HungerGames72

Chapter eleven

Saying goodbye to Valerie was the hardest, as she wasn't aware of the plan, and was convinced I'd leave the arena dead.
It took lots of hugs and consoling to get her to stop sobbing as much,and even then, she still couldn't quite string a sentence together. I had to promise her that I'd try my hardest to win.
My Aunt was in on the secret, so her goodbyes were short and sweet. I don't think she liked me that much anyway.
Once they're all off the train, I wave to them, standing with their arms around each other on the platform. Valerie is still weeping. However Dad has a steely look of determination in his eyes. To him there was no way we could fail.
To me there was several ways we could fail, but I refuse to think about that. Just focus on pulling it off. Get into the games, 'die' fairly quickly, and escape to district thirteen. Preferably with some other tributes too. The more lives saved the better.
It gave me some comfort, the idea that twenty-three other people are facing the same thing. However, they would be wanting me dead. Which isn't comforting at all.
The train's engine starts up, and slowly begins to pull out of the platform. My waves become more and more frantic, as the faces get smaller and smaller. Then we turn out of the station, and they're gone.
The train speeds up, the wheels whispering 'ca-chunk, ca-chunk,ca-chunk, ca-chunk',as we dart through trees, away from the familiar rolling hills of home.
"Cows." I whisper, as a field of them go flying past the window. A strange reflex, as every day of my life I've seen cows.
Would I see them again?

"Clementine!" Caws a harsh voice. Cinnamon.
I stare out of the window, pretending not to hear. Go away go away go away.
But she doesn't.
She opens the door and honks at me from the corridor. "Clementine, come through. We're eating lunch." Then she leaves, but without closing the door.
How infuriating.
I suppose I better make an effort, because potentially in a life or death situation, Cinnamon could save my life by wrangling a sponsor. One loaf of bread could make a massive difference.
Sighing, I leave my compartment, closing the door behind me.
I can hear the slight babble of conversation down the corridor, along with the scraping of cutlery on plates. Just then I realise how hungry I am.
"Hey Clementine!" Daya says gently, pulling out a chair at the table for me.
"Hi." I squeak, sitting down. The softness of the seat is a welcome surprise. The Capitol might place bets on children, but they know how to do comfort in style.
"Would you like some pasta?" Asks Daya, holding a bowl of steaming red pasta that smells other-worldly.
"Heck yeah." I take the bowl and tuck in. It tastes even better than it smells, perfectly sweet yet also salty at the same time. "This is so tasty!"
Daya smiles, and bites into her own roast potatoes.
"I don't know why you haven't tried these yet." Archimedes mumbles, his mouth full of a grey sort of rice.
I scoop a bit of the mushy rice onto my plate. It doesn't look too good.
"Try!" He says.
I reluctantly put the mush into my mouth. An explosion of flavours erupts onto my tongue.
"What is that?"
"Mushroom risotto." Archimedes nods. "I think it has some sort of pepper in it or something. Pretty nice."
I notice that Cinnamon and Drayton have remained silent.
Cinnamon determinedly chews on her baguette, but Drayton hasn't touched anything on his plate.
"C'mon Drayton. Have some pasta." Daya suggests quietly, offering a bowl to him.
"I don't want to."
Archimedes is about to accost him, but Daya shakes her head at him.
Drayton pushes away from the table and storms down the corridor.
"Just leave him."
Archimedes squirms in his seat. "I want to talk to him though. I don't want him to die. He needs to liste-"
"And so do you. Listen to the silence, Archie. The poor boy's just been dragged away from his family. Let him get his thoughts together. He'll talk when he's ready."
Archimedes sighs, but starts eating his risotto again. "Fine."
The pasta starts churning in my stomach. "Excuse me." I run to my compartment, and end up being sick all over the lovely velvet seats.
The acid burns my nostrils and throat, and the world starts swimming. Sweat rolls down my forehead, and my teeth begin to chatter. I curl up on the floor, my head in my hands. I don't want to do this. How would I survive? There is no way, no matter how many fancy gimmicks or tricks I had, that I could survive.
I hate this train, I hate the capitol, I hate Cinnamon. I hate the pasta and roast potatoes, the fancy red leather seats.
I just want to go home.