathroom floor so I don’t freeze to death, although sleeping on the floor isn’t going to do wonders for my back. Oh well. At least I’ll have much more important things on my mind tomorrow.

I’m woken up by panicky stylists, rushing in to pull me – violently – off the floor. When I bring my hands up to rub my eyes, I find that my eyes and cheeks are wet. I’ve been crying. Hurriedly, I wipe the tears away before they can notice. Imprinted in my mind is a vague picture of my old house.

The rest of the morning involves last minute touching up until I’m suddenly thrown into a hovercraft. My first instinct is to run and hide, but I don’t. Let them see me. Even if I do feel weak and vulnerable and sick to my stomach.


Suddenly, as if time has skipped, although I know it’s just my heart skipping, I’m in some dark room beneath the arena. A pedestal that I’m guessing will be taking me up sits in the corner, and my stylist is here. Desual, with his freakish looks and long hair, holds a long, white cloth that looks like it will be draped over my body. Great.

A toga is what it’s called. And this crown thing, a laurel. Not exactly ideal clothing for the arena, but it has to be specifically like this for a reason. I won’t know until I’m in there.

It’s as if my thought is a command, because it’s time to go. Desual, kind as he is, leads me to the pedestal, to my death, to everything that the worst of the world has to offer. My breath begins to come quickly, and my thoughts race. I went over my plan ten, thirty, fifty times in my head this morning. My mind turns to liquid, and I struggle to conceive any kind of idea. Then the glass rises.

I’m trapped in a glass cylinder, staring at Desual, my last contact with the outside world. My heart drops, the pedestal rises. This isn’t happening. I can’t be going into the arena. I can’t, I won’t. I’m not prepared for this. That light at the end of the tunnel isn’t so welcoming. I always knew they were wrong.

Thick, hot air grabs at me the second I’m in the arena. The only thing I can see at first is the hot glare from the side of the Cornucopia. Then all the rest registers. Twenty-three children, all out to kill me. Even my own allies. This may be the last thing I see.

I gulp, decide a path to run, and wait. I’m not leaving yet.

The gong. People run. I stay. My allies stay. We will do this.

There comes a time,

When you need to trust,

When your whole life,

Trust had been nothing.

He had said it, said to the whole world about his dads secret. The one Dragan had only known, the reason he had volunteered for the games. The reason he was going to die, he was crazy; out of his mind. But his father could not hurt him, not touch him as he stood ready with his stylist running around him. Checking his outfit, adjusting his hair, touching his face with glossed fingernails and long eyelashes. Might as well look good if I am going to die. His lips were smudged with makeup, and his nails still polished from his interview. Dragans face was covered in layers of makeup, trying to cover up the dark circles and large sagging bags under his heavy eyes. He had barley slept throughout the night, instead staring at the wall, almost seeing the faint outline of his father. Cursing Dragans name, trying to escape the peacekeepers that were going to get him, that were going to take him away forever. Leave his mom in peace forever and let her be,

that made Dragan smile.

He knew it was almost time to head off into the cylinder, his stylist kept buzzing in his ear like annoying an fly. “Oh you are going to do great.” “Make me proud,” “Can you say your first kill was for me when you win?” Oh how he tried to help him get over his soon death, make him feel like he would live. But his silly mind could not get it out of their heads. He was a scraggy boy from District 3 not a victor like all the careers were. A district 3 boy did win last games, but who cared if another ne won. They were probably putting a price on his head, they would not want a repeat of district 12 winning three times in a row. It was smart of them, keep peace and let the one of the tributes the capitolites want to win, win. No one wanted to have a underdog anymore. Unless they were stricken in love, no chance of that happening The chances might in someone else’s favour though, anything could happen. Expect it meant the death of him, he was never good with luck but honestly Dragan had accepted the minute he stepped onto that stage. It made him feel fuzzy inside with butterfly’s storming around, he did not know when he would pass or how long he would make it. He might even make it to the final two, it was all luck.



And now he had to go, his stylist literally pushed him into the cylinder and it shut the second he stood in it. His breath was fogged up and heart racing, he would not even give a glance to the people that prepared him for his death. He would only wait, shut his eyes; and so he did. Dragan shut them, let the colors dance around in his eyes. It was so quiet, it was the only silence he would have until the bloodbath. Where bloodcurdling screams would fill the air and the only silence would e if he was dead. The sweet silence that was only rewarded to those without blood pulsing through there ear. Right now, Dragan was going upwards he could feel it. Slowly he rose, not giving a passing glance at the stylist who shrieked out his name. Dragan, Dragan. Feelings could not be expressed or explained. Just a mixture of terror and fear, knowing death was soon to come. The sunlight hit him, shining directly into his eyes. Gentle breezes blew against his hair that fluttered gently in his eye. Dragan squinted and then he was there Up staring at the large cornucopia infront of him. Gold and dazzling, casting a golden light onto the whole arena. Items filled to the top, weapons food. Items that Dragan needed to survive. Everyone was around him and all he could think about was the terror that shone in each one’s eyes. Expect for the careers who looked like they were ready so swoop down and do their district a blessing. Each and every one of his alliance stood ready, waiting. As Dragan did, his legs ached to move, wanting to dash off. It was not time though but soon, it would be option one would take to survive.