What kills me makes me stronger } Yoya

{OOC: Sorry this took so long. x3}

Death. To most people, death means dying. To me, death means that you are a shell of what you once were. That the person you once were crumbles to nothing. Death is when you let yourself go. People die all the time for different reasons. For most people, it's because someone they loved died—as in their heart stopped beating and they breathed no more breaths. I've died once. I died when I turned twelve, which meant that I was able to enter the Hunger Games. I lost my friends because I was so paranoid about being chosen, and I trained and trained and trained until I could feel comfortable with my skills. Three years has gone by since I was twelve. It seems like it was forever ago that I stood in the Square, adrenaline and fear coursing through me, watching the Reaping.

Fear is what killed me, but I came back. My fear can never be conquered, but it keeps me going. My fear of the Games keeps me strong as I trudge aimlessly through life and throw my knives and spears at targets. It keeps me strong because it drives me to train. The more I train, the better chance I have at winning the Games. That helps me sleep at night. If my name gets pulled, then I'm dead either way. I can be killed, truly killed, or I can return home as a shell. I'm not sure which one I would choose, because they are both terrible.

I'm sitting under a tree that grows on the front lawn of my house, a thick stick in my right hand and a dagger in my left. I scrape my dagger against the end of the stick, peeling a thin layer of wood off. I have already sharpened the left side of the end of the stick into a sharp point, so now I'm starting on the right side. The weapon I'm creating is called a stake. I've tried making them with rocks before, but I've been unsuccessful, so I'm practicing with a knife. There may come a time that I'll need to know how to make my own weapons, especially if I am chosen for the Games.

I look around me for a moment, observing the activities in District One. Young children giggle and they toss around a sparkly bracelet. A group of teenage girls are huddled in a circle, giggling and whispering excitedly. I couldn't imagine living in any other district, where they aren't as fortunate as District One. I couldn't imagine living in the Capitol, either. The Capitolites seem sheep-like and ignorant, caking on makeup and dying their skin and wearing voluminous colored wigs. I love the glamor of District One, but I feel that the Capitol has too much glamor. I'm happy where I am.