Thresh's Story

I nod to my stylist. He gives me a brisk hug and a hearty slap on the back. I smile, if there is something I respect him for it's his non-Capitol attitude to everything. We've spent many a night talking about previous Games, developing strategies to try and win without killing many other tributes. I have never been a violent person. I am tall and strong but bloodshed is not something I crave; unlike many of the other people I am competing with.

Marvel and Glimmer, the District One tributes. Often do I see them eyeing up other tributes, most likely fantasizing about ways to kill them. Ways to slowly draw the life from their 'enemies'. Haha. The word enemies is laughable. None of us know eachother well enough to be enemies, and yet we are forced to murder one another - in the most brutal, bloodiest ways we can.

Then there is Cato, the District Two male. Probably the one tribute I fear out of all others. Not only is his body built for combat, his mind is solely focused on killing in the most quick and vicious yet entertaining ways he can. His District partner, Clove, is quiet. Insanely quiet. I see her smirk often; a harsh smirk, seemingly full of evil. Her training score was high though, and from what I've seen, you wouldn't want to be in her sights when she is armed with throwing knives. Those targets have been, literally, ripped to shreds.

Only a few other tributes seem to pose a threat: the District Twelve boy seems incredibly strong, the District Five girl has the wits of a fox and the District Eight male seems to posess some physical strength, but apart from that I feel my odds are pretty good. A deep cough startles my thoughts and I see my stylist ushering me towards a glass cylinder, sitting in wait, ready to carry me away into arena. In only minutes, several tributes will be lying on the floor. Their eyes will be drained of life, unmoving. Their heart will of stopped beating and run cold. Their families will be at home, bitter tears rolling down their cheeks, all hope sapped from them in an instant.

I take steps towards the cylinder. My footsteps echo around the room, sending chills down my spine. I walk into the tube and watch the door slide closed, locking me in, with no way out but the arena above me. The glass in front of my blurs my vision, but for an instant I swear I can see a single tear, glinting in the bright light, dripping down my stylists face, dampening his silky ashen skin. Then; darkness. The tube slowly rises up, bringing me closer and closer to where I may spend my last days.

Suddenly, my vision goes from the darkest black to the brightest white, which slowly fades to a yellow and then into several different colours, revealing the arena around me. I realize I'm staring into the sky which is made from the deepest sea blue colour. Trees that stretch into the sky surround me, but one particular portion of the arena catches my eye: a field which grass reaching up to my shoulders. I also spot grain in amongst the grass, which could easily feed me. Of course to eat raw grain you need to at least soak it overnight in water, and water may be something I can't spare; or even find in the first place.

I swivel my head around to catch a glimpse of the tributes. The Careers nod to eachother, confident in their abilities. I don't even notice the countdown beginning until I hear “12, 11, 10...”. I only have 10 more seconds to scout out supplies near the gleaming golden Cornucopia. It almost blinds my eyes; the sun reflecting off of it is ridiculously bright. Something else shines in the distance, and I notice it is a curved sword; a machete. Near it lie backpacks, water canteens and other things neccesary for survival.

“3, 2, 1...” The gong bellows and I find my legs kick into action before I even realize. I almost slip as I land off the podium but manage to keep my balance and head towards the machete I spotted just seconds before. Screams fill my ears; high pitched screams of terror. I jerk my head to the side and see a girl drop to the floor, crimson blood running from her body and staining the vivid green grass. I shake my head, push the thoughts out of my mind and put all the force in my body towards my legs.

I near the Cornucopia, but am stopped dead in my tracks as Cato, the one I feared from the start, sends his fist flying into my gut. I double back, coughing up some sort of spit and vomit mixture from my stomach. He draws a knife from his belt, and I know this is the end. As I close my eyes to accept it, I hear him curse and run away. My eyes quickly open to see him running with a knife in his toe, towards a boy. He whips the knife out of his foot as if it were no trouble and launches it towards the boy. I turn away and continue running, holding my stomach as I do.

I reach the machete and swoop down and grab it and the water canteen next to it in one quick movement. As I nearly lose my balance again, I hop forward and lunge towards a black backpack resting in a bed of grass. I sling it over my back, strap the canteen to my belt and run forwards with the machete in my right arm; my good arm. I turn away from the gleaming hunk of metal that is the Cornucopia and head towards my safe haven, the field of grain.

As I run, something slams into my leg. A sharp sensation jolts through my body, alerting my senses. Now is not the time for running; now is the time for fighting. I can picture my stylist, watching back at the Capitol, shaking his head. He wanted me to avoid confrontation at all costs. Killing is not the way, he preached. He would want me to injure them and run, leaving nature or indeed other blood hungry tributes to finish the job. A spear flying past my head ends my thoughts and causes me to duck back. The angry male in front of me retrieves his spear and stares at me. The District Eight male.

He swings his spear at me again, catching my ear. Blood trickles down, running into my mouth. A vile, metallic taste. Without thinking, I whip my machete towards him. I feel the blade slam into his skin; where exactly, I don't know. I hear it digging into his soft flesh, and what I can only assume to be a scream tries to exit his mouth but only results in a gargle and blood coming out of his mouth in a sticky clot. I draw my head upwards and pull my machete back. A fresh wound going from his right ear down to his neck is visible, with blood pouring from it. I look into his eyes.

They are a bright blue colour, and everything seems slow as all life slowly peels away from them. He drops to the floor, covered in blood, choking. I think of his family at home, watching the fight unravel, and seeing their son drop to the floor with his neck slit. And the worst thing is; it's my fault. These guilty feelings are going to have to wait as I spot little Clove in the periphery of my vision, trying to choose her next target. Her eyes dart from side to side, seeking something to slaughter. It wont be me.

My body is burning with aches and stiff muscles but I must run as fast as I can, towards the fields. My only hope of survival in these unforgiving Games.