The Youngest Victor

Prologue

The moon was high and full the night when you realised you were going to be put back in the arena.

Silvery light seeped in through your window, casting spooky looking patterns on the floor.

You remembered how you'd sat on your luxury arm chair with a half eaten bowl of ice-cream on your lap.

You had rubbed your eyes, not really wondering why you were watching the Quarter Quell announcements.

You despised the whole thing and wished so that you could forget it.

The arena was a horrible place.

Or at least the one you'd been enclosed in was.

The 70th annual hunger games was more horrific than anyone could ever imagine.

And to think that you were only twelve when you were sent to kill those other tributes.

The only good thing about being so young was that you beat another victor's previous record of being fourteen and still coming out as a victor.

And he was a career.

You weren't.

Back then, the only fighting experience you'd gained in district 8 was how to prick someone with a needle and that was pretty useless.

You continued to spoon the pretty much liquidised ice-cream into your mouth, attempting to numb the protruding thoughts.

It didn't work.

You remember the exact moment when the president stepped onto the podium, picking out the envelope for the Quarter Quell.

Just looking at the man made you want to scream because it always reminded you of when he started laughing at your only ally's death.

You could see the blood dripping from his mouth as he read the very words that sealed your fate.

"Previous victors will have to return into the arena for the second time to remind you that not even the strongest among the districts cannot overcome the power of the ca-"

You didn't hear anymore of the speech because you had very aggressively stood up and slammed the TV onto the floor.

You remember watching as it shattered onto the ground, breaking into little shards.

The little fragments of glass cut into your skin, making blood drip onto the carpet like red tears.

All your efforts five years ago were for nothing, you were going to die in the arena again.

You were sure that you left the real you within the force fields when you made your first kill.

Since there were no other girl tributes from District 8, you had no choice but to board the tribute train with another man who was picked out of the surprisingly shallow pool of victors.

Now, as you sit alone on the one way train to the most important city in Panem, a single tear rolls down your cheek, catching the sunlight as it drops onto the floor.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to escape the traumatising memories that kept replaying inside your head but it was no use.

The longer you sat there, watching the train rumble along the tracks, the more it began to dawn on you had no choice but to sit patiently and wait for your death.