And yes, this is a sick twisted holiday reference, that got a little off topic and distorted. Oh, well. Happy Holidays.

I don't own Hunger Games.

The pounding of my feet on the forest floor sounds like cannon fire to me. They crunched through snow, and snapped twigs mercilessly -I didn't have to worry about being quite just yet. I feel ill, and my mind is racing with too much adrenaline and blood loss. I can see their face etched in my mind -terrified and dying. My arm feels like there's shrapnel in it, and I feel like desperation is soaking every bone in my body. I can't stop running.

If I stop, surely I think, I'll die.

I've always been fast but I fear someone will be faster than me.

That night I dreamt of dark eyes and smiles.

She'd whispered, "Run, run, run as fast as you can," at Town Hall. The girl who never cried had tears staining her face, for me.

I awoke with words caught on my tongue, "You can't catch me."

The pack contained all sorts of useful things. Food, water, iodine, matches, a knife, bandages, medicine, and a sleeping bag.

I'd hit the jackpot.

But I didn't feel lucky.

Not at all.

She watched the television with a morbid fascination, or a sadistic, masochistic will.

He ran, and ran, and ran.

And she hoped it would be enough to save him- the fastest boy in the District, with his chaotic hair, secret smiles, and heavy, holy sweaters.

"You can't catch me," he'd said, and she knew he was thinking of her.

Somehow, that had just made her cry more as her heart ached for him.

The nights were freezing, and the days too. It never got better, huddled in my coat.

Lighting a fire was too tempting, and far, far too dangerous to risk.

Instead I ran -but the sweat didn't help, and eventually I learned that nothing would but that desperate flame.

I caved the forth day.

He lit the fire, and she cried, watching his fingers tremble in the cold, his lips as pale as the snow.

I was so alone in those woods. So isolated. I'd gone so far. I was going crazy with cold and hunger and loneliness.

Fear ruled my limbs- afraid to let my fire die, to fall asleep, to breathe.

I hid in my mind, away from the snow and the cold, and I thought of her spindly fingers and how I had never realized she was beautiful until I had saw her cry. I thought of those smiles, and the humor you had to think twice about, and her never ending stream of words.

I could use words right now.

What would happen if someone didn't come to kill me?

It was only the sixth day -could I last six more like this?

There were eight of us left.

The food from my pack was gone, and I was so alone that I didn't know what to do, but talk to her. She was watching, she had to. She'd listen. She'd know I was talking to her.

"I miss you," I'd whisper. "You and your too loud laughter."

The cameras were all over the District, looking for the person he was talking to. They wanted an interview, another story to spin. She didn't know if she wanted her story told- especially if he wasn't guaranteed to be in it. But her friends -his friends too- roped her in and said, "She laughs too loud."

The Gamemakers aren't happy, and they force me to run- but I don't stop when they want me to, and the Career barely has time to see me before I'm gone.

He tries to follow, but I'm faster than he is, and he soon gives up.

"I flew," I whispered. "You always told me I could, and I did."

The Gamemakers keep having me run, and I don't stop until they give up and go pick on someone else.

There are five others to placate them for now.

I don't want to think about what happens when there aren't.

The next day he finds me. The next day I die.

The Career grins as he stabs me and the pain is sharp, so sharp and make it stop. Oh, no.

"Run, run, run as fast as you can."

"Sorry," I breathe, and there's not much else I can do.

I think about her smile and her eyes and her light and home and my mom and dad and sister and oh, I don't want it to end. Please no. Please.

My stomach is burning and he shoves the blade in again, and again -as if once wasn't enough.

My lungs ach and my heart is pounding, giving one last effort before it's too late.

Blood drips from my lips and stains the snow.

"Love… you." I whisper.

Then, I die.

He died, and she cries. Sobs; screams.

She loved him, and he never even knew it.

The next year, she volunteers for the Games, and stands at the Cornucopia after the gong rings.

She doesn't even try to run.

She doesn't even try.

But she whispers his name, and hopes to see him in death.

She does, and I whisper, "I love you."

And this time, she gets to whisper it back.