Chapter One
Juniper, shortened to June for all intents and purposes, was the name given to me by my mother before she was executed for treason. Her trades of card in exchange for money on the black market had finally run dry and some of her less loyal customers had decided to report her to the peacekeepers to make sure the rest of the illegal trades were kept undercover. A complicated story, one I don't often divulge, that ended with my mother hanging in front of the Justice Building. My father, known as a drunkard, was killed in an accident before I was born when he stumbled in to work as a lumberjack whilst intoxicated. I never really knew them. But, both parents were only children from disreputable families, so I ended up in the only place a kid like me could; the orphanage, waiting for the day I'm old enough to get a full-time job or die of starvation. After you turn sixteen, the orphanage refuses to provide care any longer, and you are forced to find a job or starve, and as the oldest resident in their care, I was the one they currently least cared about. No one adopts the children who are stuck here; no one can afford to. And so, this is where I got to live my miserable life, locked inside a big yellowing room with the other kids no one wanted, for fourteen years. This was Ellesmere Orphanage.
Every day, the matron woke us up with the harsh ringing of two pans at one end of the hall, and before the sun broke above the horizon, we'd be out in the forests and climbing up trees to signal the start of the day for the workmen. After this, we go to school, three hours a day, followed by what is generously called 'lunch'. After six hours working in the paper factories, we finally get to go back to the hall, eat some bread and some squirrel meat if we are lucky, drink water and collapse onto our mattresses, waiting for the pans to rip us up into reality again, day after day. Throw in the extra vicious orphanage kids and the richer kids at school constantly harassing everyone else, this is not what I personally would classify as a life.
Clang! The pans' unwelcome sound echoes across the bare walls from one end to the other and I start awake. The last remains of a dream slipped away like sand as I rub the sleep from my eyes. Sighing, I throw my cotton bedsheets away from me and slip my feet on to the freezing stone floor, taking care to avoid the crack that runs underneath my mattress. For a moment, I notice the sunlight streaming through the grimy window and I panic, thinking of the punishment I'll receive for sleeping in. I could still feel the welts from the whip on my back from the last time; one for every minute late. Then I remember.
"Reaping day, get up! Twelve-year-olds, here!" The matron's surprisingly high-pitched voice calls, pointing to a faded letter 'A' on the front wall. The youngsters scramble to obey her orders, still yawning and rubbing their faces. They each line up underneath the sign and are led by a stone-faced burly woman to the changing room on the left. Only two minutes later, the thirteen-year-olds are lined up and waiting to be called in. After that, the fourteens. Each kid steps out wearing their reaping day best, usually a handed-down, ill-fitting cotton shirt and skirt or trousers from orphans in the past. Eventually, the fifteen-year-olds are called in, and I stand and line up with around ten other kids. Blinking to keep my eyes from drooping, I miss the obstacle underneath my feet, tripping and falling elbow first onto the hard floor. The boy above me laughs, and I realise it was his foot planted in my path that had caused me to fall.
"Watch it, clumsy, you nearly scuffed my nice shoes," he smirks at me. His band of cronies behind him laugh as I rub my sore elbow. Willow Garnet, a fourteen-year-old orphan whose parents were tragically killed around five years ago, was the typical rich boy turned poor tragedy story. His parents had been what can only be called the socialites of Counter, our area of the District. They were the mayor's best friends, and Will was the darling of all the more well-off families around the area. Unfortunately, no one wanted him after his parents died, so he ended up here, whilst people talked all over town about that 'poor Garnet boy in that terrible orphanage' and how awful it was. Yet he's still the only one in here who ends up with reaping day clothes that aren't second hand.
Seventeen more days, I think to myself. Then I'm out of here.
Picking myself up off of the floor and ignoring the curious glances of the matron and other kids, I stand in the line to wear the same itchy, off-white shirt and black wool skirt I'd worn for nearly three years in a row. I slide my arms through the holes, jokily rebuffing the stern comments of the sister that I'd still not grown any and took a quick glance at myself in the mirror hanging on the door. Hollowed cheeks and collarbones are masked by my long reddish-brown hair, but my hazel eyes are alert and scathing as I look over my clothes and the rest of my body. I'm a small frame, wearing the clothes meant for the younger girls, but this is useful in the fields for climbing trees and slipping between the lumber to do jobs at the factory. I escape the dreary room covered in hangers as quickly as possible, heading towards the door where the other dressed kids waited to be told to head to the square.
We head in a silent mass towards our crumbling gray Justice Building, stopping for a while just to give a small sample of blood to the white-clad peacekeepers at the outskirts for identification. From there, we are funnelled off into our separate roped areas by gender and age. As usual, we ignore the camera crews and blinding white lights focused on our faces and keep our eyes on the ground. The orphanage kids are always ignored by the Capitol anyway, they don't want to see the poor, underfed, or rejected kids. They wanted to see the ones that the Capitol audience care about, the ones with families and friends. That's the nature of the Games.
Slowly but surely the roped areas fill up until every child is accounted for. The silence is unbearable at this point, not even a small buzz of quiet conversation among the adults can be heard. There will be time for conversation later, time to mourn, or to celebrate their child surviving another year. Time to start preparing the funerals for our tributes. We stare intensely either at the floor or at the stage in front of the Justice Building, where sits five chairs, a podium, and two huge glass balls filled with thousands of little paper slips. Four years I've looked at those balls and known my name was in there, but now, as the oldest in the orphanage, my name is in there more times than anyone else's. Twenty slips of paper. The orphanage always puts their kids' names in for more rations.
Time seems to slow down by half when our mayor stands up on stage and the other seats are filled by the escort and the previous victors of our District. I swear I can hear the hearts of every kid around me stop when he begins to speak.
The list of past victors is read out to us in order. For us, only four victors have ever been from our District, and only three of them are alive. Indra Willerson is our oldest victor, and she's the only morally decent one of the three remaining, spending most of her time away from the Victor's Village and doing night shifts at the hospital, where she nurses the sick patients. Rumor has it that she only sleeps during the day, so that the buzz of daylight activities covers the sound of her screams. She had a particularly awful time at the Games; her brother had volunteered in the place of the male tribute to protect her. She'd watched him die with her own eyes.
The other two, Enra Olive and Ashmer Callern, spend most of their time in the black market gambling or hidden at home taking pills. Perhaps it's because they get dragged back into the hell that is the Hunger Games every year to mentor two tributes that usually end up dying anyway. However, every year they appear to at least make an effort to keep them alive, which is more than most District mentors are capable of any more.
All three sit mournfully on stage as the mayor's speech continues. I tune out the dreary recital of the history of Panem. We learn this in school and then have our memories refreshed every year at the Reaping. The floods, droughts, fires, riots, lack of resources leading to war. The war leading to the new country, Panem. Then the Rebellion story begins. Thirteen Districts rebelled against the Capitol; twelve were defeated, the thirteenth completely destroyed. When it's televised later, all of the speeches are omitted anyway, the history recited instead by Caesar Flickerman. Then our main event begins.
Our escort, is Jewelle Silk, a chubby lady of around thirty stands to deliver her role, evidently enjoying feeling all eyes on her. She's new to this job, having replaced the older escort only last year. Her pea green hair stands in rigid curls around her head and her unnaturally plump lips stretch around her bright white teeth as she beams at the sombre crowd.
"Happy 56th Annual Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour," her voice was unusually low, but she spoke with a sing-song attitude and accent that could only be from the Capitol. "What an honour it is to be in this outstanding District, ready to deliver our brave, courageous young tributes to their destinies!" She is met with a weak applause which is stifled quickly. Looking slightly put out by her less then excited response, she continues. "And now for the moment we're all so eager to see: the Reaping! Good luck, girls and boys. And now… ladies first." She casts her golden gaze along the masses of blood-drained faces with a glimmer in her eyes. As she strides to the glass ball on the right, a collective ceasing of breath occurs, and the silence somehow intensifies. Catching a slip between her long ruby fingernails, she totters on her blue high heels back over to the podium, unfolds the paper and draws a breath.
"Juniper Hayes!"
And my heart stops.
Hello! I already have a story on the go, but for the sake of my freedom of creativity, I've decided to start uploading chapters from multiple stories at the same time (hopefully this will stop readers from going mad about my sporadic writing also). Please let me know your thoughts; I only have a vague idea of where I'm going with this particular story and so suggestions are very welcome!
- EllaPenny