Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games, nor do I make any money from this fic. All characters you recognize are Suzanne Collins'. If you don't recognize them, they're mine

Home

Waking up always makes me uneasy. The haziness between the twilight darkness of my dreams and the bleak sunlight pouring in through my dirty windows, combined with the slightly dank smell of the coal-dirtied water my mother uses to wash the clothes makes my heart thump, and my skin clammy. My befuddled mind dregs up a thought.

Reaping Day.

Rolling out of my bed, I hit the floor running. My brother stirs on his mattress across the room. Catching a glimpse of my dark tousled hair in the bathroom mirror, I'm kneeling at the toilet in seconds, hands outstretched on the seat, sending yesterday's dinner into the depths. I heave again, spewing brown sludge and collapsing onto my elbows with the force of my sickness.

I stay like that for a while. Beads of cold sweat collect on my brow, and slide down the bridge of my nose, dangling there for a second, unsure of whether to fall into the unknown mess below, or stay safely trapped on with me. It takes the leap, and I sit up.

Pulling the flush, I stagger to the sink, rinse out my mouth and splash my face with the cold water that pours from the iron tap. I look into the mirror again. I am in no condition to go meet my mother.

I seat myself at our multipurpose table. My mother is in the kitchen, cooking something for us to eat. Papers are strewn across the table. Catching my brother's name, Vander, on one of the papers, I pick it up, and see that it starts: "Dear Ms. Abernathy,". I put it back down. It'll be another letter from the school, asking for a meeting with my mother to discuss by brother's "behavioral problems." I put it at the bottom of the pile, so that she doesn't see it.

My mom comes in with a plate of something. I don't know what it is, but I don't care about what I eat. It's my brother who's picky.

"Haymitch," says my mother. She has done this every reaping day since I was twelve, old enough for my first reaping. In four years, her speech has barely changed.

"Haymitch," she repeats. "You're sixteen now. You have your name in the bowl 15 times. There are many boys out there who have a much higher chance of being picked than you. They will be picked. You will not. You are going to come back to this house after this Reaping." As an afterthought she adds, "So will your brother." Vander is thirteen now. This is his second reaping. "Do not worry about the reaping. You will not get picked. Now eat your breakfast."

Mothers. They think that their children never grow up. On normal days, I might have been annoyed with her for being so sentimental. But today is not a normal day. Today, I run the chance of never coming back to this house. So I pull my mother into a quick hug, and release her, just like I have done for four years.

She's not done, though. This part is new. "Haymitch, you know that this year is the Second Quarter Quell. You know that there's double the chance of you going into that arena, and that there will be 47 people trying to kill you if you do. You're smart. You're quick. You're strong enough. You even have the advantage of good looks, if what Leanne says is anything to go by." My lips twitch as I smile at the mention of my girlfriend. "So, if you are in, I wouldn't count you out."

I don't know who she's trying to convince, me or herself. We both know that I would have no chance in hell of winning these Games. The Careers from 1, 2, and 4 have been training their entire lives for these specific Games. Being a Victor is an honor, and being a Victor of a Quarter Quell would be an honor matched by none. I don't say anything.

I get up and leave the house. I said I would meet Leanne before the reaping, so I head over to her villa. Leanne, unlike me, lives in the rich part of town. You can see just by looking at her. She's not fat, but she looks healthy. So many people in the Seam, the part of the District I come from, look like they eat less than a meal a day. Courtesy of my mom's "occupation" as a cook, we earn enough to get by, even if we never eat the kind of food she makes for the "rich" of our District. There are still nights where we go hungry. Leanne doesn't know what going hungry is.

In front of her house now, I'm still awed by the opulence of it, even though I've been a regular visitor for around a year now. The shiny pillars, the porch, the gleaming windows, all display the families penchant for spending the money that they have earned. In District 12, where coal dust from the mines that are the district's lifeblood settles on everything, a single clean thing stands out amid the darkness of its surroundings. Leanne's whole house is the area's one clean thing.

She meets me outside wearing a red printed dress that I can immediately tell she hates. It looks stiff, and she tugs at her collar thrice before she even gets within arm's reach.

"You look beautiful." I tell her as I wrap her in my arms. "I never thought that printed dresses would suit anyone." I grin so that she knows I'm teasing, not mocking. On a day like this, where either of us could be separated forever, I feel like its easier to joke about something inconsequential, rather than think about something like the Games.

"Shut up." she says, smiling, letting me know that she's joking just as much as I am. The response is short and simple, and very, very Leanne.

We walk together in chattering about school, friends, anything but the Hunger Games. There is no activity in the streets except for a flow of people towards the center of the District, where the Reaping will take place.