Rosemary Acker was pronounced victor of the 55th annual Hunger Games, however she didn't feel like a victor. The trauma and horrors of the games continues to haunt her for many years to come. Watching her friends die one by one, under the hands of P...
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Darkness enveloped Rosemary, and the acrid smell of smoke and fire seared her senses. She struggled to breathe as the stench invaded her lungs. Gazing upward, she spotted a distant source of light drawing nearer – the arena; the 55th Hunger Games had begun, and she was now a part of it. The once-innocent girl from District Five, whose only companion had been a cat, now found herself thrust into a nightmare.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Rosemary muttered, her panicked ramblings echoing loudly enough for anyone nearby to hear. As she emerged into the blinding brightness, she reflexively shut her eyes to shield them from the onslaught of sensory overload.
Rain pelted her, drenching her hair and stinging her face with a biting intensity. The pain was another harsh reminder of her grim reality. Squinting through the rain, she saw the ominous Cornucopia, surrounded by tributes standing on pedestals in a circle. The sight before her was a far cry from what she had expected. She had anticipated a forest or a desert, but instead, she found herself in an arena that resembled an abandoned city. Broken and burnt buildings loomed overhead, and scattered wrecked cars bore witness to the arena's war-torn history, echoing the devastation that preceded the start of the Hunger Games.
Above the Cornucopia, something faintly lit up. It was barely discernible through the deluge, but Rosemary could make out the numbers. It was the countdown to the commencement of the games. Fear gripped her, rendering her immobile, lest she met the same explosive fate she had witnessed a tribute suffer in her sibling's Games the moment they stepped off their pedestal.
"Ten," the disembodied voice counted down. To her right stood the boy from District Twelve, his eyes reflecting the same fear she felt.
"Nine," Rosemary's heart raced as the seconds ticked away.
"Eight," she scanned the Cornucopia desperately, searching for any weapon.
"Seven," her eyes fell upon a gleaming knife.
"Six," several swords beckoned to her.
"Five," a bow and arrows lay tantalizingly within reach.
"Four," Rosemary inhaled deeply, preparing herself for what was to come.
"Three," her breath shuddered out.
"Two," she exhaled slowly, her focus narrowing.
"One," the world seemed to go numb as the countdown concluded.
"May the odds be ever in your favor," the final words rang out, a cruel reminder of the twisted spectacle she was now a part of. Rosemary stood on the precipice of her own survival, in a hostile arena that resembled a living relic of a tragic history, ready to face whatever horrors awaited her.
Rosemary's recollection of the moment she leaped off the pedestal was a blur. The echoing cannon's roar that marked the countdown's end, and the sight of the number one suspended in the grimy air, stirred something within her—or so she thought. Yet, she couldn't quite piece together the exact sequence of events.
