[ EU ] In your favourite fictional universe , the villain won . It 's one year later .

It's been almost nine months since they took my tongue, and of all the things I've lost I miss my voice the least. 
 
 They did n't cut out my tongue until every last one of them were gone. 
 
 `` She's dead,'' said my captor and I cried. 
 
 `` He's dead now,'' said my captor a week later, and I shrieked in anger. 
 
 `` He killed himself.'' 
 
 `` He *was* hard to catch, but we did and he's dead too.'' I plead them to stop. They did n't. 
 
 `` She was tough to kill.'' `` He gave up so easily after we killed *her*.'' 
 
 `` They're *all* dead. It's your fault.'' 
 
 And after I had no one left to cry for, to beg for, to bargain my body and soul for, they took my voice. 
 
 My cell is small, made of gray cinder-block, windowless. I do n't mind the coldness, the constantly bright lights, the inhuman shrilling of the other muted prisoners, but the *roses*... The *white* roses are always there, in the middle of my cell - *never* wilting, *never* dying, *never* losing their artificial fragrance, that can even hide the smell of blood and puss. They were made to be like that. Just like I was made to be like this. Broken. Tired. A reminder to the rest. 
 
 Every once in a while someone comes and films me in this state. I think the idea is to remind those, who might want to revive the dead flame of rebellion, that even the strongest ones fall, but they must have forgotten that I started out like this. Hungry, broken and dirty. How easily it is for them to forget the bad days. 
 
 Sometimes I think I might be going mad, because my mind tries play games with me. I could resist, but I do n't, because there *are* much worse games to play. 
 
 No one told me what was coming, but I somehow knew by the unnerving buzz in the air, which came in with the guard through the heavy metal door. A buzz that could only have been made by a collective cry of a nation brought back to its knees. The guard pressed a button on the other side of my cell and one of the gray walls was submerged in a light, much weaker than that which constantly burned above my head, no matter day or night. 
 
 I did n't want to look, but I could n't look away. I can. I ca n't. I will. I wo n't. I *do* look. 
 
 A stage. Peacekeepers in their white armor, with guns aimed at the whimpering crowd of children. A lady with an overjoyous smile on her blue-powdered face. And suddenly I feel like I'm drowning, I ca n't breathe, I want to scream, I want to be dead too. I should have died. I did n't. That was my mistake. 
 
 `` Welcome, welcome,'' the lady says, `` to the seventy-sixth annual Hunger Games.''
