Author's Note:
Alright, this is the first chapter in a story that I'm working on, though I promise it's very nearly done and I have everything planned out.
Quick disclaimer, the Reaping situation is similar to the one in the actual The Hunger Games, but if I didn't do it like that it would screw up the plot that my stubborn little mind worked out. Anyway, just try to enjoy the story and not nit-pick, which I'm sure is hard for some of you, because I know it's pretty hard for me.
Anyway, thanks for taking an interest, here's the first chapter:
Chapter 1:
Sister
I try to keep my hands steady as I hold the three locks of red in my hands. Right over, left over, right over, left- crap. I unweave the braid and start over. Right over, left over, right over, left over, right over- dammit.
I give up on Rosemary's braid. It is just not going to happen. For the life of me, I cannot do the hair thing.
"It's not happening, Rosie." I sigh.
"It didn't happen last year, either." says Rosemary, smiling serenely.
I pat her on the shoulder and tie her hair in a high ponytail. She has long, wavy, bright red locks that would probably look good no matter how horribly I messed with them.
Today is our birthday. We're twins. We look nothing alike, though. We're both small and skinny and pale, but Rosemary has her red hair and bright blue eyes and a smiling, round face, whereas I have an almost textbook perfect face, with light brown hair and dark brown eyes. Moreover, I do not like smiling. Ever.
We're both thirteen today.
We live on our own, for almost a year now. Mom and Dad didn't live to see our first month of life. We were raised in the community home, and I've been working at one of the factories since I was eight. We were able to leave altogether last year, when we turned twelve and were eligible to sign up for tesserae.
Though I won't let Rosemary take any. This year, she has one entry. I have eight. Technically, Rosemary should have two entries, but since our birthday is on the day of the Reaping, there's a kind of null. We weren't in last year, because there wasn't enough time to register us. So this is our first Reaping. And at our last, we'll be nineteen instead of eighteen.
The tesserae are extra entries for a 'year's supply' of grain and oil. I took out two for each of us, and three to sell. I mostly sell the oil, because the grain is even worse than the stuff that comes on the ration train.
That, along with the money I make from a four-hour shift at the Peacekeeper uniform factory, is enough to keep us afloat outside of the community home. I hope we never set foot there again.
"Are you ready?" I ask Rosemary. She shrugs. Rosemary isn't exactly right in the head. She's usually halfway in and out, sometimes in her own world entirely, and has a few moments of complete lucidity. But those are few and far between. Her right arm is mostly gone, with only few inches of a stump at her shoulder. She was born like that.
Since we're twins, that apparently means that I'm really strong. I don't find that at all encouraging.
Even if Rosemary basically lives in her own world, she can still fairly understand what's going on. I think that she does right now.
She's grasping my hand tightly, breathing fast. She usually gets stressed out on Reaping Day, even though we've never been eligable before.
"You'll be alright." I promise. "You only have one entry."
"You sure?" she breathes.
"Positive." I confirm.
She nods, and grips my hand even more tightly.
When we enter the town square, we follow the line of all the other kids hoping that they're not marching to their deaths today. We head to the roped-off area with the twelve-year-olds and wait for everything to start.
"Are we in it this year?" Rosemary asks me.
"Yes." I reply.
"How many entries do I have?" Rosemary whispers, her voice wavering.
"Just one, Rosie." I breathe.
The District 8 escort, Queenie Minnie (I know, right?) steps onto the stage and sits down between the mayor and one of the victors, Woof Rant. Woof is an elderly man who can barely hear anything. The only other two living victors from our District are Tulle Lories and Cecelia Feld. Tulle is a dark, severe-looking middle-aged woman, and Cecelia is a kind, motherly type somewhere in her twenties. She's married with a baby, and it looks like there's a small bump on her abdomen now.
I've always wondered how Cecelia won her Games. She only won seven years ago, but I was too little to pay attention, and I don't like watching anything on TV except for the stuff that we're required to watch. Well, I don't actually like watching that, I just have to.
The mayor eventually steps up to his podium and begins reading. They're bland, old words about the history of our nation, the wars and numerous disasters that preceded us, how the glistening Capitol rose out of the ashes and whatever other crap the Capitol's strung up. I can never pay much attention. Then the Dark Days, when the thirteen districts rebelled against the Capitol, how the thirteenth was obliterated and the rest defeated, how the Treaty of Treason was designed so there would always be peace, how the Hunger Games is an annual reminder of the rebellion.
It's all stupid Capitol propaganda. They want to seem so kind. We all know the Hunger Games is just them saying "Look, we can take your children and kill them and there's nothing you can do about it." It's a scare tactic. They don't want another uprising.
And the tactic works, too. However much all of us want a rebellion, we're all too afraid to actually rise up.
I've heard low whispers about it in the marketplace, and sometimes in the community home, but everyone is too afraid to ever actually do something.
The Capitol takes one boy and one girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen from each of the twelve districts to compete. It's a fight to the death in an outdoor arena.
It's what haunts the nightmares of most kids. I'm not an exception. The thoughts chills me to my very core.
When the mayor finishes, he reads the list of past District 8 victors. There are only four, and one is dead. Sixty-seven victors before now, and we only have four.
When the mayor finally finishes, he sits down and Queenie gets up, a big fluffy ball of bright pink.
"Happy Hunger Games!" she squeals excitedly "May the odds be ever in your favor!"
With eight names in the bowl, as first Reapings go, the odds are not in my favor.
I know there are kids with more than me. There's a boy in my grade at school with six younger siblings. His first year, his name was in there ten times, this year it's twenty.
There's a boy, Roane Avi, who I guess I'm kind of friends with. I know that he has at least as many entries as I have.
For whatever reason, I look over to the thirteen-year-olds and catch his eye. He gives an encouraging half-smile. I shoot him a dirty look and look away quickly, but not before I see him smile and roll his eyes.
I'm not good at making friends. I suppose Roane is my only one, but only because he and his brothers have a knack for being too nice. They're all burly black boys, with wavy hair and dark green eyes. Roane's the youngest. Moore is eighteen, Teale is twenty-one, and Fleece is twenty-five.
I guess if I pay attention to his family we really are friends.
Queenie talks about what an honor it is to be here, which to an extent is true. At least for now. She just got promoted from 12 this year, so she'll have this level of appreciation for a year, possibly two if our tributes do well this time around.
In the Capitol, the Games are a fun sporting event. Watch with your friends, cheer on your favorites, place bets, take a vacation to one of the old Arenas.
They're all idiots.
Rosemary grips my hand tighter as Queenie finishes her little speech and says "Let's start with the boys this year!"
She walks over to the glass bowl filled with boys' names. She shuffles her hand around a bit, because getting a hold of a slip of paper with those talons seems to be a bit of a challenge.
Finally, she picks one out and walks back to the little podium.
She looks at the slip of paper, reads the name, then looks back at us. Dramatic pause or whatever.
There's complete silence before Queenie says "Moore Avi!"
I let out the tiniest sound of… what? Remorse? Shock?
I look at the back of Roane's head. The boy beside him is holding his arm.
Moore steps up to the stage, looking a bit startled, but otherwise unfazed.
Queenie mentions something to Moore about his confidence, then says "Now for the girls!"
Rosemary grips my hand- if possible- even more tightly.
There's eight None Denims.
My parents never got a chance to give me a real name. They weren't expecting twins. Born on Reaping Day. And then my eighteen-year-old parents were both Reaped.
Personally, I think it was set up because there aren't very many married teenagers and I'm sure the gamemakers thought it would be a great show for a married couple to be in the Arena.
So officially, my name is None Denim. But it's known that our parents were planning on naming a girl Rosemary. That stuck and they filled it out on Rosemary's form t the community home so they could tell us apart. But I'm just Denim.
Queenie gets a hold of a piece of paper.
Does time usually go this slow? Or is this just a really long dramatic pause?
My stomach is clenching uncomfortably. Rosemary is gripping my hand tightly. My mouth is dry. It's dead silence and-
"Rosemary Denim!"
No.
No.
No!
NO!
And Rosemary screams. Really loud.
She lets go of my hand, ducks under the rope, and tries to run away. The Peacekeepers dash after her and grab her. She's screaming and crying and they're dragging her up to the stage.
I go after them.
I don't know why I'm going after them. I know that it's no use and they're going to take Rosie away from me and all they're going to give me a public whipping or something.
But that doesn't matter. Because this is my sister. My poor, little, defenseless sister who can hardly tell real life from dreams.
I jump onto one of the Peacekeepers and slam the palm of my hand into his ear, which I know can easily break his eardrum. I've had experience.
Sure enough, he falls over from the pain, but I jump off him and manage to get in a solid kick at the groin of one of the other Peacekeepers holding Rosemary before a bunch more come and start dragging me away.
Rosemary is crying and screaming and thrashing as much as she can, but it's really no match.
I'm screaming, too, though I'm not really crying. I'm more yelling expletives as loudly as I can and trying to get in a good punch or kick or clawing.
The Peacekeepers are dragging me away from the crowd, probably trying to get me out of the square entirely. While this makes for great television, they really don't want me screwing up their Reaping.
I distinctly hear Queenie say "Any volunteers?"
And in a stroke of absolute madness, I respond. "I VOLUNTEER!"
I scream as loudly as I can "I VOLUNTEER! I VOLUNTEER! I VOLUNTEER!"
The Peacekeepers drop me and I run to the stage.
"I volunteer!" I gasp when I reach the podium.
"No, you can't!" sobs Rosemary, trying to push me off the stage. It's not much use considering she only has one arm.
"I just did!" I roar. I'm angry now. Not angry at her, but she probably sees it that way. With a great sob, she runs off the stage.
"You have a bloody nose, dear." says Queenie, handing me a bright blue handkerchief that smells like flowers. I look disgustedly at the thing then throw it to the ground.
Queenie scowls at me. "And what's your name?" she asks.
"Denim None." I mutter with a sarcastic edge to my voice "Or None Denim. Whichever you like."
"Was that your sister?"
"Yup." I mutter.
"That name rings a bell," says Queenie, obviously trying to get a noteworthy response out of me. I decide to comply.
"Yeah," I say brightly "My parents stood here thirteen years ago. You guys murdered them."
There's complete silence again.
"Well, then," says Queenie, clearing her throat uncomfortably "Let's hear it for District 8 volunteer, Denim None!"
And not one person claps.
Author's Note:
Alright, so if I get some feedback or a good amount of people read this, I'll update within a day or two.
So if you deeply enjoyed it and you want it to come sooner, you better review. MWAH HA HA! (Imagine that last bit in some European vampire accent)