Let’s try to explain the Eurovision Song Contest nice and easy for everyone outside of Europe.
It’s almost like the Hunger Games.
1. Each country sends one (or sometimes more) tributes to compete against each other.
2. Instead of killing each other, the tributes sing.
3. While they do so, they put on a big show for everyone to gain even more attention and affection from the spectators. This includes fancy or crazy costumes, dances and special effects.
4. These extra efforts often enough have NOTHING TO DO WITH THE SONG AT ALL!!
5. This only adds to the confusion!!! Even for Europeans!
6. Everyone can watch this show live
7. AND decide about demise or victory of the chosen tributes
“[f/n]! [f/n], just hold on!” Peeta pleaded, pressing his hands over the spear wound in your stomach. Your entire body shook and convulsed as you struggled to breathe. Everything had gone wrong. The sky above you was a dark grey, fat raindrops falling like tears against your skin, mixing with your blood. You could hear screaming but you weren’t sure where it was. You weren’t even sure your heart was still beating.
“No, you need to go,” you choked out, tears slipping from your eyes as you fought to stay conscious.
“I’m not leaving you here!” Peeta protested, eyes wide.
“I’m not gonna make it,” you hissed, squeezing your eyes shut as another wave of pain wracked your body. “Peeta, I’m bleeding out. I’m not going to take you down with me.”
Peeta’s face twisted with grief and he pressed down harder on your wound, still trying to stop the bleeding. You tried to push him away but you were too weak.
“Peeta, I won’t let you die for me,” you gasped out. You would bleed out for him. You could accept that. You had already taken a spear for him. This wasn’t that much harder. Technically, it was just an extension of that act but that didn’t matter. You had already come to terms with the way things were. Only one person could make it out of this alive, and it wasn’t going to be you. If Peeta didn’t have you to worry about, it increased his chances of winning. You refused to be his downfall. You could hear the muttations not too far off, howls and snarls approaching, maybe holding off just in case this would make an interesting segment for the viewers in Panem.
Peeta’s eyes were red and bloodshot from exhaustion and crying, “Please, just hold on,” he begged, “Please, hold on, [f/n].”
You lifted a hand as best you could to touch his arm. You only spoke one word before your strength failed you completely. “Win.”
Was it like this then? Seventy-five years or so ago? Did a group of people sit around and cast their votes on initiating the Hunger Games? Was there dissent? Did someone make a case for mercy that was beaten down by the calls for the deaths of the districts’ children? The scent of Snow’s rose curls up into my nose, down into my throat, squeezing it tight with despair. All those people I loved, dead, and we are discussing the next Hunger Games in an attempt to avoid wasting life. Nothing has changed. Nothing will ever change now.