Sacrifices

My fingers were twitching on the floor when they came it. My mother was screaming, covering her face. I saw the bag of groceries she was holding clammor to the floor. My brother was behind her, though as soon as he saw the blood, he ran out screaming for help. Though they had watched me like a hawk, a guard had slipped up and left the opportunity open for me to play the games how I wanted to. I was not like Katniss or Peeta Mellark. Unlike them, I was unafraid to die and had aimed to show the state that the second they called.

"Salacia Dagan," the driver had proudly proclaimed.

My legs carried me to the podium, but I didn't hear anything or anyone after that. No one had any emotion towards the senseless killing of children. The ceremony eneded and I went home with my brother and mother. Though I was surely going to be murdered, my mother beamed as she prepared caviar and pate. My father, who was in District Five, was soon calling to congratulate me for my sacrifice. I ate my last meal with my family and went to bed. In five days, I would be standing on a podium, ready to defend my district. Or so they thought.

The next day, I met my guard, Mishra, who was determined to keep me from dying before cameras were pointed at me. Other people came and went, smiling and telling me how things would go. It was no longer a TV show to see which player would win. It was a sacrifice to find the next president of Panem. Thrilling. One minute, I'm going to achieve my dream of being the 100th doctor in our family and solving mining lung problems in the lower districts, and now, I'm a presidential pawn in some morbid game of teenage slaughter that adults are addicted to.

My chance came on Day Three, when Mishra got distracted by my mother. My mother, a TV doctor/lawyer, was convinced that anyone over the age of eighteen that wasn't a lawyer or doctor was destine to help her with her every need. So, when she got back from the store with the groceries, she pressured Mishra into helping her. He had told me to stay there and locked the door to my bedroom behind me. Little did he know, I'd snuck a spare key from my dad's drawer the night before. While they were outside, I went into the kitchen, got a knife, held my breath, and jabbed the knife into my throat. The blood instantly poured down my clavicle, stained my clothes, and pooled onto the floor.

I pulled the knife out, put it in the sink, and wandered into the living room. There was no reason for why. Yout mind just scatters when you're dying. No wonder Katniss had said the games weren't that bad a few years before she died. That testimony alone had solidified the resurrection of the games. Rules were put in place, but it still ended in one teenager lasting longer than the rest. Now that President Raydol had died in his sleep, there was the added bonus in the 88th Games that you could rule the city. None of that means anything to me now.

My life is fading as I watch my mother, pale and silent for once, watch me bleed out. Mishra comes and jumps into action, but I made sure he couldn't rescusitate me before I did it. I had forgone food for days (not that I had an appetite to begin with) and had been cutting myself while I was in the shower, making sure I lost a substantial amount of blood each time.

So, Mishra was basically too late by the time he dropped to his knees to try to help me. I smile at him. He is a total stranger, and he's the only one that cares. Only a few days of knowing me, Mishra had become like more of a father than my own father. My mother would remember her blood-stained carpet and her daughter weaseling out of fighting for the famliy's honor and to rule the country. My brother will only remember the pressure that gets put on him after I go. The country will mourn me but another girl will be picked in a matter of hours and brought to The Capitol.

The only hope I have is that Mishra will read the note I left him and stop this instead of holding this against me like the rest of the world will.