Chapter 2: The True Meaning of Fear

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I stepped up onto the stage. "Welcome, your Sacrifice, Snow!" The loud speakers boomed, disrupting the many raised voices. A hush fell on the crowd, as heavy as stone, weighing down my shoulders under the weight of a world I loathed. The stage was made of stone, and rose a good ten feet above the crowd. Unless you were a trained Warrior, you had no hope of getting up onto the stage. Not that you'd make it far; you'd likely fall from the slippery, coppery substance that puddled here and there. Most of it was dry. Some of it was not. Blood is a strange substance.

All eyes turned to me. I could see myself on the screens, placed in ideal locations for those who couldn't view the stage. My glossy, black hair hung just past my shoulder blades, stirring slightly in the faint breeze. That same breeze reeked of booze as it whispered past me. My bangs covered one of my eyes. I could even see the green-gray color of my eyes on the screens. Those cameramen are good. Of course, my attention couldn't be captured. I never looked directly at the cameras. My gaze was uncaring and unfeeling. I was ice. After all, I had to protect myself somehow. It was better to pretend to be uncaring than to show your true nature. 

Everywhere across this broken country other Sacrifices were on stage, just like me. I looked at my wrists. The shackles on them cut into my skin, and blood was already making an appearance. They were heavy, and someone, another Sacrifice, had told me that they were 'special'. Whatever that meant. I hadn't spoken to another Sacrifice since the Capital gathering to welcome the unfortunately young Sacrifice from Four. I could still picture that boy. He looked so innocent at the time, so young and fragile. Eyes like night, and hair like stars; it was a wonder they'd allowed him to be admitted. 

The chain that hung off of my cuffed wrists was heavy, and dragged on the floor, pulling me along via the contraption on the floor. It led me to the post. This post was tall, made of steel, and  stained with blood. My blood. From previous Sacrifices, of course. Or those practice rounds that happened once in a while to easy tension among the impoverished. I almost looked at it with pride. Each of those splotches represented a day I had survived what no other could survive. Yes, that's what I was. I was a survivor. No one could replace me. 

The crowd was getting unruly. Several voices rose above the others, calling for my blood. The crowd was a mix of civilians and Warriors, who were busy keeping the crowd under control. People stretched for as far as the eye could see, spreading out in every direction like a sea of humans. Each of those people sickened me to my core. Many stalls were open, offering food and drinks. Sacrifices were treated as festivals, as happy occasions. The heavy air about me calmed those closest to me. I could see their hungry eyes watching me. It was impossible to escape it. Their eyes were focussed on me, solely on me, as if I was the answer to an age-old question. The malevolence in their stares almost sent shivers down my spine. The people of the crowd silenced themselves as my eyes raked over them, cold and cruel as the weather I was named for. 

Who are these people? They stand here each year, watching, and yet all they feel is amusment. Where is humanity, compassion, when you need it? My thoughts were disturbed as the chain that pulled me came to a halt. The man who stood in the center of the stage picked up my chain delicately, then attached it to the pole with a metal clip. He pulled a different chain, a lighter, glossier one, and up my cuffs went, dragging my hands as the chain was pulled to the top of the pole. I locked gazes with his empty, dark eyes. His gaze flickered to the ground. Nobody could ever hold my gaze. It was too cold and dead. 

My wrists were red like rubies. The cuffs were silver. The pole was splattered with brown and red and black and quicksilver. The skies were a tragic gray. I held back my emotions, pulling on my stone face. I'd never let these people know how deeply I was hurt. A blow was delivered to my knees, forcing me to kneel. I bowed my head. Protocol. All of it. Who was I to change routine? If I followed orders, this would all end faster. It wouldn't hurt as much as it usually did. I was sure of it, but deep down, a growl sounded. Never feel hope, Snow. I thought to myself. Hope is worthless, like life. 

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