The 71st Hunger Games: Purity

Chapter One - Annie

I throw myself down on my bed, allowing my back to hit to soft material. I'm home. Home. This is my home. In the Victors Village, wedged between the house of Finnick and an empty house down the street, left vacant for the next tribute from district four to win the horrific Hunger Games.

I won't lie, visiting the districts was very taxing. I saw levels of poverty in the later districts that I didn't even see in the poor streets of district four. I saw levels of luxury in the capital that I had previously never even thought of. I saw the faces of dead tributes plastered over the screens as I talked to their families and their districts, as I sat there and talked about what wonderful people they are and how their sacrifice was so valuable to me.

I knew without hesitation that every family on those pedestals wished their children were there instead of me. And honestly, I wish they were too.

In my time touring the districts, I missed my family. I was very thankful to have Finnick there with me, to have him run in to my room when I wake up screaming and crying at night, images of Percy decapitated dancing through my dreams. I was thankful to have him hold my hair and rub my back as I threw up all the food provided for me when I couldn't stomach looking at the families of the dead tributes, of Sparkle, of Marietta, of Cicero. I was very thankful to grow closer to him, and to fall asleep in his arms after a tiring day of press in the districts.

But I missed my family.

So you would assume that when I got home, I would embrace them. I would hold them tight and tell them all about the struggles as I toured the districts. No. Instead, I ran up to my room, with walls blue as the ocean and fresh sheets of light grey lining my bed, and I flopped down, exhausted. Just needing to rest, to get a break from the cameras and the victors and the dead tributes.

My brother came into my room later that night, and I think he understood. I think he understood the stress I was under, and the emotions running high in my head. He understood, and he brought me broccoli and cheddar soup and curled up next to me on my bed. He grabbed the remote for the television in my bedroom—since every Victors Village house came with at least two—and looked over at me.

"Want to see what tomfoolery the capital is watching today?" he jokes, flipping through the limited channels that the districts have access to.

"Tomfoolery? That's a big word," I prod back, taking a spoon and having a small bite of the soup he brought. I reached over for the water bottle and washed down the soup, giving it company in my stomach.

"Yeah, we just learned it in english," he answers back, shrugging. "It was that, along with vibrant, adjacent, cat-as-trophy—"

"catastrophe" I interrupt, correcting him on his mispronunciation of the word, and his stress on the wrong syllable.

Alex laughs, throwing his hands up in the air "Jeez, Annie. You would be a great teacher," The television flicks to some reality tv show about a bunch of women from the capital all competing for the love of one man. Except in this fight, they didn't die, or starve, or watch people kill one another. They fought with words, with dignity, with persuasion and flirtation.

He picks up his soup, starting to slurp it up without remorse or care for the people around him. I guess that's another thing you learn in the games—you learn how to be quiet. You learn how to eat quiet, walk quiet, even go to the bathroom quiet. I take another small bite, my eyes fixated on the tv, but not really watching.

Instead, images of the games swirl through my head like dust in a tornado. They flood through my brain, reminding me of the deaths, of the struggles, of the pain. Something nudges my shoulder, like teeth digging in to me, like the sharp knives of the velociraptor taking off my skin, tormenting me.  I nearly jump out of my skin, my soup shaking unsteadily on my lap.