I stretch the smile across my face as my nails dig deeply into his skin. Bringing the finger to eyes view, I daintily touch my tongue to the clot of crimson liquid. It tastes sweet, and I let my eyelids flutter closed for a fraction of a second.

After wiping my red tipped flesh with my shirt, I stare into his eyes. He can't be more than thirteen years old. No surprise really; the smallest always get caught first.

Slipping the sheath from my sword, I thrust it straight into his stomach. His eyes widen to the very extent, and he chews his lip in a feeble attempt to be nonchalant. Pleased with myself, I twist the celestial weapon with ease. Chunks of his skin become crusted and fall to the sand.

"P-please," he whimpers, "I'm only a child."

I shake my head barbarically, matching the rhythm with my sword. "No, you are not," I say, barely resting my eyes on him.

He isn't. No one in Panem is. There are no children here. When we are born, we are born into a world with heavy hearts. We become adults the very minute we catch our first breath.

It starts with watching the others. Watching them cut and mutilate until you as well long for the taste of metallic insides. Then you are fitted with your own life-taker, and the world around you becomes an arena. The world becomes one of strewed innards, decapitated heads, and flaming arms. And that innocence, the love for porcelain dolls and wooden toy trucks is foreign, despicable.

And you won't know, only until the walls begin to close in on you. Only when that arena, a game to you, becomes something real does your life come to a shrieking halt.

His manic shrieks are music to my ears. "Do that again, dear. It sounds lovely,"

Oh, now you know. But I don't.