And that was the thing about her, she kept on surviving. With bullet holes in her lungs and knife marks etched in her back. She never let anything get in her way, resilient. A fighter, not by choice. But a warrior at heart.
| the hunger games |
| pr...
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"Tomorrow morning is the first training session. Meet me for breakfast, and I'll tell you exactly how I want you to play it," says Willow to me. "Now go get some sleep while the grown-ups talk."
Monty and I walk together down the corridor to our rooms. When we get to Monty's room, we stop, and I wish him a good night, and he politely smiles back at me and enters his room. Letting out a sigh, I head to my room.
I quickly lay down in the bed, wishing that when I wake up, this will all have been a bad dream. My slumbers are filled with disturbing dreams instead. Gory images of the Hunger Games and with my mother watching not caring that I am about to die. I bolt up screaming and sweating.
Dawn is breaking through the windows. The Capitol has a misty, haunted air. My hand aches, and I must have bitten into the side of my cheek in the night. My tongue probes the ragged flesh, and I taste blood.
Slowly, I drag myself out of bed and into the shower. I arbitrarily punch buttons on the control board and end up hopping from foot to foot as alternating jets of icy cold water and steaming hot water assault me. Then I'm deluged in lemony foam that I have to scrape off with a heavy bristled brush. Oh well, at least my blood is flowing.
When I'm dried and moisturized with lotion, I find an outfit has been set out for me at the front of the closet. Tight black pants, a long-sleeved burgundy tunic, and leather shoes. I put my hair in a single braid down my back. This is the first time since the morning of the reaping that I resemble myself. No fancy hair and clothes, no gold outfits. Just me. Looking like I could be headed for the fields outside of my house to work. It calms me.
Willow didn't give me an exact time to meet for breakfast, and no one has contacted me this morning, but I'm hungry, so I head down to the dining room, hoping there will be food. I'm not disappointed. While the table is empty, a long board off to the side has been laid with at least twenty dishes. A young man, an Avox, stands at attention by the spread. When I ask if I can serve myself, he nods assent. I load my plate with eggs, sausages, batter cakes covered in a thick orange preserves, and slices of pale purple melon. As I gorge myself, I watch the sunrise over the Capitol. I have a second plate of hot grain smothered in beef stew. It reminded me of home. Finally, I fill a plate with rolls and sit at the table, breaking off bits and eating them.
My mind wanders to my mother. She must be up. My mother is probably getting her breakfast of bread and berries. Just two mornings ago, I was home. And now how empty the house feels, even from a distance. What did she say last night about my golden debut at the Games? Did it give her hope, or simply add to her terror when she saw the reality of twenty-four tributes circled together, knowing only one could live.
