Paranoia grips me by the shoulder and tells me that everything is a danger as I wake from my light slumber. The cannon shots repeat in my mind, telling me the next boom could be my short funeral, engulfing my every fiber with a single shot. Pushing myself through labored breaths and sharp stabbing pains have kept me alive throughout this cannon concert known as the Hunger Games. Darting glances, sweating palms, shaking knees, and ringing ears make me the rabid distorted person I am now; weeks of scurrying away like a hunted animal mixed with the killings I have seen and committed have altered me to become a person I despise. District Two would love to throw me an extravagant party recognizing my discrete silent kills. The blood hungry crowd that will gather in my honor welcomes me as I stand up from behind the vines. It’s time to meet their savage cheers with a glued on smile that threatens to fall off and reveal the shattered being underneath. It’s time to become the hunter and not the hunted. It’s time to win.

Winning would bring me back to the life I could’ve continued on in had it not been for the Games. Six sudden booms tell me that I am that much closer to Victor’s Village. I stare at the sky expectantly. Please let me out of this scorching prison; please let the sad, weary, wrinkled eyes of my mother turn glad when she sees me once again. Hope surges inside me; a bright flicker of light burns inside of me at the idea of change. Changing this evil that has sunk into me through experiences that will haunt me forever.  Let me win and I might just fit the empty puzzle pieces of my life back together, hopefully changing this world with a restored portrait of humanity that goodness will paint, instead of Gamemakers. After hearing my voice, District Two will stop cheering for the bloodlust of taking someone else’s life and voice. My mother will finally sleep through dark nights without having to scream to the impassive stars for consolation. The clear sky obscured by dangling leaves listens to my prayer of stopping the anger-driven wins of life. The open, empty air seems to assure me a new home in Victor’s Village. I will pick up the pieces of my life that the Capitol has eagerly smashed to bits. Give me the chance to put back the pieces. Silence meets me, giving me no such chance.

A rainbow full of jumping spotted creatures sing out to me with a chorus of chirps. The delicate little beings cautiously advance in my direction. These tiny springing bundles of vibrancy are poison dart frogs. The wise words of my trainer echo in my mind and I know that I want to be the quick kind of person on the battlefield, not the dead kind. I spot a camera on a nearby tree and feel an eerie connection to the world outside these games – a thousand pair of eyes glued to every view screen eagerly lean in closer to get a better view of the show.  Also with them, I see my mom and dad, sick with fear at sights they can’t watch but can’t turn away from.

A shout of terror followed by a thud gives death another name on his attendance sheet from this race of horrors. I don’t want to be next and instinct arouses my need to endure the pain of cutting through this steamy stew of the arena. I press down the damp, musty earth of the forest floor with the nearly worn-out tread of my week old boots. This stifling humidity has my lungs gasping for air.   Nothing seems real as panic sinks its cool teeth into my scorching skin, and a haze clouds my vision; it dilutes the reality of my demise while threatening to take me into darkness. Wishing I had an internal guide, I speed forward on my quest to live. Perfection peeks out from behind heavy vines and shows itself to me in the form of a crystal clear stream; this has to save me.

Without a moment’s hesitation, I dive for the water and prepare to forcefully kick across in record time. Coolness kisses my skin with its flawless flowing glory. I push one stroke through the glimmering water and just as I break the surface of the pristine purity to catch a breath,  a webbed foot pad lands softly on the back of my neck. The haze closes in, making my world collapse into darkness.

An ocean breeze tickles my skin and I breathe in the salty aroma that accompanies this fake-ocean’s gusts, but the peaceful scene fills me with dread. I have a sense that something is not right about all of this. My eyes widen as I watch the rapidly receding water retreat from where it had surrounded me just moments before. No tide goes out this fast… TSUNAMI!! Panic shoots adrenaline through me and instincts take over. I blindly pound my legs into the sand, propelling myself in from the shore and away from this soon to be death scene. Nothing will stop my course of desperation as I zoom at record speeds that would amaze my trainer. I fly over the sand, then through jagged rocks and thistle plants that tear and cut my feet, but I push past the pain and run even faster. I’m scanning the perimeter while a new mantra plays in my head – seek higher ground – I spin and look up for something to climb. I toss a length of rope over a tree branch and pull up with all my strength. My feet are bleeding and my arms feel like lead, but I pull with everything in my soul. I keep climbing higher and higher until I’m standing on the highest branch that will bear my weight. I tie myself to the trunk with a sturdy slip knot once, then again and again.

For the first time I turn and look back at the wall of blue death that thunders toward me. A horrific roaring sound comes with it and the swelling wave hurdles forward like a stampede of liquid lions devouring everything in their path. The wall of water overtakes me. I gasp in all the air I can hold and grip the tree like I am a part of it. Hysteria intrudes my thoughts and my brain freezes under swirling water.  How long can I hold my breath? I feel myself giving in to the lions’ claws that try to tear me from my tree and my life. From somewhere inside me I become Anne the warrior and toss my victim persona to the storm. Hold on and hold your breath I tell myself. The storming waters challenge the strength of Warrior Anne and I am ready to say You Win. I am done with this. Just then I feel a rush of air across my face and I know the wave has past me.

The artists of this show-the Gamemakers- must be having fun painting this drama where instinct makes fate. The Capitol’s feast of punishment is now alive with the first creative torture. Suddenly, light appears and creates a mask of happiness on this misleading and deadly island, making anger flare inside of me at this game where the creators get to play against mere pieces of the set.

Warm embraces, soft knitted sweaters, and calming cups of chamomile fill my mind as I long for my mother. I haven’t seen her in ages and all the comforts she would swaddle me in are fading from my memory. My mother and I always connected with a dependency on each other. While my father would stand regally in a pressed suit with a bowtie gleaming in pretension, my mother would bring the serenity and calmness to our family. She always said that I made her feel like she meant something; like she had a bigger importance than just being the wife that lives in her important husband’s shadow. She was my confidant, my trusting coach of life, and I was that to her too. I can’t imagine how I would feel watching her on the fuzzy screen that eeks out death before proclaiming the anthem of a demented society.

Reality throws a cruel punch as I realize that mother has to watch me through that screen. Just as my heart is begging me to cry out my woes, a metallic-wrapped package floats down to me like an angel. The tsunami of bottled up feelings I have been holding on to leaks out as I let out a soft cry of joy and whisper thank you to the no-doubt sighing audience of this ridiculous show. I am expecting a message, an inspiration, anything to keep my hopes up, and when I see a camera, I want to smash it. I have been on camera while people die and kill and my mentor decides all I need is another camera? The smashing idea is pretty tempting, but I know that everything my mentor does is for a reason. As a little reflection of myself appears and a red dot turns on, joy dances in my heart and with a gasp I whisper, “Mother”.

Seeing the faces of now lifeless bodies appearing in the sky makes me face the unjust constellations of death the Capitol has set before us. A wave of relief crashes over me and I am happy to see that my friends from District 2 haven’t been killed yet.  I question my initial reaction though, realizing that my survival might come down to taking their lives. The sudden artificial night creates a glow around me, making my thoughts of death overwhelm me. What if I never see my family again? How will they handle my death? What if I have to kill someone?  I shake my head trying to knock out distracting thoughts and bring in helpful ones.

Trying to think about going home encourages me to keep searching for a safe place to set up for the night. I see a dark scurrying shadow shuffle behind a tree and I stealthily catch the eyes of someone I once considered a friend. Remembering that every move I make is under the supervision of Panem, I decide to act like I hadn’t seen the girl who used to braid my hair and share secrets with. My vision focuses on safety, leaving soft indentations in the mud as the only sign that I have been there.

A little farther down this rainforest terrain, I spot a  bushy safe-haven that I am sure will keep alive through the night. As I warily approach, the holder of a pointed knife and a bunch of berries greets me with a cool stare that chills me even in this humid place of hate. We size each other up, and while my mind tells me this is the end, this stranger holds out her hand. She is sharing her berries with me and with a tacit agreement to not attack each other, I pick up the precious sustenance out of her calloused hand.This small signal implies we will share food with each other. We agree with hushed whispers and confiding glances that we will meet here for food but not share hiding places. She is a strong,fast, and protective farmer but I can’t give her the satisfaction of watching her back because this is the Hunger Games.

Our government will kill me. That’s what I think as I survey the beach-like terrain that is spread out before me. My eyes grow wide as I try to take in everything before the massacres begin. Knowing the careers will want me to join them, I seek out an escape route I can take to avoid them. My lungs fill up with air knowing that they will have to pump their hardest to keep me alive. I eye the silver disk-like object we are supported by and notice that the Capitol tries its hardest to keep dehumanizing us to Panem. They want the people to look at us like a repercussion of defiance and a sacrifice that the Capitol can decorate to suit their fancy and serve on a silver platter.

Suddenly I want to find anyway off of this dish so as not to give the Capitol their delighted show, but my uncle keeps me on, as I hear him ushering me to stay  so I won’t be blown sky-high and so I can survive for my mother. I only know him from stories, but along those spoken heirlooms, I have learned that he and I were alike in many ways. For my mother, I can only hope that by some miracle I can defy this corrupted authority and live. Seeing the palm trees correspond their movements in their orchestrated fashion gives me a nudge and tells me that this beautiful tropic oasis won’t be friendly for long. It is like a movie -the Hunger Games- in that we will stay on a set that can seem beautiful from the cameras of face-value but turn deadly for the characters.

A rustle in a nearby tree catches my acute sense of observation. Upon further examination, I can just barely make out eyes and notice a tail that I realize is a giant lizard slithering around like an innocent child that will no doubt kill one tribute here. That lizard embodies every one of us and mentally I make a one-sided pact that I won’t be too upset if it kills me so as long as it agrees to grow up strong and defy this horrid government. That thought reminds me that if I can make this lizard seem like that innocent tribute shaking in my peripheral vision, that this is going to be a lot harder than I have prepared my survival mindset to be. With a cannon shot, my thoughts bounce back to reality and leave me to sprint for my life in a humid and deadly scorching tropic kill-zone.

My mentor, Calico Menivor places the familiar sleek disk into my open palms, and I place it securely into my jacket. The embossed medal’s squiggly letters peek out from its golden cloak and borrows itself deeper in my pocket as I move. Staring down at my medal, a smile plays at my lips thinking of the medal’s irony. My mentor suggested I wear this to show how my skill at knife throwing has always been excellent, so I agreed. To me my medal instead embodies a small act of defiance on my part even if I am the only one in on this bit of knowledge.

When I won this medal, my surrounding vision had faded into the background and determination took the wheel of my full powered driving machine. Knives whizzed by my ears faster than the speed of light as I let my mind wander. The goal of the knife-throwing competition was to hit as many training dummies as possible. Staring at the faceless bodies struck a chord deep inside of me as my uncle’s tears fell down the dull brown plainly stitched cover of the fake body. Eyeing the fingers that wrapped around my knife rise up to my ear, I saw him limply fall and leave five scarred children to fight to the death.

Imagining my uncle who was unjustly killed in the Hunger Games gave me a sense of purpose, the machine inside of me started hammering away knives that in my mind would somehow rescue all the lost souls who died like puppets in the hands of the Capitol. The boy who had once fallen suddenly planted his  feet on the ground, came over to me, and stood next to me. The faster and harder I threw, the more support came rushing through me and the less of this broken world I belonged to was clear. Knives whizzed by my head and pierced nothing; they refused to kill but instead insisted on relieving the pained. As loud bursts sprang forth from suddenly clear impassioned mouths, the beautiful paradise faded and took the figure of my small gold reward. With this medal in my pocket, the thoughts of friends with upturned lips and family with dry eyes and warm hugs come flooding back; hopefully that paradise will come back too as I enter the cruel arena.

The Tributes are Announced

Today is the day my future will be decided. With the soft and careful steps of the rest of the girls my age and myself, we find ourselves staring at a shiny silver stage vaguely resembling a plate. The reaping is like a harvest, in that we are all to be plucked from our homes and set in another place where we are essentially food for the capital’s ravenous need for entertainment. Unlike most of the kids in our district, I don’t enjoy training for the games. As the knife I once had a grasp on punctures the sloppily knitted training dummies, all I can imagine is the same  soft plunging sound as I stand before a still body.
A buzz is all around my peers. I see the terror under their steel eyes of ferocity. Beneath all the hatred we were taught to have from a young age, is the innocence and fear that intertwines itself into all of us before we have a chance to be corrupted. Staring at the younger kids, I can only hope someone stronger with a better chance of winning will have a chance to survive and come home. My thoughts backfired as the surreal silence followed the pronunciation of my name. Seeing the wet tears soak up all the joy of my family, I forced myself to overcome it and look brave and I suddenly found myself on the stage next to Harper Hayes. The capitol can now have their games.