Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games in any shape or form.

Justification

"The greatest gift is to forget things. But that is one gift I will never possess. Forgetting is a wonderful thing." – Solomon Shereshevsky

I do not have a perfect memory. That is important. If nothing else I tell you matters, I want you to remember that. Well, maybe there is some other stuff I'd like you to remember too. But for the sake of my mind, please realise that my memory is not perfect.

I have a good memory. Not excellent but better than average. I always used to like it but I concede, it is not always useful. It is not useful for avoiding bullies. It is not useful for avoiding the bad things I have done in my life.

You are probably wondering what I'm going on about. You aren't here to read about my inner angst. So, shall we get on with what you really want to know?

My name is Titus Cosilen. I am eighteen years old. Quite tall, quiet, brown hair and grey eyes. I live in District 6 in a country called Panem. My mother died on my fifteenth birthday: my brother murdered her. I live with my father and my younger sisters. I am sitting in a cave in an arena in the Hunger Games.

No one honestly thinks I'm going to survive these Games. That really annoys me. There is nothing more disheartening than going into something, knowing everyone expects you to fail. When my family said goodbye to me, it was clear they were next expecting to see me in a coffin. I almost felt like asking them if they wanted me to kill myself before the Games.

(I told him to kill himself, you know. Spare himself the pain. He didn't listen to me, so I had to do it, didn't I? OK, maybe it was wrong – but I needed to prove I can win. I had to do it)

Technically, I haven't done well so far. I admit it. My interview was boring. My costume was awful. My training score was five. I don't suppose I picked up many skills. From what I can tell, I haven't got many sponsors, based on that performance.

This is depressing me. Let's think about something else.

I always liked to sleep. Sleeping is retreating from the outside world. It's useful. But I panicked too much in the Training Centre; I didn't get enough sleep. I couldn't. And here, I'm constantly on my guard. I don't function well without sleep.

(He was sleeping. Stupid. That's all I can say. Not like me: I was finally using my brain. I was merciful – he probably didn't know I'd done it. So what does it matter what I did afterwards? These are the Hunger Games; only the strong can win.)

When I do sleep – in those rare moments of peace – I don't dream. It's strange: I thought I would have horrible nightmares here but I don't. I remember instead and maybe that's worse. And every waking moment, I am haunted. By the past and by the present.

You know what: this also depresses me. I'm going to write about something different.

The first few days here were awful. I ran away from the Cornucopia. I had to. I may be tall but I was never much of a fighter; I would have been killed! But I had no food or water.

Being hungry is a normal part of life in District 6. Here, it's different: at home I would at least have water. I could eat things I knew wouldn't kill me but here, I have to be careful. I can only recognise some plants, and most of those are poisonous. I can't hunt and I didn't get any food from the Cornucopia. I can see why they're the Hunger Games.

(She didn't seem much stronger than I did. Someone else who had run away from the Cornucopia. She had no supplies. I suppose I could have ignored her. But in order to win, everyone else has to die. I'm just playing by their rules. I'm killing and surviving. Is that so wrong?)

I think I've been doing better than anyone could have hoped, in retrospect. There are only six of us left. I killed four tributes. I did it perfectly. I wonder what winning would be like.

Now I just want to remind you – I asked you to remember what I said about not having a perfect memory. That's true here. I keep blanking things out. But what's bizarre is that it's not what I'm doing which I forget but how I feel about it. I remember how I've been surviving here. I have to – how else am I going to keep alive? But I don't know the exact details of how I gut a person or what I feel when I eat them.

Maybe I feel happy. Yet surely that can't be right. I would never revel in killing someone. But I can't deny that when I recall what I've done, I feel a savage stab of pleasure. After all, no one else thought of my solution. I must be the most dangerous tribute here. Somehow, that pleases me.

But sometimes I feel like running as far away as I can. Images replay constantly in my head – they repulse me. They haunt my waking moments and they plague my sleep. How can I go home and face my family after what I've done?

So, basically, I have no idea what goes through my head as I kill and eat them. I dislike that concept. But maybe it's my mind trying to save me from myself. Maybe it's better not to know all the gory details.

(He called me insane when he saw me by her. A stocky monster-boy from District 2 and he called me insane. He would have killed me first. You must have seen him. I only did what was expected of me. I have to stay alive. That's all that matters, right?)

You probably don't know what to think of me. If I'm alive right now, I guess time will tell. If I'm dead, you have no idea. I don't know how it works myself. All I can tell you is that, you've seen what I've done. And no matter what you think you've seen, dear Capitol tourist, you will not remember it as well as I. Not from the TV.

Perhaps I will help you tip the balance in deciding whether you admire me or not. After all, this is the middle of the Hunger Games. Aren't you wondering where I got the ink to write on this wall from?

My hands are blood-covered. So is the rest of me. So is my mind.

So is this wall, now.

My name is Titus Cosilen. I am the male tribute of District 6. I want you to know that despite having an imperfect memory, I will never forget these days. Whether I am sane or insane, the faces of those tributes will stay in my mind. You might call me cruel and merciless. I wasn't, really. I am now. You know why?

Having read this message, daubed in the blood of a boy from District 2 on the wall of the entertainment in your vacation, you will never forget this horror either. It's better than TV: it's reality.

I could be ashamed of myself for what I've done but I'm not. You're not, are you? But at least I have done one good thing, unlike you.

You're never going to forget it. It will stay with you for as long as you live. The writings of a madman. But more than that: the horror of what I've done. What you made me do. If there is one thing I do not regret, it's the one truly cruel thing I did in this arena. It's forcing you to remember.