This is a direct rewrite of a passage from The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins

Date: 27-2-2020

The soil is the first thing I see when the grey platform finally stops moving under my unsteady feet; the hard, rocky, soil in which only a few sparse sprouts of wheatgrass struggle to grow. I see it because I'm curled up, close to tears, with my head forcefully shoved between knees that are unnervingly clean, hands over my ears, just like Ma told me never to do.

I take in the dirt for a few seconds longer until the thought of explosive metal impregnated within the hard stuff spurs me to stand and knuckle at my eyes. It was too bright, too crowded when the 23 people surrounding me wanted murder.

The Cornucopia. Oh, just the sight of it fills me with conflicting emotions, that battle inside my trembling body. The plated, golden tail reaching triumphantly into the sky becomes bronzing wicker, sitting at the centre of our only table, walls worn from constant use even if there was never anything hidden inside except dead spiders. The only times when we were happy was when our own horn sat on the table, and it fills me with courage until my eyes flick down and notice a terrifying array of silver-tipped arrows. Then the double-edged swords.

I quickly look away.

Giants surround me, muscled and gnarled and standing stiff upon their metal podiums, grunting bulls ready to pull the yoke, chomping at the bit as tensed fingers twitch dangerously. Except they don't have the round, wet, orbs of the beasts I tend to; their eyes are unlike anything I've ever seen, deadly gazes picking apart the ones they're going to kill first. I quickly copy the Careers from 1 and 3 beside me, and face the front, every muscle ready to spring even if inside I'm hopelessly lost. At least I can do that, pretend like I'm going to kill for this even if I won't.

No.

I will.

I have to. Ma said it, she said that I could at least prove myself to the nation before asking for more food. She smacked me across the face when I refused, kicking me onto the train to the Capitol without a second word. My mentor pushed me aside and favoured my District-mate. Betted on her, promised to get sponsors for her, while I blended in with the crowd and taught myself to wield an axe the size of me. Entered the Games without the hope of security or even the alliance of my own.

All because of the disorder I'd had since birth.

I notice a knife before me, then my own reflection staring back from the blade, except my hazel eyes hold darkness as they stare through wisps of ashen brown hair. My Pa's hair. He always said I had a hidden power, he never said my disability held me back, instead it gave me secret powers that no-one else could notice. My sensitive perceptions of the world, my hyperfixation, my inability to be around more than one person, but my exceptional language skills when I had someone alone. Then there was my speed, I could run faster than the bullies that tried to torment me, and my small size meant I could hide amid the stalks of grain - or in this case bushes - easily. I'm only 14, and when he saw me for the split second before Ma stole our moment, he said that I was his hero.

I start to plan something tactical in my head when I spot a bright orange backpack close to the mouth of the Cornucopia, with many pockets that may hold supplies to help me when I hole up somewhere after gathering. It's quickly added to the plan, and I feel my body begin to thrum with something other than fear, a strong feeling that extends to my toes as my fingers itch to snag a knife and the bag, eyeing the competition like a wild stallion loose in the cornfields bucking off the men trying to capture him.

It's determination.

Determination and hope that I'll show them wrong and come home with riches.

Determination is what sends me flying off the podium as the mines disarm and the gong sounds, speeding straight into the Cornucopia even though the sharp rocks pierce my soles and every single other tribute - except the boy from 12 - closes in around me. It's a shock to see someone running as fast as me, a dark rope of smooth braided hair slamming against her back as she sprints straight towards my orange pack. Katniss Everdeen, District 12. The one who scored an 11 on her Tribute Training.

We slam together on the ground, and everything rises up in an exhilarating wave. Her ragged breath blasting on my cheek, my fingers tugging mercilessly on anything I can reach, fighting the trained teenager 2 years older than me for what could be my life. For a moment we lock eyes, hers holding a wisdom as they catch the sunlight.

And then her round olive face splatters with red. Something warm coats the inside of my mouth and throat, clogging my breathing and tasting of iron, and it isn't too long before I begin to choke on my own blood.

Her claw-like hands free me as I slump forward, the unmistakable scream of pain as the throwing dagger stabs deeper into my heart, shock keeping me from feeling anything as I meet the dirt once again. My own breathing gurgles in my ears as more blood dribbles over my teeth and tongue, mixing with salty tears as I realise that this is it.

This is death.

Death is pain. And I can feel every part of it.

My world is terrified screaming and the thunk of bodies hitting the ground after and the animalistic screams of the Tributes' victory and the pain and the tears. But my world is slowly fading from view. They leave me never to be found even after my life stains the grass of the arena; even after I tried.

I tried

...so...hard.

A cannon fires.