There is no worse feeling than the feeling that you will never see your family again, or so I thought. The numbness that follows me as I board the sleek silver train that will take me to the Capitol is even worse. I had always wished I did not feel emotion so strongly; but in reality, once my ability to feel anything is gone, all I want is to be dead.

I wish Eli and I could both be dead, so we don't have to go through what I've seen countless other tributes go through. They go in as normal citizens, but when they come out, the person we knew them as is gone forever. It happened once to this boy we had known in my district three years back.

He had been so happy-go-lucky and made everyone laugh. Our families were friends. Everyone knew and loved him. He had a life that was devoted to the happiness of others. Then he volunteered on Reaping Day for this sickly twelve-year-old boy who was too weak to stand on his own. Typical thing for him to do. It was foolish, for sure. But it was also brave; admirable, even.

Things began to go very downhill for him after that. His girlfriend, who was reaped with him, was slaughtered in the bloodbath. The arena was hell that year; it was covered in lush forest at the foot of snowy mountains, but everything about the climate and the beautiful landscape itself was wrong. There was something chilling about the air and water and trees-- it had an incredibly disturbing effect on all of the tributes. After drinking from pools or staying around a certain area for a few days, tributes would begin to develop red sores on their necks and faces, and they'd begin to murmur nonsensical phrases to themselves. Eventually, they went insane, their eyes wild and bloodshot and their bodies emaciated.

The boy barely made it out alive. He was severely injured when they got him out, but they got rid of all his scars and returned him home, to the Victors' Village. He seemed fine right up to the point when Caesar Flickerman interviewed him about his victorious survival.

But the boy who always gave flowers to his neighbors; the one who always laughed at the corniest jokes or went on the most useless tasks in the world to make someone happy; the boy who always stood up for a random person he didn't know so that they could have a meal for once-- we knew that boy was dead and gone. And it broke everyone's heart to see such a hopeful person like him to be crushed under the weight of his burden when he'd fought so hard.

That's when I first began to truly hate the Capitol.

And it was also why, as soon as I board the train, I enter into my quarters to have some brooding time to myself before I try facing my escort, who instead of supporting us will probably be betting on the Careers behind our backs. But I know that I must listen to her some, or at least pretend to like her, because Gem and I know that she has the power to make me look bad.

After an hour of pacing and exploring my quarters, I hear a very loud rap on my door. Gem barks at me to join my brother for dinner. Though it's clear that she wants to order me around, and I really don't want her to think that she can turn me into her lap dog, I spring off my bed, and make my way across the room. I'm at the door within two seconds of her command, and the button next to it opens it so fast that Gem almost stumbles to the floor. I force myself to stifle a laugh. Apparently, she happened to be leaning on the door.

Gem straightens and glares at me while smoothing her dress. I figure that she wants to get a spontaneous apology from me, so instead, I just widen my eyes ever so innocently, but smile as if I know something she doesn't.

"So sorry," I say as I walk past her.

Before she can reprimand me for whatever she thought I had done, I make my way past my brother's quarters, the control rooms, and a variety of other rooms whose doors are closed to me into a room in the center of the train. My eyes flit from one side of the spacious room to the other as I take in everything.

The walls and ceiling of this car are entirely glass; probably bulletproof. Expensive-looking wooden furniture is arranged around a low-set granite coffee table, which is laden with silverware and multiple kettles and pots. My eyes linger on the beautifully woven green tablecloth, and on the blown glasses that are so thin, it amazes me that the sound of my footsteps doesn't break them.

The aroma of food reminds me in no time why I came down the hall. I perch on the chair nearest me and silently consider what to take from the large variety of food on the table. I lightly lift the lids off the pots with the tips of my fingers, so many different delicious scents coming from each one. I look at the contents and either ladle a scoop or take a piece, or pass it up.

After I fill two plates and a large bowl with food, two people startle me as they arrive, laughing as they enter the car. One is Eli. The other I have not seen in at least three years.

It is Cedar Akari, the man my father wants me to have as mentor.

When we see each other, I stand, and Cedar greets me with a booming laugh that fills the car. We awkwardly embrace, as he is so tall, I am practically hugging his waist.

Cedar is taller than my father, and my father is very tall himself. He is still the same powerful man with broad shoulders and coffee-colored skin. He is undoubtedly intimidating, but his good-natured grin reveals a side of him that hardly anyone can bring out but my father, his best friend. I realize just how important it truly is that Dad and Cedar knew each other. When he slaps me on the back, I wonder what kind of mentor I would have been trained by if this man didn't have a person who could bring out this side of him.

"It is good to see you again, Cassia," Cedar says as he sits in a very sturdy-looking chair across from me, which I assume may be custom-made to accommodate his large body. He is still smiling, but it is quickly fading as his expression out of nowhere becomes stormy. "But also very unfortunate," he adds grimly as he trains his focus on both me and Eli, sitting across the table.

The suddenness of this change in mood, from the laughing, bold man we only see at our house, to this hard-masked, unreachable character who sits like a cruel, great lion before us causes me and Eli to eye each other uneasily. We both know by paying careful attention to Cedar when he visits us why everyone but my family acknowledges him in little more than grunts and an almost silent word of hello. We have known from experience why Cedar occasionally excuses himself at least once from the room and locks himself in the next. Why his joyous, beaming smiles often quickly turn into dark, angry moments when he shouts and screams foul words at an unknown enemy.

My brother and I aren't fools; and it does not take a genius to know a mood swing when they see it. Cedar's are particularly dangerous, and when one sees it coming, they never want to be in the direct path of it.

And I am very certain that less than three hours before, my father had just told me to try and persuade my representative to give me a mentor with a possible mental condition.

I pray that he did not have a death wish.

Eli silently moves from the table and backs away, his eyes wide, but his fear making him incredibly calm.

Just as I fear, Cedar's eyes lock on him and he stands up, towering over my brother, his eyes menacing. I look on, frozen to my chair, my mind racing as I wonder what is keeping my ever-so-composed brother from running, screaming down the hall to his quarters. No one wants to make a seven-foot-tall man angry.

My eyes squeeze shut and I feel a shriek threatening to erupt from my lungs as Cedar lifts his hand. But there is only silence. Even then, it is so thick it could choke me. I open my eyes slowly and almost remember how to breathe when Cedar drops his hand. Then he walks slowly to his seat, and slumps into it. He puts his head in his hands and sighs. Eli and I have the sense to remain silent until our mentor looks up again, his expression extremely apologetic.

"I'm sorry." Cedar's voice is barely audible. He looks at his hand and back at the two of us, his eyes terrified at what he might have done to us. He gestures towards the chairs. "Go on, eat." A weak smile reveals his attempts at returning the warmth to the room, but everyone knows it has been destroyed, possibly for good.

Neither one of us has moved. "Please," Cedar suddenly begs, his eyes pleading, removing the last of the meal's pleasant demeanor. Instead, replacing it with a subtle but nonetheless forced facade that there is pleasure, that it never disappeared. And though none of us are fooled, we sit down and quietly focus on our meals.

. . .

The room's mood shifts surprisingly fast from frighteningly still to glorious as everyone, even Gem, fills their plates, the sound of clinking and occasional small talk filling the room. Top-notch dishes are taken from and consumed, and Gem claps her hands together every few minutes, so that a few seconds later, an Avox appears to replace the dishes with more from an additional course.

I slowly begin to nibble at the food, but when I finally realize how delicious it is, I build up speed. Slices of paper-thin beef dotted with parsley, noodles in a creamy white sauce, beautiful white rolls baked in the shape of orchids, and bitter greens disappear from my first plate. I never stop to breathe as I inhale everything on my second plate. I bite into a leg of lamb and almost sigh at its tender, rich meatiness. From my bowl, a thick stew of root vegetables and chicken cooked to perfection over a bed of wild rice hardly lasts more than a minute after I start it. Tiny white mushrooms simmered in wine. Steamed long-grain rice wrapped in tea leaves. Long, thin green onions. I don't even know how I manage to savor it all. After all this, I shake my head to the tall female Avox who reaches for my empty dishes, ready to replace them with more food.

It is now that I realize the difficulty of keeping down the entire meal. I look to the side of me and am not surprised that Eli, one who never stops to take a breath when eating any food, is managing better than I am. Yet full as I may be, I manage to wash down everything with a couple of swigs of water.

I feel sick to my stomach but triumphant. I laugh when I realize that I had never fully realized that food could be so delicious. And I smile at first when I silently contemplate whether I want to stay for more or depart for my quarters.

But really, the decision is very easy to make. I feel my stomach lurch unpleasantly. I am quick to bid the dining room farewell as I swifty make my way down the hall, ignoring Cedar's protest that I am going to miss the cake.

Almost as soon as I enter my bathroom, my glorious dinner comes up. I retch into the toilet, my jubilant mood fallen to pieces as I am sick. For a few minutes, I only retch, then sit and breathe, then repeat.

As soon as I feel better, I get up to wash my face. I examine myself in the mirror with horror, realizing that my dress may have been a bit dirtied beyond repair when I got sick. I wipe the floor with the hem of my skirt, knowing it doesn't matter whether or not the dress gets messier; it is ruined anyway.

After I splash some water on my face, I change out of my reaping clothes, leaving them on the floor in a crumpled heap so the Avox who cleans my quarters will know to collect them. Then I rummage through the numerous drawers built into one of the spruce-paneled walls, and slip on a comfortable pair of cotton cargo shorts and a thin silk tank that feels like nothing against my skin. I climb into the large bed, yanking the thick covers over my head, even though my quarters are a bit warm; and then for reasons I don't understand at first, I hold a pillow to my face and scream. I hate myself for eating myself sick, for blowing off Gem, for being reaped, for not crying. But the truth is, I don't think I know how to cry anymore. I think I left my heart in the train station back home. I don't feel anything. I can't feel anything. There's nothing left. . .

I kick off the covers and rip them off the bed, leaving only the light undersheet. There, that's better, I think as I settle on the mattress once more. Just like home. Where there aren't blankets, but rags. Where there aren't riches, but creaking wooden walls and simple mats instead of mattresses; the warmth of my mother and sister sleeping beside me; the knowledge that my father and brother are sleeping in the next, equally freezing room. Where there is no death sentence, but family and beautiful trees, as far as the eye can see. . .

Stop it! my mind screams at me. You have no time to think about your family or your home. You can't be weak. Not if you want to live. Not if you want to see your family again. . .

The words ring endlessly in my ears as I slowly sink into a restless sleep.

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