ages, or the Hunger Games. Prim might begin to repeat my words and then where would we be? In the woods waits the only person with whom I can be myself. When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim's warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must. PART I "THE TRIBUTES" When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim's warmth.
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My home is District I was in the Hunger. Games. I escaped. The Capitol hates me. Peeta was taken prisoner. He is thought to be dead. Most likely he is dead. the audience take notice of me in the Hunger Games. If it were up to me, I would try to forget the Hunger Games entirely. Never speak of them. Pretend they were . hungry rats and cats alike, sits a perfect little goat cheese wrapped in basil leaves . Prim's gift Suzanne Collins - Th A Hunger for God: Desiring God Through.
For her, survival is second nature. Flames are spreading. And the Capitol wants revenge. Against all odds, Katniss has won the Hunger Games. She and fellow District 12 tribute Peeta Mellark are miraculously still alive. Katniss should be relieved, happy even. After all, she has returned to her family and her longtime friend, Gale.
Yet nothing is the way Katniss wishes it to be. Gale holds her at an icy distance. Peeta has turned his back on her completely.
And there are whispers of a rebellion against the Capitol - a rebellion that Katniss and Peeta may have helped create. Much to her shock, Katniss has fueled an unrest she's afraid she cannot stop. And what scares her even more is that she's not entirely convinced she should try.
Cinna comes over and puts his arm around me. My cheeks burn again at the thought of Gale. So what does it matter? My anger fading. Haymitch is right. I survived my interview, but what wasI really? A silly girl spinning in a sparkling, dress. Theonly moment of any substance I hail was when I talked aboutPrim. Silly and sparkly and forgettable. No, not en-tirely forgettable, I have my eleven in training. But now Peeta has made me an object of love.
Not just his. To hear him tell it I have many admirers. I remember how strongly theyresponded to his confession.
Star-crossed lovers. Haymitch isright, they eat that stuff up in the Capitol. I force myself to ac-knowledge Peeta. In the silence that follows, delicious smells of our dinnerwaft in from the dining room. We all follow him to the table and take our places. Butthen Peeta is bleeding too heavily, and Portia leads him off formedical treatment. We start the cream and rose-petal soupwithout them. Tomorrow we will be in the arena.
He has done me a favorand I have answered with an injury. Will I never stop owinghim? After dinner, we watch the replay in the sitting room. Iseem frilly and shallow, twirling and giggling in my dress, al-though the others assure me I am charming. Peeta actually ischarming and then utterly winning as the boy in love. Tomorrow at dawn, we will be roused andprepared for the arena.
But Peetaand I must make an early start. I know Haymitch and Effie will not be going with us. Cinna and Por-tia will travel with us to the very spot from which we will belaunched into the arena. Still final good-byes must be saidhere. Effie takes both of us by the hand and, with actual tears inher eyes, wishes us well.
Thanks us for being the best tributesit has ever been her privilege to sponsor. Haymitch crosses his arms and looks us both over. And weonly nod. What else is there to say? When I head to my room, Peeta lingers to talk to Portia. Whatever strange words of parting we exchange canwait until tomorrow.
My covers are drawn back, but there isno sign of the redheaded Avox girl. I wish I knew her name. Ishould have asked it.
She could write it down maybe. Or act itout. But perhaps that would only result in punishment for her. I take a shower and scrub the gold paint, the makeup, thescent of beauty from my body. I decide to keepthem as reminder of who I am to the audience. Katniss, thegirl who was on fire. Perhaps it will give me something to holdon to in the days to come. I pull on a thick, fleecy nightgown and climb into bed.
And I need sleep desperately because in the arena every mo-ment I give in to fatigue will be an invitation to death. One hour, two, three pass, and my eyelidsrefuse to get heavy. A frigid wastel-and? Above all I am hoping for trees, which may afford mesome means of concealment and food and shelter, Often thereare trees because barren landscapes are dull and the Games olve too quickly without them. But what will the climate belike?
What traps have the Gamemakers hid den to liven up theslower moments? And then there are my fellow tributes. The more anxious I am to find sleep, the more it eludes me. Finally, I am too restless to even stay in bed. I pace the floor,heart beating too fast, breathing too short.
My room feels likea prison cell. I run down the hall to the door to the roof. The energy field enclosing the roof pre-vents any desperate form of escape. I want to see the sky andthe moon on the last night that no one will be hunting me. The roof is not lit at night, but as soon as my bare feel reachits tiled surface I see his silhouette, black against the lightsthat shine endlessly in the Capitol. And what difference does it make?
Whether we speak or not? My feet move soundlessly across the tiles. I can see him give his head aslight shake. Thewide streets are full of dancing people. I squint to make outtheir tiny figures in more detail.
Which is pointless, of course. My best hope is to not disgrace myselfand. I want to die asmyself. Does that make any sense? I shake my head. How could he die as anyone but himself? His purity of self. Only I keep wishing ould think of a way to. I mean, what else am I allowed to care about at thispoint?
I take a step back. Aboutstaying alive. Thanks for thetip, sweetheart. I want to spend mine in District Twelve. Then I turn and leave the roof. I spendthe rest of the night slipping in and out of a doze, imaginingthe cutting remarks I will make to Peeta Mellark in the morn-ing. Peeta Mellark. We will see how high and mighty he iswhen he's faced with life and death. He'll probably turn intoone of those raging beast tributes, the kind who tries to eatsomeone's heart after they've killed them.
There was a guy e that a few years ago from District 6 called Titus. He wentcompletely savage and the Gamemakers had to have himstunned with electric guns to collect the bodies of the playershe'd killed before he ate them. There are no rules in the arena,but cannibalism doesn't play well with the Capitol audience,so they tried to head it off. There was some speculation thatthe avalanche that finally took Titus out was specifically engi-neered to ensure the victor was not a lunatic.
I don't see Peeta in the morning. Cinna comes to me beforedawn, gives me a simple shift to wear, and guides me to theroof. My final dressing and preparations will be alone in thecatacombs under the arena itself. A hovercraft appears out ofthin air, just like the one did in the woods the day I saw theredheaded Avox girl captured, and a ladder drops down.
Iplace my hands and feet on the lower rungs and instantly it'sas if I'm frozen. Some sort of current glues me to the ladderwhile I'm lifted safely inside. I expect the ladder to release me then, but I'm still stuckwhen a woman in a white coat approaches me carrying a sy-ringe. I'm a statue. But that doesn't prevent me from feelingthe sharp stab of pain as the needle inserts the metal trackingdevice deep under the skin on the inside of my forearm.
Nowthe Gamemakers will always be able to trace my whereaboutsin the arena.
The woman disappears and Cinna is retrieved from the roof, Avox boy comes in and directs us to a room where break-fast has been laid out. Despite the tension in my stomach, I eatas much as I can, although none of the delectable food makesany impression on me. The one thing that distracts me at all is the view from thewindows as we sail over the city and then to the wildernessbeyond.
This is what birds see. Thevery opposite of me. The hovercraftlands and Cinna and I go back to the ladder, only this time itleads down into a tube underground, into the catacombs thatlie beneath the arena. We follow instructions to my destina-tion, a chamber for my preparation.
In the Capitol, they call itthe Launch Room. The place animals go before slaughter. Everything is brand-new, I will be the first and only tributeto use this Launch Room. The arenas are historic sites, pre-served after the Games.
Popular destinations for Capitol resi-dents to visit, to vacation. Go for a month, rewatch the Games,tour the catacombs, visit the sites where the deaths tookplace. You can even take part in reenactments. They say thefood is excellent. I struggle to keep my breakfast down as I shower and cleanmy teeth.
Cinna does my hair in my simple trademark braiddown my back. Then the clothes arrive, the same for everytribute. Cinna has had no say in my outfit, does not even knowwhat will be in the package, but he helps me dress in the un- garments, simple tawny pants, light green blouse, sturdybrown belt, and thin, hooded black jacket that falls to mythighs. The boots, worn over skintight socks, are better than Icould have hoped for. Soft leather not unlike my ones at home.
These have a narrow flexible rubber sole with treads though. Good for running. I had completely forgotten about it. Some thoughtthe pin could be used as a weapon, giving you an unfair advan-tage. If youtwisted the gemstone, a spike popped out. Poisoned one. Sheclaimed she had no knowledge the ring transformed and therewas no way to prove she did.
But she lost her token. Move around. Make sure everything feels com-fortable.
Fits perfectly. Soon the taste ofblood fills my mouth. Nervousness seeps into terror as I anticipate what is tocome.
I could be dead, flat-out dead, in an hour. Not even. Myfingers obsessively trace the hard little lump on my forearmwhere the woman injected the tracking device. I press on it,even though it hurts, I press on it so hard a small bruise be-gins to form. I shake my head but after a moment hold out my hand tohim. Cinna encloses it in both of his. Run, find water. He leans down and kisses me on theforehead. He taps his fingers under his chin.
Head high. I lift my chin and stand as straight as I can. The cylinder be-gins to rise. Then I hear the legendary announcer, Claudius Temples-mith, as his voice booms all around me. Stepoff before the minute is up, and land mines blow your legs off.
Sixty seconds to take in the ring of tributes all equidistantfrom the Cornucopia, a giant golden horn shaped like a conewith a curved tail, the mouth of which is at least twenty feethigh, spilling over with the things that will give us life here inthe arena. Food, containers of water, weapons, medicine, gar-ments, fire starters. Strewn around the Cornucopia are othersupplies, their value decreasing the farther they are from thehorn. For instance, only a few steps from my feet lays a three-foot square of plastic.
Certainly it could be of some use in adownpour. But there in the mouth, I can see a tent pack thatwould protect from almost any sort of weather.
If I had theguts to go in and fight for it against the other twenty-three tri-butes. Which I have been instructed not to do. A plain of hard-packed dirt. Behind the tributes across from me, I can seenothing, indicating either a steep downward slope or evencliff. To my right lies a lake. To my left and back, spars pineywoods. This is where Haymitch would want me to go. That the Career Tributes who survive the bloodbathwill divide up most of these life-sustaining spoils.
Somethingcatches my eye. There, resting on a mound of blanket rolls, is asilver sheath of arrows and a bow, already strung, just waitingto be engaged. I can sprint faster than any of the girls in ourschool although a couple can beat me in distance races. Butthis forty-yard length, this is what I am built for. I know I canget it, I know I can reach it first, but then the question is howquickly can I get out of there? Or their own powerful fists. Haymitch has never seen me run.
Get the weapon. And I only see one bow in thatwhole pile. I know the minute must be almost up and will haveto decide what my strategy will be and I find myself position-ing my feet to run, not away into the stir rounding forests but ard the pile, toward the bow. My feet shuffle fora moment, confused at the direction my brain wants to takeand then I lunge forward, scoop up the sheet of plastic and aloaf of bread.
A boy, I think from District 9, reaches the pack at the sametime I do and for a brief time we grapple for it and then hecoughs, splattering my face with blood.
I stagger back, re-pulsed by the warm, sticky spray. Then the boy slips to theground. Already othertributes have reached the Cornucopia and are spreading outto attack. Yes, the girl from District 2, ten yards away, runningtoward me, one hand clutching a half-dozen knives.
She never misses. Adrenaline shoots through me and I sling the packover one shoulder and run full-speed for the woods. I can hear blade whistling toward me and reflexively hike the packup to protect my head.
The blade lodges in the pack. Bothstraps on my shoulders now, I make for the trees.
Somehow Iknow the girl will not pursue me. It may just be in our collective subconscious as a species that these are the steps which make a good story. Mary, I hope my next post lives up to your expectations!
February 3, at 3: The hero goes on a journey 2. A stranger comes to town Nana Maybe both! Related Papers. Paper 3 draft 2 edited. By Cheryl Low. The Hunger Games: By Kris Swank.
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