Contest: Hunger Games Competition #2

Host: CraZCanuck

"Dimitri Argon." The mechanical voice chirps, alerting me to the horror that I'm next. I sit up a little straighter in my seat as my district partner stands to his feet, takes a deep breath, and walks through the metal door without a glance back.

I run my fingers through my curly hair, pulling it back from my face in a loose ponytail at the base of my neck. The flipping of my stomach gets more intense with each second that passes. In only a few minutes I'd walk into the training center, but this time I'd be alone. It wouldn't be like every other time I've walked through those metal doors. This time is would be the Gamemakers and me, I'll be the specimen and they'll be the scientists; watching, waiting, judging.

All I can think about is every way that things will go wrong. I could accidently injure myself and look like a complete fool, they'll think I'm a joke. Or the knife could slip from my hands and I'll hit the target in the wrong place and get a low score. What if I faint again? I wouldn't be surprised with the way my heart is thumping against my ribs, like it might explode from my chest.

"Nyxi St. Raven." I jump at the sound of my own name echoing through the room. For a moment, I don't move from my seat, my feet rooted to the floor and my butt glued to the hard metal bench. Then the tribute beside me bumps my arm, I jerk and lunge to my feet, a sudden urgency igniting inside me to get in there and get this over with. I don't care what I get, I just need to get it over and done with so I can stop thinking about it.

My footsteps resonate in my ears as I pad down the silent hallway, stopping in the entrance of the training center. My eyes roam around the room while my hands shake by my sides, this wouldn't be so bad if I wasn't being watched by so many sets of eyes; one being the Gamemaker himself.

I didn't glance up at them, but I knew they were looking. I could hear them too, they were talking and laughing. It was late in the day and they were tired of watching us, I would get a low score if I didn't make myself memorable. But doing what? I was mediocre at archery, but knives were my forte. Except, I could probably guess at how many tributes they've watched throw a series of knives at a dummy today, I wouldn't be special. And I needed to be.

My mind was racing with possibilities as I made my way over to the knives. The laughter and chattering above me only got louder the closer I got, I knew they were getting restless. I was taking too long.

The feel of the chilly metal knife hilt sends a shock across my skin, it was neither comforting nor intimidating. I had two choices before me: the enemy simulation or the practice dummies. The enemy simulation involved fake orange colored attackers coming at me from all angles. Something about that unnerved me. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that my nerves were already in a frazzled state and that would only make it worse. I'd mess up for sure and my score would be low. I'd be painted as an easy target, I couldn't risk that.

I settle on the practice dummies, deciding that in this anxious state that would be my best bet at getting a decent score. But I can't just throw a series of knives at the dummies and expect that no one else has already done that. No, I needed something more. I needed one more boost to differentiate me from the others. But what?

A curl of black hair comes loose from my ribbon, obscuring my view of the dummies. I brush it behind my ear, still racking my brain for that extra little thing to make me different. I gasp, an idea forming in my mind. I pull the pink ribbon free from my hair, allowing it to fall forward and curl around my face. Then, I double up thickness and tie it around my eyes, keeping them closed beneath the fabric. This would make me different. I could feel it, maybe not good enough for a really high score but hopefully it would give me one better than average.

With my eyes covered and my vision no longer available to me, I try to reconstruct the placing of the dummies in my head. But remembering where they are proves harder than expected. I wrap my fingers tightly around the knife, tightening the muscles in my arm slowly. It was time to get this over with.

I let instinct overpower thought and pull my arm back and swing it forward, releasing the knife from my fingers fluidly. There's a thud and a few mumblings from the Gamemakers but I pay little attention to that as my shaking hands grope for another knife.

I grasp the hilt of two knives, holding one in each hand and taking a deep breath. There were only a total of five knives sitting on the table for my use, I only had five chances to get it right and I didn't know how I was doing so far. I needed to make each throw count.

The second throw feels better, more comfortable. I swipe a bead of sweat off my forehead and toss the third knife at the lineup of dummies, wondering how well I'm doing but too afraid to peek. The last two knives that leave my hands to rip their own path through air cause a bubble of relief to pop within me. A surmountable amount of stress disappears from my shoulders, relieving me of the impossible duty of supporting it.

Slowly, I pull the ribbon away from my face and blink, my eyes narrowing in on the dummy targets ahead of me. Five knives in five different places and my confidence shrinks with each wrong mark.

One knife was wedged into the dummy's neck, another had struck the left shoulder, and the third knife hilt gleamed from its place in the dummy's stomach. The fourth knife had impaled the cardboard person in the right leg and the last one was protruding from the right arm.

I turn away from the dummy, refusing to raise my eyes up to the Gamemakers. I had no desire to see the looks on their faces. I didn't need to feel any more horrible than I already did. I had no structure. None. I'd done horribly, sure I'd hit five important parts of the body but that didn't mean anything. I was all over the place. I'd made an impression alright, but it wasn't a good one. I had barely taken one step out the door before the first tear of failure slips down my cheek.