Chapter 9

                                    

                                          
Two Days Later
The next two days of training pass with nothing really special. Each night, I wake, sobbing, scared, counting the days, hours, minutes until the start of the Games. They're almost here. Every second I wait is agony, but the awareness which has become so real and immediate that they're coming is even more torturous. I'm so nervous that I can hardly eat. The tributes around me chatter apprehensively, echoing my own worries. I'll be going first. At least I can get it over with sooner rather than later.
	I'm already on my feet when they call my name.
	Victoria squeezes my hand. "Good luck," she whispers.
	"Thanks," I say back, the butterflies in my stomach fluttering more than ever before. I have no plan of what I want to show the Gamemakers.
	Taking a deep breath, I enter the wide room.
	"You have ten minutes to present a skill of your choice," Plutarch says coolly, as the door shuts with a creak behind me.
	It's like the reaping all over again. Only I know that this time, whatever I do will determine my survival. Not just mine, but Victoria's, too. There's a lot weighing on making myself memorable in these next few minutes.
	Every moment I waste deciding what to do is another down the drain of my ten minutes to impress them. I can tell they're starting to get bored, despite obvious attempts not to show it, after I just stand there for the first few minutes, deciding what to do. Finally, I choose to pick a survival skill, fire starting, to show them. I don't have a whole lot of time, and it's only been a few times that I've ever done it
	Using a stick and some cloth, I rub furiously, with more pressure than I would normally, just like I'd practiced in training, and eventually start a flame. It's not over yet. There's still the tricky part to come – keeping it burning steadily.
	I add wood, leaves, and sticks to the fire, beads of sweat forming on my brow. The spark has grown to a blaze, and I step back, proud of my work. It's definitely better than all of my previous ones.
	But when I look up, I see that almost all of the Gamemakers have turned away from me now, ignoring me completely. It takes all my self-control to keep my jaw firmly set, and to stop myself from bursting out in anger at them and myself.
	Plutarch, the only Gamemaker who had actually been watching me, nods. "You may go," he dismisses me.
	I walk off in the direction of the elevator to go back to my room for the last night before the Games. The last thing I see before it ascends into the sky are the flames being quenched with sand, the glowing embers slowly dying.
—
	Disappointment. That's the first thing I feel when I step out of the elevator. I had one job, one task, and I'm already sure that I failed it. What's so impressive about watching someone start a fire, anyway? It was a stupid move and I know it. I should have done something else. But it's too late already. No one's going to want to sponsor me. I doubt I'll even last a day in the arena. Maybe not even.
All I can do is wait, watching the clock's hands tick slowly around, dreading the moment when the scores will be announced. My attempts to distract myself produce no positive results, until I'm soon sick with the anticipation of them. Just hang on until tonight, I tell myself.
It seems like an eternity passes before dinner, but eventually it comes. I can hardly taste any of the delectable foods that have been placed on the table, and even the effort of eating takes a reminder that this will be one of the last meals I have before the start of the Games.
When the new anthem plays on the screen, my head snaps up, half excited and half afraid to see my score. It starts with a simple headshot with me, and the number four is flashing on the screen. Four. Four. I hear whispers around me, and I stand up deftly, numb. I knew I wasn't going to get a good score. But I at least wished for something better. I'm crestfallen at this assessment of my skills.
I don't even watch the rest of the scores, too scared to see how much better they are. Maybe if I had shown whatever skill I had gained from Victoria's lessons of knife throwing, I would have received a score greater than the one that they gave me. It ought to have been more impressive, anyway, even if I had missed the middle of the target.
	I probably just blew my last chance of survival. I can only hope that the rest of the tributes score as low as I did. But that's probably not going to happen. I've seen some of them in training. They're fast learners. Either that or they had some prior experience with the weaponry for some reason, like Victoria.
	I know I should go down to see her, to ask her about her session, but I can't bring myself to do it. It's not her fault for trying her best, and I can't hate her for it. Still, it doesn't stop me from feeling sorry for myself.
I'm not going to be able to sleep tonight, what with the Games starting tomorrow morning. All I can do is await my destiny and try to stay strong for the people back home.
I've shed enough tears in these past couple of weeks since the end of the rebellion for a lifetime, and my eyes are dry as the stars begin to flicker into sight, despite the tightness in my throat. It's going to be a long night.
If it wasn't for the Games, I would have climbed into my mother's bed for comfort. If it wasn't for the war, my father would have shared his compassion with me. If it wasn't for the bombs, Alana would have whispered her courage to me. Once the flow of memories starts, I can't stop it.
We were laughing together in the snow, throwing the powdery white stuff at each other without a care in the world.
"She started it!" I exclaimed playfully when my father questioned the dark splotches of wetness on my jacket and pants. Alana stood next to me, trying not to smile, because we both knew it was her doing.
The scene soon morphs into a new one, and the sunlight is shining brightly on my face as we stand in front of the roses in the greenhouse of our mansion for the last family photograph that I can remember.
They're shorter now, memories of single moments and flashes of the past rather than whole experiences that last hours. A bird taking flight from a branch outside of our house. The first frost on a window. A rustle of colorful autumn leaves.
Before I know it, morning has broken. The day of the Games has arrived.
Even though it was a sleepless night, I somehow feel refreshed. No, not refreshed. Stronger than yesterday. It's a new day, and everything that was impossible has been made possible again. I only hope that it lasts.