Poisoned Youth Chapter 1: Prologue, a hunger games fanfic

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games, nor the tune of the rhyme at the bottom.

I rose from my seat, slamming a hand down on the table. The guests quieted instantly, the only sound left was the rattle of the silverware from the aftershocks of the impact.

"Will you just get a hold of yourselves already?"

A man at the other end of the table choked on the massive mouthful of baked ham he had stuffed into his greedy mouth. When he saw that my hard gaze had settled on him, he dropped the chunk of meat that he'd retrieved from the platter.

"But we don't even have a solid idea for the next arena yet!" A mousy looking fellow squeaked from my left. I rose an eyebrow at him, and that's all it took to get him to shrink away into his cushioned chair.

"The Seventieth games concluded just last week. We have a whole year to put something together," a few men looked like they wanted to interject, but a stern look put them on silent. "Besides, I'm not the type to simply put an arena up if I'm not completely confident that I've made the right choice. The perfect idea will pop up, I'm sure of it."

"As long as that certain idea 'pops up' by the end of today, then sure, we'll have it that way," the man immediately to my right smirked, even going as far as to meet my eyes. I believe his name was Seneca. Seneca Crane. I narrowed my eyes at him, but he held my gaze strong.

"For now, I think what we all need is a break. We'll meet back up here in a half hour. If you don't have any refreshing views to bring to the table, then don't bother coming back," I spat coolly to the group, before practically storming from the space.

Just as I thought I was finally alone, a small person joined me in my steps. I didn't particularly mind, if they kept quiet, then I could continue on my merry way in peace.

"Grandfather doesn't have nearly enough paintings around, wouldn't you agree?" a sickly sweet voice murmured distantly. Grandfather..? But this is President Snow's mansion, why would there be a little girl around?

"Well, at least paintings would allow some direction. All of these blank hallways seem to stretch on forever, blending into each other," I muttered bitterly, eyeing the crimson walls scornfully. The little girl hummed disdainfully, adding a slight skip to her step.

"I have lots of paintings in my room. But Grandfather won't let me hang them in the hallways, he says they have stay in my room…," the girl trailed off, leaving a look of gloom on her face. There she goes again, talking about some mystery Grandfather. One that must be deeply in love with the color of blood, and hate quality interior design

"Say, who is your Grandfather? I might know him," I question as we meet an intersection of bland hallways. I begin to go left, uncaring of whether or not she'll follow me.

"You're going the wrong way," she says solemnly, and I feel a small, sweaty hand grip my coat sleeve. I wrench it from her grasp, turning to face her in annoyance.

"I never enlightened you on where I was going, kid," I spit, fighting off the desire to glare her down. Her light brown eyes looked up at me innocently, but they seemed to be fogged. Almost as if she was really somewhere else.

"My room is that way. Come see my masterpieces," she beckoned, before turning and bolting the other way. I glanced down at my watch, before trailing after her slowly. I figure I could use the change in scenery, and besides, I never even got her name.

The farther my feet take me, the more the hallway changes. A forgotten doll here, a race car there. I even saw a broken tea cup. You'd think that someone would be in charge of cleaning after this little girl. This is Snow Mansion, but this hallway feels more like a Toys R Us dump zone.

Finally, I spot a door left wide open, and I assume that's the room she's vanished into. I then make perhaps the biggest mistake of my life; I decide to go in.

She sure wasn't kidding when she said she had a lot of 'paintings.' Covering the overly pink room had to be hundreds of pieces of paper. They were taped to walls, left in the doll house, scattered around the tea party guests, and even crunched up on the floor. Walking in quietly would be next to impossible, seeing as the entire floor was inch deep in paper that had been crumpled up and thrown about.

At first glance, I didn't think too much of it, because it seemed that the girl just had a passion for drawing. Possibly writing, depending on the content of the crumpled pieces of paper. But then I started to see what the drawings were of.

Bloodied knives. Corpses. Decapitated parts. Monsters galore, and not the nice furry ones that sleep in your closet. Blood. Blood. And so much blood.

It gave me the surreal sense that I had when I was a child. The one that made you believe that monsters could be lurking beneath your bed while you sleep. The one that made you check under everyone else's bed before being able to truly relax in the new room.

I leaned over, just to peek under her bright pink bed. If anyone saw, I could've just said that I was looking for the little girl, because she did escape from my sights.

"You're the kind of monster that I find under here," a sweet voice hummed, before something pink shot out from under the bed, scattering a bunch of papers as they came. Nails dug into my neck, and I struggled to get glance at the person on my back. Long, brown hair…

"Syrio, that's enough! Go find your mom," a stern voice rumbled, demanding dominance with every word. Almost immediately, the weight had left my back, and I saw small feet prance out of the room. I stumbled to my feet, feeling sheepish at being caught in this room. I meet the gaze of President Snow himself.

"President Snow, I apologize for being here…," I trail off, wiping off my arms and pants as if they had somehow become tainted. He simply chuckled, before glancing around the room.

"No, I apologize, Mr. Bradford. Little Syrio has made it a habit to attack my guests. Especially when they follow her into her room," he admitted, shrugging as if it was all a normal occurrence. I glanced down to see all of the papers that were scattered after Syrio pounced from under the bed, and I feel embarrassed yet again. It seems I've just added to the already messy room.

"If you don't mind me asking, just who was that girl?" I question, dropping down to my knees, and starting to gather up the scattered papers.

"My one and only granddaughter. I bet a follow-up question would be just what is wrong with her. Her room gives away quite a bit," he paused, walking up to one of the paper-covered walls.

"You see, she has these vivid nightmares. She has been since she was six. The only advice we could get from professionals was that she should draw what she sees in her nightmares. So she could let loose the emotions, I guess you could say," he stopped, studying a certain drawing like an art critic.

"After a while, we started to see a pattern. Syrio wasn't drawing a bunch of individual terrors. No, she had been drawing one big nightmare. They were all connected, and if put together correctly, you would get a house. A house of terror, murder, and torture, if you will," he chuckled, looking back over at me.

"I wish I could say that she'd been planning an amazing arena, because I know that's what you would like to hear."

"That's it…" I murmured, standing with the neglected papers still in my fingertips. I've been thinking so hard on the perfect arena, that I never thought that it could be right here.

"Maybe if Syrio could see her nightmare played out in front of her, then it won't seem so scary," I exclaimed, ideas already raining in my mind. He put his finger on his chin thoughtfully, giving a small hum of recognition.

"Or maybe, she'll just see that while her nightmare is just as terrifying as she dreamt, it's inevitable," he conceded, nodding his head vigorously. "You might want to start there," he nods to the stack of paper in my hands, before turning, and exiting the room.

I glance down, and am slightly shocked to see a paper covered in words. A place to start, indeed.

There once was a house that creaked quietly