PLATINUM • THE HUNGER GAMES ²

| 02. THE KIND SOUL FROM DOWN THE ROAD

BOOK TWO
CHAPTER TWO

( THE KIND SOUL FROM DOWN THE ROAD )

I SLOUCHED BACK FURTHER into the crease of the sofa, forcing the forbidden memories to the back of my head, and observed as the television burst out its light. Bradley pounced up from his rather uncomfortable position and sat patiently at the edge of his seat. Corey followed his actions as if cameras were dotted around the cream walls of the living room, watching our every move, and he placed his head in his hands waiting for the news we had wanted all year. I couldn't help but ignore the countless commercials and adverts lined up and I rested my forehead against the soft leather of the arm of the sofa in boredom.

All of a sudden, a sharp knock came from the door.

"I'll get it," Corey said, swiftly standing up and pacing himslef as he walked out of the living room and into the hallway. I heard the stiff wooden door clatter open and muffled voices could be heard through the walls. This lasted for a good minute or two before he walked back in accompanied with two others.

I turned my head around to see familiar faces emit strong smiles towards me. Mabel, her grey hair tied back into a scruffy bun at the back of her head, embraces me sooner than I expected and her knitted warm shawl wrapped around my figure.

"You look tired Silver, my dear. I brought some cottage pie for all of us to feast on tonight." Her softly spoken words did not reflect her age whatsoever and her hand stroked my cheek with one hand as she lifted a bag to my view with the other. "Do you mind serving it up for us?"

"No, not at all," I replied, lifting the bag from her grasp and carrying it to the kitchen. As I entered, I placed it down on the counter and slid the container from the woven bag. The fresh smell of the meal crawled into my nose and made me even more hungry. I was grateful I had such nice people to cook for me as I barely knew how to turn an oven on, let alone name a meal as appetising as Mabel's.

A collection of footsteps clattered against the pale kitchen behind me and the voice I heard brought me to an expected halt.

"Second year. How do you do it?" I smiled and pivoted on my heels, his face appearing about a metre away from mine. His lips developed a smirk, countering my expression, and he folded his arms. "I mean... When I picture a Mentor, I see a strong, wise," he paused, making sure that my emotions weren't turning grey, "beautiful survivor. How can you be all those things at once?" He pronounced his words delicately and his smirk switched into a warm smile.

"I don't know, Will." I said his name with regret, as if I knew he cared about me too much, but people who liked me got hurt. Either by the Capitol or a cause of my own. Just like how my late friends passed, to ways I wished wouldn't come around towards me again.

"Look," Will said, his hand raising to the side of my head to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, "I'm your friend. You don't need to hide away the minute I compliment you." He chuckled slightly, before hesitantly returning back to his serious approach.

"I'm sorry."

"You've nothing to be sorry for."

"I know, but—"

I was cut of by his arms wrapping around my body and pulling me into a hug.

"Today's difficult for you — I completely understand. Too many unwanted memories?" He said, his fingers slowly running across the back of my head in hope to calm me down.

"Yeah, something like that." I confirmed. A misty tear rippled down my cheek and onto Will's plaid shirt, dampening his shoulder.

I pulled out from his grasp slowly and wiped my eyes from growing in tears. "I better serve this up." He nodded before helping me cut the cottage pie into five and placing each piece onto a separate plates. I cut the meal gently, carefully taking a piece from the tray. There was something about my posture that seemed ever so off. Perhaps it some sort of nervousness? Or maybe the fact that it had almost been two years since I had used these weapons quite differently. My knife wielding days were over. I had grown to know that I would never have to use them again in the way I once did.

We carried the servings into the living room and placed them down on the small table in the centre of the sofas. It was not a day that we could easily miss the happenings on the television.

No words could scatter around the room at that moment of silence. Not the complete silence, but the muffled silence of voices as if you could hear people muttering phrases, chapters, stories under their breath. It was like a shattered silence; not quite still, but not yet broken.

Finally, Ceaser Flickerman's eager and ecstatic face lit up the room and her galloped to his spot on stage. He chattered for a moment or two about the wedding of those two District Twelve Victors from last year. It was unbelievable what they had done, let alone unfair that two people had survived the Hunger Games. Why couldn't have it been me? My heart hit rock bottom as I thought of his name again. And James?

No. Not him. Don't remind yourself of him.

The Capitol's anthem hit me back into reality and I leant forward on the cushion. Everyone else did the same, as if we were the exact replica of each other, thinking the exact same thing. We were whole. Except for Will: he was there for the food.

President Snow took the stage. He was followed by a youthful boy, possibly around my age, in a pure white suit, holding a small wooden box. Soon enough, after Snow had cleared his throat, the anthem ended and he began to speak about the Dark Days and the birth of the Games. Just like every single year.

He continued on to explain the previous Quells. "On the twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every District was to hold an election and vote on the Tributes who would represent it.

"On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every District was required to send twice as many Tributes.

"And now we honour our third Quarter Quell," Snow paused, as if he remained only to drain the hope from dying families across Panem, threatening the lives of their children. "On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female Tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of Victors."

I took a fraction of a second to figure it out, and before anyone could have spoken a word, I did what I thought I had to do.

I left and ran.

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