Darkness comes like a wave rolling onto the beach, and soon I am engulfed in its warm, protective embrace. Sunlight loses the battle for the day, and retreats down under the line of the horizon. It’s been almost a day, so I decide to finally rest. Against what I would have presumed, I drift easily into sleep. With dreams of back home in District 2, I walk into my bedroom at home, and see Alfred huddled in the corner. I can’t see around him, and when he turns to me, he is covered in blood. I look in horror as the girl from District 1’s head once again rolls off. I scream, and awaken with a gasp. I am surprised I haven’t fallen out of the tree, and begin to settle back into sleeping position, when a faint clicking catches my attention.

This is an irregular clicking, picking up the tempo and pace as it continues. I look around the tree, and see line after line of trees being cleanly folded to the ground, some left alone, as a giant wall of blue steamrolls past them. The clicking sound I had heard is the snapping and splintering of the trees, and I am met with a tough choice; I can stay here and hope for the best, or hopelessly try to get further ahead of the surge. Having watched the Games many times before, I know the Gamemakers just want another bloodbath and reunion of all the tributes at a certain point. This tsunami isn’t meant to kill me, but to bring me back onto their silver tray for the Capitol’s feast of blood.

I decide to try and outpace the colossal tidal wave. I slip on the electric gloves that go with the cape, and leap from the tree. My katana is laced through my belt on the uniform, and I glance backwards to make sure it is not slipping. Gliding amongst the treetops, I take a quick peek down below me and sure enough, see two tributes running through the jungle in my direction. One looks up and clearly sees me, but is too out of breath to exclaim anything. Once we have all reached the clearing, I perch in a tree observing the scene diligently. The tsunami wave is tapering off, but tributes still spill into the field. I hear a strange rustle from my tree, and turn around to see a boy tribute climb to my level of the tree. I remember him as the boy from District 12. Without thinking, I slam the heel of my boot into his forehead and knee him in the throat. He falls out of the tree, grabbing at his throat, and finally he hits the ground with a quiet thud. Once more, a depressing cannon sounds. The bloodbath has begun, and it will turn this open canvas into a beautiful, red painting.