My dream always started like this. I was inside my room, and heard noises outside the house. I ran to the basement, and saw a lot of smoke outside. I gripped the door handle and went out of the house, and then I saw the whole district on fire, saw Capitol hovercrafts being fought by a crew from our district, led by my brother, and his team was almost overcoming the peacekeepers.
Getting back inside, I saw Snow announcing an all-out war to the whole country, but then masked people arrived and stabbed him, blood all around him and his white rose falling to the floor. The rebels shouted in victory, and all of Panem was in peace and –
"Hey there, wake up." I opened my eyes. "Don't worry, Trisha, it'll be okay," my brother said. He was a few years older than me, and I was sure he was as scared as I was. Everybody who was twelve years of age or older were – at least I guessed so. But he was strong, he had to.
In the kitchen, he served me a small breakfast, and asked me to shower and dress up. I did as he said, and came back around half an hour later. "You look so beautiful," he said. Then he stopped talking, and I saw a tear rolling down his cheek. "You remind me of Mom." He wrapped his arms around me, and then it was time to go.
President Snow, projected on our wall in the kitchen, looked as evil as usual. Standing on some sort of podium in the Capitol, he and the crowd that had gathered there were watching the event on huge screens. Of course, I thought. The reapings are probably one of the most entertaining things in the world for them, probably as much as the games themselves. They even liked seeing the victors go to each of the districts after the games, seeing us greet and applaud the person, as if we even cared about them.
Yes, it is as sad for anybody to die in the games, but when the person who electrocuted someone you loved so much is right in front of you, I can tell you; you aren't happy. So when that boy came here – Beetee Latire – all I felt for him was a mix of pity and disgust.
"None of us has taken tesserae this year, we're safe as ever," he told me. "Yeah, I guess so," I answered unconvincingly.
Some Capitol technicians, sitting at large tables near the stage, were waiting to do their duty. One by one we advanced, and they took a little bit of our blood to identify us. Once it was done, the District 8 escort came out of the set of double doors of the Justice Building, and announced: "Welcome, citizens. First of all, the mayor wishes to say a few words." He went to sit on a chair that had been put there for his use, and clapped his hands. A few people in the crowd did as well.
The mayor repeated the same every year, and we were supposed to believe in how lucky we were to honour our District if we were chosen, and how it represented so much to our country, how it reminded us of the terrible war that had occurred a long time ago. Unfortunately, it turns out difficult to believe in something when the person saying it doesn't even seem to believe in it.
"Very well," he said, "it is now time to choose the extremely lucky girl and boy who will compete in the 36th annual Hunger Games, and who will perhaps bring pride to his or her district." He paused, and the contrast between his look and ours, and between his excitement and our fear, was appalling. "Let us start right now."
He walked towards the reaping ball that contained all of the girls' names, picked a paper, and read loudly: "Trisha Heavensbee."