My eyes glaze over the blank television wondering whether or not I should turn it on. I don’t know if I would be able to handle watching a death of any tribute let alone my own brother. I turn it on. I watch as my brother sprints across the grass trying to escape the plain that makes him vulnerable, but there is nowhere to hide. Suddenly, the camera shifts to my brother’s left, about a hundred feet away, and lands on a tribute who I recognize to be from District Four. She is scrawny and only has one arrow left in her quiver. The sweat that has been accumulating on my forehead has now turned cold. She won’t hit him, I assure myself, She’ll miss. My heart feels as if it is shriveling with each step she takes, soon it will be gone.

The arrow is shot.

It whooshes through the air, but my brother does not see it. I am yelling. Screaming. Trying to warn him. It is no use. When he sees the arrow and the girl, it is too late. I can tell that he has fallen down through my blurry, tear-filled vision. I wipe my eyes with my sleeve and it is saturated with my tears. My brother is dead. My best friend is gone. It seems so unreal to me, it can’t be true. He will return in a matter of days. I am simply hallucinating, yeah, that’s it. I look back at the screen. At my brother, lying on the ground with an arrow lodged in his chest, and turn it off.