CHRISTOPHER YOUNG – DISTRICT 1Reaping day was always a day of questioning for me, rather than fear. Long before I was born, my father, Trevor, won the Hunger Games. I'm sure if I was alive at the time I'd have been over the moon for him, but I can't help but feel a little resentment. He had to kill many other people to win. What use is there in having the glory of winning, if you're burdened by the guilt of murder?
But that's beside the point. Today is reaping day, and I need to focus on the moment. Today isn't about what my Dad did or about killing other tributes. This is merely a day for choosing who's going into the arena. I've always been very apathetic about this – I don't wanna go in there and get killed, but I'm not going to cry about it if I do have to. Maybe it's because my Dad won't stop telling me about how a conscience is a waste in the arena, and that the fame and glory is all that matters. Sometimes I feel like he never let me form my own opinion.
As per usual, District 1 is pretty buzzed about the reaping, and everyone is looking forward to seeing who gets picked. I think I'm going to sink in to the crowd like I normally do, and just hope nobody confronts me and asks what my hopes and ambitions are if I get 'lucky'. They have a terrible habit of assuming nobody under the age of 15 will get reaped without somebody volunteering for them, but I'm 16 now, so it's too late to be considered part of the young ones.
As I make my way through the built-up streets of District 1, I see Elizabeth, one of my old friends from school, exit her house in front of me. She's dressed in a lovely light pink gown and has her brown hair tied up with a velvet ribbon. She stops for a moment, and I consider catching up to her and walking to the reaping with her, but she hurries off a moment later, probably worried about being late. She looked genuinely terrified, as she was every year. The poor girl isn't exactly a District 1 poster child.
Some time later, everyone is gathered around the stage used for the reaping. I can see the two large bowls full of slips of paper, every District 1 child's name inscribed on one of them. I get in line for the check-in. My poor finger. It's built up a resistance to pain over the four years I've been coming here, but I can't imagine it enjoys its annual stabbing. After all the preparations are over and done with, the excitement calms down and everyone goes silent, as our district's escort, Cecilia Venerra, walks onstage. She looks absolutely ridiculous, as usual – she's dressed in an almost metallic-looking, hot pink outfit, with jagged edges sticking out all over the place. She has a large black wing made out of feathers protruding from one side behind her back, and her pink eyelashes are visible from a mile away. For all the effort she'd put into her outfit, her light brown hair looked pretty measly however, and she'd stuffed it into a small pink cap on her head.
"Welcome! I trust we're all excited for this year's reaping?" she announces, as the crowd roars in excitement. "I have been looking forward to this moment all day, and I trust the rest of you have been, too. I hope all you children are looking forward to hearing your name!" she giggles, as she walks over to the first bowl. Ladies first. To be honest, I'd rather have the boys first, but there's nothing I can do about it so I just stand here rigidly, as Cecilia rummages through the slips of paper. She eventually decides on one, and slowly pulls it out, almost fondling it as she fiddles it open.
"Elizabeth Prower!" her voice booms through the microphone, and there's immediately a loud gasp from the crowd. Of all the people to have been chosen, it's Elizabeth. The one girl that didn't want to be chosen, and there she is, walking slowly down the aisle that divides the boys and the girls. She's staring hard at the floor, determined not to make any eye contact with anyone. I can feel my heart sink as she briefly looks in my direction – she doesn't spot me, but the anguish in her eyes is clear. Suddenly, my dad leans down next to my ear, and whispers "Looks like our winner's not gonna be a girl this year." I don't know whether to punch him in the face or to nod in agreement. I decide on the latter.
"Now then, don't be shy poppet, you've got the true honor of representing our district... aren't you just thrilled?" Cecilia asks, her smile stretching from ear to ear. Elizabeth nods very slowly, and turns her head away from Cecilia, facing the ground again. I can see some of the girls sniggering – it's clear nobody else is going to volunteer, because everyone likes to watch a weakling suffer in this district. It's the main reason my Dad even watches the Games. He's always picking out a weakling and betting on them dying next.
Cecilia is walking over to the other bowl now, and her hand dives into it, as if she's aiming to pick out a potent tribute. She doesn't take as long as she did with the girls, and she's hurrying back over to the microphone, and I'm feeling that odd sense of fear attempting to take over as it does every year...
"Tad Pohl!" her voice echoes, and there's an immediate outcry of laughter from the crowd upon hearing his name. I have to admit, I laughed a little too, for two reasons. Firstly, his name is absolutely hysterical. Secondly, he's a total weakling, and my Dad is absolutely roaring in laughter. It looks like District 1 is headed for two bloodbath deaths this year. Tad, a scrawny 13 year old, barely reaches 5 feet in height and has no strength to speak of. I can see him being almost dragged up the stairs by Cecilia, and tears are streaming down his face. It's clear that even Cecilia is feeling sorry for him, as the first thing she does is ask if anybody wants to volunteer in place of Tad. Everybody in the crowd starts mumbling to each other, and I'm kind of hoping somebody does volunteer. Just as the conversation starts dying down and there seems to be no sign of a volunteer, my dad jabs me in the back. I don't need telling twice.
"I volunteer!" I yell, my hand shooting up in the air. Everybody turns to look at me as my Dad smiles and nods, and Cecilia beckons me to come up the stage as Tad runs swiftly back to his family. I'm striding down the aisle and climbing up to the stage, and for the first time in my life, I'm feeling real pride.
"What's your name, boy?" Cecilia asks, clearly much more satisfied with the tribute-to-be in front of her. I lean into the microphone and confidently say "Christopher Young." The crowd starts cheering and clapping, and I feel so proud of myself. I didn't think I'd ever have the guts to volunteer, but I guess I didn't exactly have a choice.
As Cecilia read out the typical ending speeches and whatnot, I zoned out and turned my focus to Elizabeth. Her face was completely drained of colour and her breathing was heavy. I felt kind of guilty about how I'd acted so confidently compared to her, but then I remembered what my dad had said. "A conscience is a waste." I had to carry on with a heart of steel, and I remembered that as I shook hands with Elizabeth, staring at her coldly in the eyes.
