I can't believe this. I can not believe this. My name was not drawn. My sister didn't refuse to take my place. I did not walk up those stairs, tears burning my face. I did not look into the wild face of Advivo, the boy who could kill me with his bare hands. I did not sit in that room with the satin seats, my family crying around me. I did not board the train, speeding me at hundreds of miles per hour towards my death. I did not listen to Cecelia talk about strategy throughout breakfast. I will not be sent into the arena to die. I am not in the Hunger Games.
Heather stopped crying, now all she does is stare wide eyed at the floor. It's weird. I scarfed down as much food as I could during breakfast. Maxime tried to slow me by saying that my prep team would hate to have a tribute with a pot belly.
"As if I could care less what those over stuffed pompous freaks think. ######### they think at all." That quieted her. I don't think she knew I actually knew what was going on around me. It was the first thing I said to her, or anyone since I talked to Heather's dad. That reminds me. "Hey, Heather. You should eat, you'll just die quicker if you don't." She looked up at me, then slowly looked back down at the ground. Weird. I shrugged though, no one can say I didn't try.
The rest of the ride into the capital, Woof and I talked about strategy. He has plenty to say but he keeps calling my by the names of previous years tributes. I think the old guys going a bit senile. And Cecelia is preggers, and pretty far along. I'm not sure District 8 is in the best shape to be getting a lot of sponsors. More weight on my shoulders then. As per usual.
*You wanna know what the most important part of a joke is?
^Sure, what's the mo-