Chapter 8

           AsIstridetowardtheelevator,Iflingmybowtoonesideandmyquivertotheother.IbrushpastthegapingAvoxeswhoguardtheelevatorsandhitthenumbertwelvebuttonwithmyfist.ThedoorsslidetogetherandIzipupward.Iactuallymakeitbacktomyfloorbeforethetearsstartrunningdownmycheeks.Icanheartheotherscallingmefromthesittingroom,butIflydownthehallintomyroom,boltthedoor,andflingmyselfontomybed.ThenIreallybegintosob.

           NowI’vedoneit!NowI’veruinedeverything!IfI’dstoodevenaghostofchance,itvanishedwhenIsentthatarrowflyingattheGamemakers.Whatwilltheydotomenow?Arrestme?Executeme?CutmytongueandturnmeintoanAvoxsoIcanwaitonthefuturetributesofPanem?WhatwasIthinking,shootingattheGamemakers?Ofcourse,Iwasn’t,IwasshootingatthatapplebecauseIwassoangryatbeingignored.Iwasn’ttryingtokilloneofthem.IfIwere,they’dbedead!

           Oh,whatdoesitmatter?It’snotlikeIwasgoingtowintheGamesanyway.Whocareswhattheydotome?WhatreallyscaresmeiswhattheymightdotomymotherandPrim,howmyfamilymightsuffernowbecauseofmyimpulsiveness.Willtheytaketheirfewbelongings,orsendmymothertoprisonandPrimtothecommunityhome,orkillthem?Theywouldn’tkillthem,wouldthey?Whynot?Whatdotheycare?

           Ishouldhavestayedandapologized.Orlaughed,likeitwasabigjoke.ThenmaybeIwouldhavefoundsomeleniency.ButinsteadIstalkedoutoftheplaceinthemostdisrespectfulmannerpossible.