When I was 8, father, obsessed with the idea of winning the Games, spent all of our poor family's savings on entering me early into the training academy. I've always been hard, we raised by the sea always are, but I hardened more when the betrayal of my best friend led me to being 4's youngest ever volunteers; I was 16. As one of the favourites in the 35th Hunger Games, I attained a training score of 10 and went on to murder 5 tributes (not without want of trying for more) before I was told that rebels had set plans in motion to save us all. From the arena; from the Capitol; from the death. Now I'm in 13, I can't forget those faces. My broken body is fast on the mend, but my broken mind... well, that's another thing all together. They try to make me talk about it, but I despise them and I know, in my heart, 13 and I will never see eye to eye except on one small principle: the Capitol must fall. I only have hatred now. Whether it be for Snow, for 13, for myself: hatred and abhorence. There's only one I love... and come hell or high water, I'll have him back. Screw them all.
D O W N W I T H T H E C A P I T O L