fire burns brighter in the darkness; critique welcome

[katniss,]

entry six;

I'm going into the arena tomorrow morning. This will probably be my last entry in this diary. I am going to give my stylist, Rupin, my diary. I don't think anyone else would appreciate the scribbled down thoughts of a seventeen year-old murderer. But I think he might, just a little bit.

Tonight, I watched all the interviews with the Head Gamemaker, Renee Ramswool. She keeps repeating that she has a "special treat for the special killers" of this year's Quarter Quell. It's not bad enough that there are going to be twenty-four trained victors of previous games. Apparently she made this arena especially ravenous for the blood of the tributes. It almost makes me excited.

Marius says that he thinks its going to be some type of desert, because last year's arena was a tundra and the Capitol citizens hated it. They didn't get to see much fighting or blood and guts because the tributes that didn't die in the Cornucopia bloodbath simply froze to death because one Career hogged all the blankets and thick fleece. He wasn't one of the victors reaped for this year's Quarter Quell, which is lucky for him. He was probably the most unpopular victor in the Capitol citizens' eyes.

Earlier today, since I had nothing better to do, I went outside onto the streets to get some fresh air. I was escorted by a few Peacekeepers: "President's orders, ma'am. No tribute can leave the training center unsupervised." President Silas doesn't want any of his tributes running away, obviously. I didn't bother objecting, but they hung back a few feet from where I was walking so I didn't mind too much. An older woman stopped me when I was walking down the street. She didn't seem as repulsively opulent as other Capitol citizens, but she had odd-looking purple eyebrows that curled in a winding, curling pattern near the corner of her eyes. Her eerie words still seem to echo through my thoughts.

"Such a beautiful, little girl. It's a pity what we have done to you."

The Peacekeepers quickly told her to keep walking and not associate directly with any other tributes. She scuttled along the sidewalk quickly and didn't say another word or even look back at me, but the deploring sadness that lamented from her sapphire eyes seemed to have peered into my very soul. She apologized for who I am. The more I think about it, the more furious I get. Who is she to apologize for the monster I am? Maybe I'm happy being a monster, it isn't that bad. I've just embraced who I have been all along. There is a strange, fascinating beauty in the death of others that I have become infatuated with and just because some pathetic old lady doesn't understand that, doesn't mean anything to me.

I keep reminding myself of that. But a part of me isn't convinced.

.

I just got back from a last-minute banquet that President Silas invited all the tributes to. Rupin dressed me in an elegant, ruby ball-gown. Marius said I looked ravishing, and I couldn't deny I felt like a princess. Every time I took a step, the silky chiffon cascaded around me, faintly twinkling as the chandelier light hit it. The color was marvelous - bright, potent cardinal-red. I have never felt more gorgeous, until I realized why I loved the dress so much. The dress was blood. Not cardinal or ruby, no matter how many times Beatus said that red really compliments by blonde waves. I wonder if he thought the red splatters of the blood of the other fallen tributes that streaked my face complimented my hair color.

You can dress a monster up in a beautiful dress, but its still a monster. And a monster never stops being a monster.

[katniss,]

entry seven;

The first day of the Hunger Games have commenced, and already I feel a thirst stirring inside of me. I'm starving. Not for food, but for life. In the first games, I lost my soul when I watched the souls of others leave their desperate, suffocating eyes. Now, I'm a sickness, constantly needing to consume to live, feeding off of others in order to further myself. A living zombie. A shell of a person. And that is why I am going to win these games. Because I have nothing left to lose.

When I gave Rupin this journal, he seemed flustered. We didn't talk much this year. We did before my first games, but for some reason, Rupin couldn't hold eye contact with me right now. He gave me a hug, and its a weird feeling when you are so close to someone, yet feel their heart so far from yours. The embrace felt empty and meaningless, but I hugged him back. It was the first sentimental gesture someone had given me in months. But then, oddly enough, Rupin did something strange. As we stood by my podium chute in the prep-room, five minutes left before I would take a step up into the tube that would shuttle me up to the arena, he glanced around quickly then shoved the journal and pen back into the pocket of my jacket as he faked giving me another hug. I'm grateful, because I think this journal is the only thing that really keeps my completely sane. Or at least, as sane as a monster can truly be.

We didn't say a single word to each other, just appreciated the presence of one another. I loved Rupin, in the way a girl adores her father, but I don't think he loved me back. He wouldn't love me even if he had a gun to his head. He couldn't love me, no one could. That's what my father told me when I returned to my home those years ago: "No one could love you, Evangeline. No matter how hard they tried." That's what killing nine people does to relationships, I guess.

Once I took a step in the tube and it began to rise, I felt eager. Maybe killing someone would bring some meaning into my life. I braced myself as the familiar burst of sunlight burned my eyes, blinding me for a few moments. You had sixty seconds to take it all in, and each tick passed slowly, slovenly. This arena is a dilapidated fortress, overgrown with shrubbery and vines. Based on the architecture, this place mimics the abandoned ruins of the ancient world of America, the land that Panem now occupies. We didn't learn much about America in school, because Panem is the society worth studying, but I remember my teacher telling me that the only evidence of America's existence is the crumbled ruins of old skyscrapers. In the distance, I can see rolling hills of forestry, which reminds me of home.

I killed three tributes in the Cornucopia bloodbath. The first one was some boy from a forgotten district, probably eight. He was sniveling and scrawny and the only memory I have of him is that he won his games by hiding in a cave like a hermit. Unlike my last games, where I had raced away from the Cornucopia with a measly pouch of stale bread and a short knife, I snatched up everything I wanted. A brown backpack, a dagger, a first-aid kit. And I had my eyes locked on one of the two silver bows that sparkled in the center of the Cornucopia bounty, calling my name. He dashed in my way, grabbed one of the bows and attempted to make his way out of the bloodbath as fast as he came. But for some reason, instead of grabbing the other bow, I hurtled after him. I wanted that bow, the one he had. It was my bow, and I wouldn't settle for the other one, even if they were exactly alike. It was almost a mindless reaction, as I sprinted after him. I grabbed him by his shoulder, swung his body around and tackled him to the ground. The scuffle ensued for a few moments as I struggled to overcome his weight and get on top. But it didn't last long. He was built to run, not to fight. I slit his throat with a dagger, and felt the numbing sensation that tingled the joints of my fingers every time I sucked the life out of someone else. The feeling is intoxicating. As the life drained out from his eyes, I realized why I loved being a monster, and why I was angry when that old lady told me she was sorry for me.

Killing is an electrifying sport.

Before I knew it, I was a tornado, destroying everything in my path. I snatched the bow out of the boy's cold hands and shot an arrow into the heart of another tribute. A girl, probably twenty years-old. As I headed out of the heat of the fight to find my ally, the angry boy from twelve, I killed another girl from behind. She didn't see me coming, she was chasing after another tribute who had probably made off with the weapon she had wanted.

I slipped into the haunted ruins that lay north of the Cornucopia and awaited Nero. He stumbled aimlessly after me, making more noise than a drunk Beatus. I quickly got him to shut up, when I pinned him from behind, held a knife to his throat and threatened him to be quiet before he got us killed. I underestimated him, though. He pinned me to the wall and complained about how I didn't help him in the Cornucopia battle. Almost felt like killing him right there for being upset because I didn't hold his hand while he picked out his weapons, but thought better of it. I picked him as an ally for a reason; he was going to help me win these games.

Nero is asleep now, that's why I am writing in this, but we have come up with a plan. Hunt down the weaklings, then have some real fun with the stronger ones. Nero said he saw some of the younger tributes make their way towards the forest. Apparently there are three main alliances, other than Nero and I. The weaklings of the forgotten districts is one; there are about four or five of them teamed up together. There is Noah and his sister, Zoe, who disappeared somewhere into the ruins. And then Penn, the psychologically unstable competitive beast, and two other stronger-looking tributes that are camped out in the Cornucopia. Everyone else ran off solo. During the playing of the anthem, I counted eleven deaths. As their lifeless bodies lie in the Cornucopia clearing, no one seems recognizable. Scratches, reopened wounds and blood covered their faces, making them nameless, meaningless. It was only when their dignified portraits shone in the sky did I truly recognize who died.

Four boys, seven girls. I faintly recognized one of them from the training session. An old, frail woman who had half-heartedly complimented my ax-wielding skills. Good thing she died. It's almost sickening that my talent had to be wasted in a pageant with victors who were way past their prime.

[katniss,]

i will be posting entry eight by Sunday afternoon. I am on a family vacation and won't have any time to write. C:

[katniss,]

entry eight;

Three days have passed since I last wrote in this diary. I haven't had any time, now that Nero refuses to go to sleep. He said he doesn't trust me, after how I killed little Illiana from District Twelve on the second day of the games. "Absolutely heinous. Sickening." Not that it really offends me; I've heard a lot worse from people who matter a lot more. He's just upset because he knows her, since they are both from the same, meager district where everyone knows everyone.

Killing her was too easy. For a moment, I thought she wanted me too.

At the time, Nero and I had been making our way up the ruins, away from the Cornucopia and to higher ground so we could adequately scan our surroundings. It was almost nightfall, when a faint, brief flame in the corner of my eye caught my attention. It seemed like the spark of a lighter. Nero and I both made our way towards the light, not making a sound as we approached our target with the curiosity of a predator towards their prey. Hungrily, my eyes searched the area for another spark or the sign of another tribute. Then, for just a split second, the lighter sparks again. This time, much closer.

I see her, resting on a fallen pillar. Her name is Illiana, the girl victor from twelve who is barely older than sixteen. The most recent victor. She sits alone but doesn't seem to be fazed by it. She doesn't even look around her to see if anyone is watching her. In her hands, she holds a rusted cigar lighter, her boney fingers clutched tightly around her treasure. I didn't see any in the Cornucopia bounty, so it must be her token from her district. Silently, I edge forward, but I can't hear Nero behind me anymore. Behind that façade of masculine rage, he is probably just a broken down shell just like everyone else. Just like me.

I was about to leap out of the shadowed ruins that shrouded my presence, but something made me hesitate. Illiana wasn't trying to light anything as she incessantly flicked the lighter on and off. She watched the flame with a fascinated curiosity, her inquisitive eyes hungrily studying the fire with a sense of protectiveness. No, not a protectiveness. More, a esurient desire. The consuming flame flickered in it's reflection in her eyes, and her craving reminded me of something I couldn't quite put my finger on.

And then I remembered.

The hunger in her eyes reminded me of my hunger for killing. That consuming sickness that plagued Illiana's large, brown orbs and dark, olive skin made her seem ghoulish, eerie. Fire was what filled the gaping, ever-growing hole that devoured her soul, her being. It stopped her mind from being completely demolished. It kept her sane. Just like how killing kept me sane. No one understands that, but the only thing that keeps me out of an asylum is watching the pain of others. This is what the Hunger Games did to me, this is what the Hunger Games did to Illiana. It messed everyone up, made them become dependent on destruction.

Without thinking, I felt my legs move underneath me and pull me forward towards the clueless girl. My body moved without my mind in control, driven by appetite. I can't control myself, I don't want to. I have the girl pinned underneath me, her scrawny body squirming for freedom. She tries to scream, then growl, then spit, then cry. Her jumbled words plead for me to let her go. "I want to go home! Please!".

My reply was biting. "You don't think I wanna go home? Everyone wants to go home. Everyone wants to live. But some people don't deserve to live, like you." My dagger cut into her neck. A scream, then quiet again. Unmoving. Limp. I have barely a moment to relish the revitalizing surge when a blunt force in my left side knocked the wind out of me.

I slid across the stone floor, my vision swaying and swerving. A dark figure sprinted towards me; I knew it was Nero. He shoved me to the ground again, and I let my body hit the ground without resistance to break the force of the fall. He started screaming at me. He called me a monster. A demon. A heartless b*tch. Everything I had heard before. I let him yell for a while before it had gotten irritating and I told him to suck it up. She was weak. She would have died anyways. It only made him angrier; I'm not a people person, I never say the right things.

When his grip got tighter, I snarled exactly the right thing: "I'm your only chance of living, idiot." His hands loosened their grasp, and I had enough time to shove him off of me. I should of killed him then, but something made me hesitate; his angry, betrayed eyes dug into me like knives. Usually I don't care what others think of me, but Nero seemed to have more layers than his angry outer shell. Something deeper, something broken. I don't know why. I would kill him later, but not right then.

[katniss,]

entry nine;

I don't have much time to write. I can't trust Nero enough to write in this journal when he can see. This journal is what keeps me from losing my consciousness, my sanity. It's the only thing. I feel like a mother protecting their child, when it comes to this journal. It's my token, but not from my district. It's from me, because I am the only person that dares to watch my back. I can't trust anyone, no matter how much they tempt me too.

Nero hasn't forgiven me for killing Illiana. I don't know why he cares so much. It was just another girl who had the fleeting, unfathomable hope that she would return home. He keeps muttering something about it, but I only catch a few words of his inaudible rants: child, sister, my Gloria, she'll never forgive me, I let it happen. When I asked him about it, he pushed me away. Just like everyone else does, so his isolation doesn't truly hurt me. I didn't come to make friends or break down barriers. I came to win, and if I have to kill some pesky little girl, I will.

I think he had some attachment to Illiana. He keeps murmuring that her sister "won't ever forgive him". Maybe her sister, I think her name is Gloria, and him were friends, possibly even lovers. I don't really care too much. If he keeps throwing this tantrum like a five year-old, I might have to kill him myself. It would be a shame really, to lose my ally so close into the games.

Three more deaths, but not much to say about them. I only remember their names because of the nightly anthem and ritual display of those who died that day. Fatima Bureau of District Six, Marvin Lewis of District Three and Rupert Hamwell of District Nine. I wasn't involved, even though I wish I was. This will be (I assume), my last Hunger Games. I want to be remembered. I will be remembered. The only way to remembered in a battle to the death is the death count you elicit.

There are eight of us left.

Seven more deaths to for me to have the chance to cause.

The Capitol is in for a good show.

[katniss,]

sorry for the inactivity y'all. I will post entry ten sometime in a few days!

[Luna~tic]

x

{{This is great.}}

[katniss,]

entry ten;

I swear, the Gamemakers are going out of their way to kill us. Well, of course they are, but more so than usual. You can't predict anything about the arena. One moment, there is unbearable, scorching heat. Ten minutes later, the temperature has dropped to below freezing and you have to huddle to find warmth. The fluctuating climate is only a small part in all of this.

Yesterday, Nero almost got as killed. He is such a damn idiot I swear. We were tracking down Destiny and Noah from Ten, since they are the most realistic targets for us right now. I think Destiny's injured too, because every now and then there are little drops of blood soaked on a leaf, or trailed on a piece of bark. Not enough to be a large, open wound but definitely some type of scrape she got in a fight. Pfft. I'd like to see that petty girl try and fight. She probably just ran while her brother snapped their neck. Anyways, Nero and I agreed that we needed to take them out before we continued searching for our main competition, the career pack of Penn from One, Renegade from Two and Darwin from Four. Our tracking was all going great until Nero tripped on an uprooted tree, which began to twist and warp into a human hand. The dazed fool sat there like a fish out of water, gasping as the tree branch contorted around his ankle, tightening its unnatural grip on his limb. I acted quickly, using an ax I had taken from Illiana when I killed her to chop off the demonic hand, which crumbled the moment I severed it. Soon, the branches of all the trees around us began to spiral around us, reaching for our hands, our legs, our throats. We turned and ran, away from the nebula of entwining, satanic branches. There was no use sticking around, since we wouldn't gain anything from fighting off a master piece of the Capitol.

Then, I heard a scream not too far behind me. At first, it was distorted drivel, due to all the clangor of the contorting branches, but then it repeated. I made out what the mortified trill was saying- Noah. It was Destiny. I whirled around, but the cannon boomed before I could focus my vision. More screams, but they were being hushed by someone else, someone who was calmer. I recognized the voice as Marius. A feeling of dread plummeted in my stomach. Something about Marius made me dread seeing him in the arena. Not because I was scared of him, but because for once, I didn't want to kill him. I didn't want to take the life of the other District 7 tribute, who I had come to know as a fellow mentor for the Capitol. I don't really know why such a petty dread filled my heart as I watched him drag Destiny away from her brother, who was now dead and mangled in the mutated forest. He was a piece of home, something untainted by my pernicious talons. One of the few people unharmed by my rancor, the monstrosity I had come so infamously able to embrace. We rarely ever spoke, but that was what made him so beautiful. While I reveled in my ruthlessness, my cruelty, he embraced his kindness. It was something I would never understand. I would never want to be him; I relish every moment of my own destructive toxin of a personality. Yet a deeper, mystery inside me valued Marius because he was everything I had failed to be.

I felt my feet move mindlessly beneath me, before I realized Nero was pulling me along. I shoved him off, snapping some biting comment about how I can use my own two legs, then raced beside him. I hated this. Being in the Hunger Games. Yet I loved it. I can't express it very well. My tempest of emotions possesses an elaborate complexity far greater than my own mind can process into written words. But I hate being what I love. And I didn't want to kill Marius, of all people. Something made me hesitant to. But I couldn't tell Nero that we should stop searching for Destiny. We had agreed to take her and her brother out, and now that Marius was apparently allied with them, I couldn't back down. Nero would strangle me before he risks continuing our alliance when he senses weakness in me. I can't be weak, I won't be weak. I am not weak.

Finally, when Nero and I made it out of the forest, we stopped to rest under a forlorn set of ruins. The forest wasn't safe, or predictable. All these inconsistencies in this arena are really messing with my hunting. So we made a new plan; Marius and Destiny must have fled the forest as well, fearful of its treachery, but in the opposite direction of us, heading closer to the top of the ravine of the ruins rather than back towards the Cornucopia. We will follow them from there, and kill them. It would be easy enough. Slit their throats, or push them over the edge of the unforgiving cliff, watch them drop further and further down until they hit the ground. Easy. Done. It wouldn't be quite as relishing as intended, nor leave that satisfying after-taste that Illiana's death had caused, but nevertheless, I would be satiated. At least until I got to Penn.

[Greenleaf]

Beautiful! @_@

[katniss,]

Captain- Thanks! That means a lot! c:

Rose- THANK YOU SO MUCH ROSE!!! You're an amazing writer and for you to say that is just... so amazing! I love Suzanne Collins style of writing; I didn't even mean to reflect her writing in my own, but I am glad you think I do! Yet still give it a unique touch. And yes, I think I will finish it. It will be a short story, since I wrote this mainly as diary entries and not an actual story, but I am glad you like it so very much!

I am working on entry eleven. c: