When you are a popular tribute, like I was, you are gifted a wristwatch before you go back home and told to never take it off. And when you are scared out of your wits, you follow those rules. 

When it lights up not long after your eighteenth birthday with a notification to report to the head peacekeeper for a Capitol request, you do. You are taken on a train to the Capitol, told nothing of what is happening, and guarded extensively. 

You are led to an exquisite mansion, flanked by three peacekeepers who are making sure you don't run. You don't know why you would have to run. 

You are escorted to a bedroom, and you realize too late why you might want to run. 

A Capitol man enters, ugly to the core, and you give up, because if you don't, the Capitol will kill your family and do worse things to you. You know this. 

You do things you know you will regret for the rest of your life, but there is nothing you can do to stop it. 

And then you go home, on the same train you arrived on. You resume your normal life, as if nothing happened. 

It happens again, and again. You grow used to it. 

You tell no one.