It was a cold morning when I awoke.
But yet, was it not cold for everyone one this morning? For many of us it was not the temperature itself so much as the deathly silence that chills us all to the bones, just as it does every reaping day.
My name is Mirabelle Bekkner, but everyone calls me Mira. I am 14, and living in District 7. I am used to the sound of trees falling to the ground and machines being revved for use. We are, after all, the lumber district. My father leaves our house early every morning to cut wood, hauling it onto a large cart. Every night he comes home exhausted but satisfied, glad to have completed a long day of hard work. He always sneaks small pieces of wood into his pockets for me, despite the fact that this is illegal and, were this the Capitol, he would be charged with criminal offenses.
I love the wood. I carve it into figures, into animals. Even into things only I can see, figments of my imagination. Each carving holds something for me. A little bit of my soul locked away in the recesses of the warm colored wood. They hold memories of where I was, who I was while I sat and carved, stroke after stroke, etching my heart onto such an assuming form. My carvings make me a bit of an oddity in our town. Most girls are expected to haul wood for their fathers or brothers, not to sit around at home and carve imaginary beings. But my unnaturally small build makes this impossible, since I would never be strong enough to do the job. Despite all of this, people still acknowledge my work and occasionally will stop by to trade for one.
As I said, everyone in District 7 is used to waking to the sound of machinery. But today, the silence is eerie and complete. It is early in the morning, and the sun is just beginning to rise. Lights flicker on in houses nearby as people awaken and add to the weight of the silence. I climb out of bed and wash my face, shivering as the freezing water runs down my neck. I ran a hand through my dirty hair and trudged slowly to my twin brother Samuel's room. Usually, I would have made a note to make my footsteps quiet and light, but in this eerie silence nothing seems loud enough and I take less care than normal. "Sam! Wake up!" I whisper, although I don't know why. It isn't as though my shaky voice will wake anyone, but to break the silence seems nearly ungodly at this point. Sam rolls over and grunts, and after a few minutes of futile attempts to jostle him away, I tell myself that I will come back if he's not up in the next few minutes.
I trust that my mother and father will be up on their own, so I walk back to my room. I open the door and there is a small midnight blue dress smoothed across the sheets with care. I smile, since I know that this would cost no small amount for my family. I put it on and admire it in the mirror. It is simple, but wonderful as I have had only one dress for most of my life and it was only for very special occasions. I spend a few minutes brushing through my thick brown hair and then just admire the dress in the mirror.
I hear my brother coming down the hall and I realize that it will soon be time to go. My heart pounds and I feel the butterflies in my stomach, but I force myself to calm down, to take a deep breath. I have taken only nine tesserae, and there are thousands of slips in that bowl. My chances are slim. But then again... Sam has taken twenty-two tesserae. He would not let me take very many, only when we were absolutely on the brink of starvation would he allow it. Sam's chances were much greater than mine... but once again, I reminded myself, even he was guaranteed not to be chosen. Wasn't he? I silently rebuked myself for even considering.
"Hey." I turned and saw Sam standing in my doorway. I looked down at my shoes, hoping that he wouldn't notice the anxiety on my face from my previous thoughts. Unfortunately, Sam can, and always could, read me like a book.
"Mira, don't worry. You'll be fine." He said as he came and plopped down next to me on the bed.
"I'm not worried about me. I'm worried about y-"
"I'll be fine. There are thousands of slips in there, Mira. Thousands." Sometimes I wonder if Sam finds a way inside my head and we spend a few minutes just sitting and, but then our mom comes in and breaks the silence.
"Time to go, you two." Sam stands and walks out to talk with our father. I stand slowly and walk with my mom out the door. "You look beautiful, Mirabelle." she says, ever the one to call me by my full name.
"Thanks." I say, putting on a fake smile more for her sake than my own. I'm too busy thinking, too many thoughts are racing through my head. I'm so lost in thought that our silent walk to the town square, which I know takes at least ten minutes, goes by in a flash. Soon we are standing in the crowd, and my mother slowly urges me forward to the fourteen-year-old girl's section. I take my place among classmates and wait for the ceremony to begin.
Again, my memory is blurred when it comes to what happened after that. I know that the story of District 13 and The Capitol was relayed, as it is every year, to remind us that if anyone even considered rebelling against the capitol, they could be squished like a bug, hardly seen as a nuisance.
The story is completed and a short, excited lady comes up on stage. If not for the situation I would have laughed at her attire. She was completely decked out in a tight, bright pink dress that made her look a bit... well, you could say it was a bit too tight for her plump form. She had on a neon green scarf made out of feathers which probably would have fed a family here for a month at least, if anyone was silly enough to buy it. Here, we dress in whatever we can find. If it keeps you warm in the winter and cool in the summer, you're pretty well off.
Once again, I restrain a small giggle that could just as easily be turned into a sob as I wonder if this is how Capitol citizens dress on a day-to-day basis. She seems completely oblivious to the fact that many people in the audience are also attempting to hold back a laugh. It would be easier for some than for other, I think to myself. The rich sons and daughters of important people who have never needed to take a tesserae in their life. For them this is just another annual event. You go, dressed nicely, watch some poor children be sent to their deaths, and go on home again. It is all just another fashion show, another display of their wealth and riches to the rest of us.
The woman on stage looks completely energetic and happy, despite all of the sullen faces staring up at her. All of those faces staring in anticipation, groping at her every word.
"Well, why don't we mix things up a bit this year, eh?" she says. "We'll do gentlemen first."
She reached into the orb of slips. There are many names, so many. But only one will be picked, and his fate will be sealed forever. Chances of winning if you're not the biggest and strongest can be just as slim as your name being called in the reaping.
My heart once again races and time seems to slow. Someone's heart will be broken in the next few seconds, someone's life changed forever. I look out among the faces and hope that my life will not be change at this reaping. There are so many others... but yet, don't we all think that our chances our slim? Someone has to be chosen, and often times it is against all odds.
My heart beats faster and the animated lady on stage pulls out a small slim of paper. I nearly faint as she calls out the familiar name. How often I had heard that name - when he had done something reckless and stupid, which happened frequently. He would be punished but it but it never seemed to stick with him. A million memories of the two of us flash through my head in a matter of a few seconds - whether we were fighting, laughing or getting into trouble, I will treasure those memories forever now, because soon he will be gone from me forever.
"Samuel Bekkner!"